Gina bolted upright in her bed after being startled by a loud crash. Before she could get out of bed to investigate, her bedroom door flung open. The intruder pointed his flashlight in her face, blinding her. He warned, “Don't scream or I'll kill you.”

Gina knew that voice, but struggled to think of where she had heard it before. “Lay down,” he commanded.

Now she knew who it was: Fred, one of her co-workers. “Fred, what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

“Shut up and lay down, I said!”

“Get out of here, you son of a bitch! I'm calling the police!” Gina lunged for her phone, but Fred knocked it out of her hands and then ripped its cord from the wall.

Fred flashed a knife in front of her face. “You try that again and you're dead. Now lay down! I'm not telling you again!”

As Gina began crying, Fred unzipped his pants and jumped on top of her. “No, you can't, you can't do this to me! I'm engaged!”

He didn't answer. By now, he was inside her, making animalistic sounds with each thrust. She beat on his chest, but it was to no avail. He quivered, then froze. A few seconds later, he withdrew his penis and began dressing without saying a word.

“Why? Why me? How could you do this to me?”

He didn't bother to answer. “Don't tell anyone, or I'll come back and kill you.”

In the ER, Gina was less concerned with the exam and treatment than she was about contacting her fiancé. “Oh, God, will he still want me?” she asked. Gina called him and told him to come to the emergency room, but she didn't tell him why she was there.

When Scott arrived in the ER, he was led to Gina's room by Bridget, the nurse. He asked, “What's wrong, babe? Are you sick?”

“No. I . . . I've been assaulted,” she answered.

“Assaulted? What do you mean by that?” he asked with growing tension in his voice.

She blurted out, “Oh, Scott, I've been raped!”

He stared at her with his mouth gaping open. “You've been raped?”

“Yes, it was horrible. Oh, Scott, hold me!”

He didn't budge. “You mean some other guy fucked you?”

“He raped me, Scott, he raped me!”

“Who the hell was it?”

Sobbing, she replied, “It was Fred—Fred from work.”

“You let that little motherfucker screw you?”

“Scott! I didn't let him do it! He broke into my apartment and raped me, for heaven's sake!”

“I don't believe you. That little twit is a wimp. You should have fought him off.”

“He had a knife! He said he was going to kill me! There was nothing I could do.”

His face hardened into a steely cold glare. “You're a liar and a whore!”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Scott,” I said, “but I think you should leave the ER now.”

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“I'm Dr. Pezzi, the ER physician.”

“Was I talking to you?”

“No, but . . .”

“Then shut the hell up!” he screamed. “This bitch thinks she can fuck around on me and get away with it! Well, she's got another thing coming!”

A split-second later, Bridget grabbed Scott's collar. “You ever been raped? Well, I have, and I know the last thing Gina needs is an imbecile like you! Now get the heck out of the ER or I'll have the guards throw you out!”

Scott obviously wasn't accustomed to being on the receiving end of abuse. He brushed the sides of his shirt to smooth nonexistent wrinkles, and then grabbed the doorknob. Before slamming the door, he scowled at Gina, saying, “I wouldn't have dated you if I knew you were a tramp!”

Gina began crying, then stopped and held her head in her hands, looking as if she were lost in thought. Bridget and I remained silent for a few minutes, then Bridget asked, “What are you thinking, Gina?”

“I'm thinking,” she answered, “that if I wasn't raped, I would have married that rotten excuse for a man. To go through my life with him . . .” She paused, shuddering in apparent revulsion as she said the word “him.” “That would have been a complete waste of my life.”

“Better to learn that now rather than after you've had a couple of kids,” Bridget advised. “Say, Gina, do you know how to shoot a gun?”

“No. Why?”

“You ought to have Dr. Pezzi teach you. He's won an international shooting contest. If Fred comes after you before the police catch him, you should blow his balls off.”

“Not that it really matters,” she said, “but I don't think he has any balls. The rumor at work is that he's a transsexual.”

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