The Patriot Voice

Dancing with the Devil

Andrey Carvalhais, Guest Contributer

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I didn’t find out until a few months back. But she never told me, I had to piece everything together. I was in school one day and she asked me if her face seemed a little uneven. At first glance I said “ No ”, but then she questioned my answer. I took a second look. This time a longer stare, examining her face, the distance of her plump cheeks from her rounded nose, how far her lips stretched from end to end, and how each of her eyes focused on mine as I studied her, waiting for an answer.

I responded with an unsure, “ Yes. ” Her right eye was distinctively different than her left. Near the bone next to her right eye, that area of skin had more makeup than the rest of her face, and there was a small bump near her cheek bone.

When I had answered, “yes,” she simply replied, “okay.”  

I didn’t make much of it at the first sight but it did linger in my head. We continued walking down the halls.

The next day her friend pulled me aside. She tugged on my arm and asked if I noticed anything about her face. I asked why about five times before she got frustrated with the same question and bursted out

“ Because someone punched her, Andrey! ”

I heard those words for the first time and my heart dropped. My stomach fell into a hole and my fists clenched, I could feel my fingertips pulsing hard. I confronted my friend the next day. She didn’t want to talk to me so I had texted her that night and she told me everything.

She told me the inhumane things he’d done to her. They were secretly dating over the summer and felt they really shared a connection with each other, but had later broken up after he first hit her. He punched her right eye and left it swollen. He wouldn’t let her go. Three months had gone by and no one did a thing to help her. But how could anyone help her when she never spoke up? She spoke to me about how one day he was waiting for her at her doorsteps.

She said there was a time that she got home from the gym and found that he was waiting for her. She feared him and was forced to get into his car. In the car he drove off with her, leaving everyone who cared about her clueless to where she was, including me. I repeatedly texted and called her to make sure she was actually home because I knew she had a tendency to never answer the phone. She picked up and lied to me saying she was on her way to her aunt’s house. I kept texting her as she “walked,” but after awhile she stopped replying. She was already in the car and that was it. I couldn’t help her. He parked somewhere isolated and took the keys out of ignition. He leaned over, kissed her, and kissed her some more. He settled himself over her and proceeded to rape her. She told me she cried the whole time because she knew struggling would’ve been useless. Tears slowly slipped down her cheeks and fell onto lips. She didn’t bother to wipe them, they just stood there. His hands overpowered hers and she was beneath him. She was helpless.

Nothing but pure hate and rage clouded my mind. There was nothing more I wanted to do but to slit his throat and make this man whimper like she did. I was left speechless, shaking with anger. I was determined to make those hopes of his pain happen. I had the knife, a Marine Corp. standard issue, with a four inch blade. The one with sharp and ridged edges at the bottom that if it pierced someone, would clasp a hold of whatever it came in contact with. I had my three brothers along with me. I had the car. I had the black masks. I had his location and the timing of where he would be. I had it all planned out. I also knew I wouldn’t slit his throat. I know I’m not a killer, but us four knew we would’ve without a doubt, left him surrounded by red snow spread across the white streets. As bad as I thought I wanted him six feet under the Earth, I had morals. A part of me didn’t want him breathing anymore but the sensible side of me knew that no human had the right to decide who gets to live and who does not. I didn’t know if I could cope with myself if such a crime was committed. It would’ve been a crime against myself, a crime against society, against my family, my god and against everything that was right. I carried those devilish thoughts with me everywhere I went. The perfect image I had of that moment was so vivid that I knew how delicately I would have needed to slice under his jaw to refrain from ending his disgraceful life. It would’ve been two inches to the right of his Adam’s apple, and applied enough pressure to the blade to leave a long noticeable scar. Like he left on her. I planned on wearing black Timberland Boots to make sure he didn’t walk away so undamaged. So that his body couldn’t move. So he felt helpless. Just as she did.

Unfortunately and acceptingly of, my setup did not happen. Honest to god I wish it did happen. I wish I stomped his face in, just enough to hospitalize, not kill him. I was so willing to, I was more than willing to. I realize now that if I did, and IF I was caught, that my life would be over and my family would suffer, knowing their son was either charged with manslaughter, or was a murder. After a hundred attempts of trying to convince me not to do it she got her way. She threatened me. If I hospitalized him she would have me arrested, along with my brothers. I was furious that after everything he put her through, she didn’t want to see him hurt. I respected her kind heart but it infuriated me. It kept us four out of a possibility of prison and it kept our friendship. Eventually she faced the issue. She had him stand in front of a judge and had a restraining order of 500 feet placed on him. I wish she did more than that and just send him off to a maximum security prison. But a restraining order seems to be working. I haven’t heard about him since. I hope it’s because there isn’t anything to say.

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Dancing with the Devil