The Infamous Ellen James (Infamous Series) (28 page)

Flashbacks of the boy's mother are front and center in my mind. Her bloodcurdling screams and bone-chilling sobs seem to be on constant repeat. I can still visualize her outside of trauma bed one on her knees with her head in her hands, visibly breaking down while we were performing CPR and intubating her lifeless child.

I don't know if he's going to pull through.

I shut my eyes to keep the tears inside and lean my head back on my seat while silently praying to God that he wraps his arms around Tommy and gives him strength to survive.

I cut the engine and slowly walk toward my apartment, attempting to push back the mental flashbacks of Tommy's lifeless body underneath my hands while I performed chest compressions. My mind is numb. I am in shock and running on autopilot. I am hanging on by a mental thread as I shakily put my keys into the lock and open my apartment door.

I throw my keys on the kitchen table and sit down. I'm thankful that Amy and Lizzy aren't home tonight. Amy is working the late shift in the ER and Lizzy went home to Louisville to see Matt. I am just blankly staring off into space, trying not to think. Trying to shut my brain off and not replay every detail of my night. But I can't do it. I'm running through every aspect, every sound, and every visual. I can even smell the remnants of the chocolate ice cream that was on Tommy's shirt before I had to cut it off of his little body. I am usually better about shutting my emotions off and just doing my fucking job, but I can't do it this time.

This was a baby.

A sweet, helpless child whose life might have been taken away. All of this because one asshole decided that drinking and driving was a good idea. A man that chose to drive home from the bar when his alcohol level was way beyond the legal limit and was lucky enough to walk away with only minor injuries.

I feel the bile start to rise in my throat. I quickly get out of my chair and run toward the bathroom. I make it just in time before emptying all of my stomach contents into the toilet. The combination of adrenaline, nerves, and mental exhaustion is eating away at me. I sit on the bathroom floor and put my head in my hands in a pathetic attempt to regain control.

Time seems to stand still as I remain seated on the cool, hard bathroom tile.

Eventually, I find the strength to stand up and turn on the hot water. I'm hoping a shower will help relax all of this emotional energy that is coursing through my body. I avoid the bathroom mirror. I'm afraid that once I see my red-rimmed eyes and tired face I will break down. I'm not ready to lose it. I feel guilty for even thinking about crying. I don't have a baby that is lying on an OR table, fighting for his every breath. I don't have to attempt to perform a miracle to save a small child's life. I am one of the fortunate ones. I am home. I am alive. I don't have a loved one whose life is hanging on by a mere heartbeat.

I strip off my soiled scrubs. As I throw them in the trash, I see the bloodstains all over my pant legs.
Tommy's blood
. I feel the bile rising again and quickly put my head over the toilet, dry heaving several times until I have nothing left. I rinse my mouth out at the sink and step into the hot, steamy shower. The water makes me realize I am bone-chillingly cold. Placing my face directly under the soothing water, I feel a small sob escape my throat. I attempt to force it back, but it's too late. The tears are freely flowing down my cheeks. I can taste the saltiness on my lips as my sorrow slides down my face with the water.

My body is shaking uncontrollably, and I hear the gasping sobs coming more quickly from deep within my chest. I rest my back against the shower wall. My body slowly slides down on its own accord until I am seated directly underneath the showerhead. As the water pelts down, I let my mind release all of the pent-up emotions I have unsuccessfully avoided since I left the ER.

I sit on the floor of the shower until the water runs cold, my fingers pruning. I put on my plush white robe and wrap my long auburn locks in a towel. I use the hand towel by the sink to wipe the steamy residue off of the mirror. I slowly lift my eyes until I am looking at myself.

Red-rimmed and dark-circled, I am visibly worn down.

I decide to forgo eating and brush my teeth in hopes that I can sleep this night off. I don't even worry about turning off the lights in the living room. I walk slowly down the hall, step into my bedroom, and fall face first onto my bed and into my pillows.

"What a fucking night," I mumble to myself before falling into a restless sleep.

***

Waking up to several large knocks at the door, I groggily get out of bed and pad down the hall. The clock above the TV says 3 a.m.

It must be Trent.

I open the door and I am immediately startled by the man standing on the threshold of my apartment. My body is overwhelmed by fear. Deep within my gut, I know that something is very, very wrong with this scenario. My breath quickens and pulse speeds up as adrenaline pumps into my veins.

I am face to face with Frank.

ER patient Frank.

Paranoid Schizophrenic Frank.

He is staring at me with cold, soulless eyes.

Fuck.

Chapter Thirty

“Fear is a difficult emotion. It can either make you unable to do anything or force you to dig deep within yourself and fight. Fight with everything you have. Fight for your every breath, your every heartbeat…fight for your life.”

Frank roughly pushes his steel-toe boot into the door, blocking any attempt at keeping him out of my apartment.

"It's bad manners not to invite someone in when they come to see you.”

I take a deep, shaky breath and try to calm my nerves before attempting to answer him. Maybe I can talk him down off this proverbial ledge he's on and avoid the dark, tragic scenarios that are passing through my mind.

"Frank, it's three in the morning. I apologize for my rude behavior, but I was a little startled to have someone knocking at my door at this hour. I think it would be best if you went home."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Nurse Ellen."

"Well, I think it would be best if you went home," I say before quickly attempting to close the door to my apartment.

Frank roughly pushes the door back open, wraps his hand around my neck, and pulls a gun from his jacket pocket.

Oh fuck.

"You keep doing that, Nurse Ellen. Bad manners are not becoming of you,"

The barrel of the gun is now pressed into my right temple.

Double fuck.

He pushes me backwards into my apartment and slams the door shut with his boot. His revolting mouth is breathing harshly into my face as his hand increases pressure on my throat.

My mind is in panic mode.

I am frantically thinking of ways to defend myself or call for help. I can see my cell phone on the kitchen counter, but it's not within my reach. I am praying that Trent or Amy don't come home right now. I'm not really sure what Frank would do if they were to walk through that door.

Frank shoves me into the kitchen and sternly instructs me to sit down in the chair. He is mumbling to himself and pacing back and forth. In the light of my kitchen, I can see just how disheveled this man looks. He has most likely been living on the streets for several days; he reeks of alcohol and his entire appearance is unkempt.

"Frank, why are you doing this? If you need help, I will help you. You don't have to do this."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He is boring holes into my skull with his dark, disturbing eyes. They are black, lifeless pits that make you feel like you're falling into the depths of hell. "You don't want to help me. You never did, you stupid bitch. I don't fucking need help. I came here for a reason and I'm going to get what I want." Frank is looking me up and down, undressing me, violating me. His eyes stop near my chest, and he slowly steps toward me before sharply pulling my robe open and crudely grabbing my breast. My body jerks violently away from his slimy hands.

"Get off of me!" I scream into his face as I try to put distance between us by standing up and moving away from the chair.

Then he places the barrel of the gun into my temple again, and dread fills my gut.

"You need to sit back down. You try that again and I will fucking blow your brains out."

I sit back down into the chair. My mind is shouting for me to make some quick decisions or I am not going to walk away from this alive.

This man will kill me in my own apartment
.

Frank is leaning back against the kitchen counter with his gun pointing directly at me. His hands are trembling slightly, and his left eye keeps twitching at a rapid pace. He is muttering to himself as he stares at my open robe. I attempt to close my robe shut so my naked chest isn't exposed to him, but he quickly stalks towards me, ripping my hand away with brutal force.

"Put your hands behind your back," he demands as he pulls a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket.

No…No…NO!

I have reached that critical moment where I need to fight.

Fight with everything I have.

I know I cannot let this man tie me down or else I will be left for dead. I quickly stand up and grab for his gun. I manage to get one hand on the barrel and push him back toward the kitchen counter, but I am no match for his strength. Using his elbow, he quickly swipes across my face. The impact causes me to stumble back and Frank takes advantage. A quick, forceful punch to the stomach makes me immediately loosen my grip on his gun, the feel of bile rising in my throat as all of the breath is pushed out of my lungs. My eyes water and my jaw clenches. I weakly lift my eyes up and face the vicious impact of a hard blow to the face…knocking me out cold.

Pain… So. Much. Pain.

I feel disoriented as I slowly blink my eyes. The throbbing ache in my head is intensified. My vision is blurred, and it takes a few minutes before I'm able to focus on my surroundings. I can make out that I'm still in the kitchen. I glance down and see that I'm actually lying on the floor, my robe open, and I'm left exposed in nothing but my cotton panties. My hands and ankles are bound together.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

My heart is practically pounding through my chest as I take in my surroundings and come to understand the dire situation I'm currently faced with. I am lying vulnerably bound and exposed while a fucking psychopath is loose in my apartment. I glance up at the clock on the stove and see that it's only 3:30 am. I was out long enough for him to tie me up. Overwhelming fear washes over me, and I'm left vulnerable, contemplating the fact that I'm not going to walk out of this alive.

He's going to kill me. This man is going to fucking kill me.

Frank is standing over me. He is a fairly large man—at least six feet tall and probably pushing two hundred pounds. His eyes are rabid and his breathing is rough. He straddles my stomach and places all of his weight on my midsection. His jacket is off, and he's wearing a white t-shirt that is severely filthy and has several holes throughout. He pushes his long, greasy black hair out of his eyes, and that's when I notice he no longer has a gun. He is holding one of my kitchen knives.

Frank slowly runs the tip of the knife down my sternum along my midsection, the cold, sharp tip causing my nerve-endings to stand on end, making my body shudder in anticipation…in fear. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until he lifts the knife off of my stomach, spurring a deep, shuddering breath to escape my lungs.

Frank laughs coldly as he stares down at me; his face is evil, demonic. This man has far passed the point of return. He has fallen over that proverbial ledge, and Frank is not the same Frank I have taken care of in the ER. I'm not even sure if he is human anymore.

He scoots down my body so he is now sitting on my thighs. Taking the knife, he deliberately starts to cut my panties off. My breath is coming in quick, shallow spurts, my breasts heaving up and down as I'm desperately trying to pull in oxygen, fighting the urge to pass out again as my body threatens to hyperventilate.

"P-P-Please stop this, Frank. Please, please, please stop this!" I'm begging, pleading for him to stop the inevitable.

His knuckles make impact with my right cheek bone, which makes my eyes tear up and sting intensely. "You
need
to shut. The. Fuck. Up." His putrid breath hits my face, stirring nausea in my gut.

Frank stands up and gives several hard kicks to my ribs with his steel-toe boots. The last rigid thrust of his boot is so forceful that I can audibly hear a sickening crack. The pain is so penetrating that tears slide down my cheeks, and a low wheeze boils out of my chest. My breathing is shallow, and I suspect that Frank has not only fractured several ribs but also punctured my right lung. He glares down at me as a deep, menacing laughter consumes him.

"Nurse Ellen, I can't stop now. I finally have you exactly where I want you."

He roughly pulls my threadbare panties off of me and gawks down at my exposed body.

Tears continue to stream down my cheeks as his eyes move upwards and lock onto my face.

"Why are you crying, Nurse Ellen? Don't worry, I'm gonna make you feel
real good
. We're both gonna feel
so good
."

Bile rises from my stomach and hastily fills my throat; the urge to vomit is overwhelming. I attempt to sit up but he just pushes me back down to the icy, hardwood floor. I turn my head to the side in just enough time before I retch violently, bitterness pouring out of my mouth.

Frank seems to be ignoring the fact that I am spewing all over the place and lays his body down on top of mine. I can feel his arousal pressing into my pelvic bone. He is grunting loudly as he begins to grind himself into my defenseless, naked body. He does this for several minutes before sitting back on my thighs and pulling his erection out of his repulsive sweatpants.

"Now you're going to take care of me." He begins to stroke himself while watching me struggle to breathe.