The Incident: Calling Out

Trigger Warning: This post includes discussion of abuse and attempted self-harm. If those are issues that can cause you problems, please know it's okay to skip this.

Her… brother? Since when did Rebekah have a brother? Your mind spins, searching for anything you’ve ever heard that would remotely suggest she wasn’t an only child. There’s nothing. Not at first. And then…

What was it? Week 3? Week 4? That was it, the last challenge Tank pulled off before getting eliminated, the one that everyone made fun of him for. Rebekah had agreed to be his sex slave for one night in return for him promising to coach her brother’s little league team for a year.

Rebekah

Has

A brother.

You close your eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the bizarre nature of learning this just now. Why didn’t you remember? The fact is it had only been mentioned in passing, a silly joke at Tank’s expense. Just one more moment in the craziness that is College Spread. And it was before you actually met Rebekah yourself. Before you knew anything about her, really, beyond that passing moment when you saw her revealed as the six of clubs. Before you knew how important she would be. Before she became the central character in your own narrative.

But…

“You never mentioned him…?”

“I can’t…” she says.

She looks at you plaintively, her whole face begging with more anguish than her voice could ever achieve.

“I can’t go back…” she adds.

Go back? It feels like a lump of hot lead scorches its way from your throat to your stomach. Oh, God! Her parents. She fled that abusive home to your parents’ place at Christmas. You wanted to kill them when you learned what they had been doing to her. And…

“He’s still there?”

She flinches, eyes closing as if they could block your words.

“I can’t go back!” she says.

Her voice is sharp, then quiet. She’s terrified, and that makes everything even worse. You’ve never seen her show fear before. This isn’t even normal fear, it’s a palpable, cloying, sickening terror that is clear in the way she holds herself. She’s curling against the phone, hugging it into her body like she’s trying to make it vanish from existence.

You don’t know what to say. An eternity passes in seconds as you stare at her, mute at the sight of a side of her you would have denied even existed before this.

“I can’t! I went back for years. Please. Please. I tried to take it for him. I wanted to stop them. I tried. I’m sorry. Please.”

“Rebekah,” you say, holding out your hand. “We have to call the cops!”

“NO!” The word explodes from her. “NO! You’ll make it worse!”

“What the hell are you talking about? He said they broke his arm!”

She clutches her phone tighter to her body and shakes her head. “Nooo… don’t!”

You know she’s been through a lot and she’s exhausted, but this seems ridiculous. How can it get any worse? If they’ve broken his arm that’s about as bad as it can get, you think.

“If you won’t call, I’ll do it,” you say, trying to assure her that if this is too much you are okay doing it for her. “Just give me the phone.”

“NO! You can’t! You don’t understand!”

“No, I don’t understand, Rebekah! He said they broke his fucking arm! What the hell?”

She seems lost. Just repeatedly shaking her head and telling you not to call. What does she expect you to do? Leave an injured child in a house full of maniacs? If they’ve done this, what else might they do?

“Rebekah! Give me the fucking phone! We need to call the cops! He needs help!”

Again, nothing but a string of noes and her head shaking more and more vigorously. She’s bent almost double to prevent you grabbing her phone. Whatever’s going on with her, you are not going to get any help there.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll go get mine! It’s upstairs charging.”

You head for the room door quickly, knowing there’s no time to lose. Behind you, Rebekah cries out.

“Don’t do it! Don’t go! PLEASE!”

“I’LL BE BACK!” you call to her, running upstairs.

You grab the phone with her words still spinning in your head. Make it worse. You’ll make it worse. How could you possibly make it worse? If it’s true that they’ve injured him that severely it’s about as bad as it could get.

“911. What is the location of your emergency?”

The operator’s words interrupt your thoughts, shattering your focus.

“Umm… oh yeah… address, sorry.”

You know Rebekah’s home address, just like she knew where your family lived. But recalling it right now is another matter.

“It’s in Arizona… Er… 1127 Fangord Street… in Tucson.”

That was it, right? Or was it 1217? No, you’re sure. It’s coming back to you. You’ve seen open envelopes Rebekah brought from home. You thank whatever gods might be listening for having a decent memory.

“Are you at the location right now, sir?”

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not. I got a text from my fiancée’s little brother. He says his parents broke his arm.”

The voice you’re talking to hardens. “Sir, you've reached Texas 911. Hold on while I look up the emergency line for Tucson Police and bridge you through.”

What? You assumed it was all just one coordinated service. They have local areas that have to look each other’s information up? You wait, tapping your feet in impatient despair. “Come on…” you hiss.

A few moments later, a different voice answers, one with a Southern accent. “Tucson Police Emergency, Operator 42, what is the location of your emergency?"

“My fiancée’s little brother sent us a text saying his parents have broken his arm! Please, someone needs to help him!”

There’s a crash from downstairs. You have to get off the phone and see what happened, but right now you need to get help to Titus.

“Can you give me the address, sir,” says the operator.

“1127 Fangord Street, Tucson,” you reply quickly.

“I am entering the dispatch for a welfare check and physical child abuse. Officers are en route. If the brother texts back, tell him to hide and stay on the line.”

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. It doesn’t help when you hear a cry from Rebekah downstairs.

“Welfare check?” You need action now, not some social worker or something going to check on things. “Please. You don’t understand. This isn’t new. They abused my fiancée too before she left home at Christmas. Please. You need to do something now!”

“Help is on the way. Officers will be at the address shortly.”

There’s another sound from downstairs. You can’t identify it and you need to. Rebekah’s a mess. If she’s extreme at the best of times you can’t even guess what she’s going through right now.

“Thank you!” you say, closing the call.

You run back downstairs, almost slipping in your desperation to find out what the noises were you heard. Rebekah’s no longer in the living room. You look around frantically and see her sitting on the kitchen floor. She’s bent over, rocking and muttering under her breath. At first you can’t even make out the words, then you realize it’s just the word “no” repeated over and over and over. As you get closer you see she’s holding a knife, its blade pressed next to her wrist. There’s a smear of blood. The damage is tiny, insignificant but the wound is absolutely horrifying in its presence.

“REBEKAH!” you scream, kneeling next to her and grabbing for her arm. “STOP! What are you doing?”

Muscles tighten under your grip. She pulls hard, trying to escape. You grip harder, frantic with fear to prevent her from harming herself. The blade presses harder against her wrist as you struggle to pull her arm away. She’s strong. Incredibly so. Why is she so strong? Her rocking increases, as does the speed at which she’s muttering “no.” It's a steady stream, barely one word separated from another, and the more you fight her for control the more she tries to break free. When you see the knife cut slightly you stop and very slowly let her go as you realize if you lose this fight the release of tension will cut her deep.

“Rebekah, please…” you beg.

She doesn’t respond, but at least her litany slows.

You try to work out what to do. You should call 911. But you know now that’s useless. They’ll send a damn ‘welfare check’, whatever that bullshit is. Your mind flails for an answer. Bile burns your throat. You need help.

And there’s one person you know can help.

“Mom!”

Rebekah’s phone is lying on the floor. You grab it quickly and stab the screen with your finger to dial home. Your mother runs a DV shelter, she’s bound to know what to do in a situation like this. She’s probably dealt with situations like this herself at times. At least, she’ll have a better idea than you do. That much you’re sure of.

The phone rings.

It rings again.

“Hello, Lincoln home for The Criminally Deranged…”

“Dad! Get mom, now!”

“Son?” His voice is heavy with concern.

“NOW!” you yell.

“Mary,” he calls. “He needs you. It sounds bad.”

“Who?” you hear her ask, taking the phone.

“Mom! It’s me! It’s Rebekah! I don’t know what to do!”

Her voice is calm, steady, but not comforting. You’ve seen her like this once or twice before, when someone was losing it and she felt the best thing she could do was direct them.

“Tell me what happened,” she says.

“She’s got a knife to her wrist! I can’t make her drop it!”

There’s barely a pause. “Have you called 911?”

“No!” you realize you’re still almost screaming into the phone. “No… no. I haven’t. I called them for her brother and they’re just sending a welfare check or something. They’re sending a welfare check to an abused kid with a broken arm, mom! WHAT THE FUCK?”

“It’s not what you think, son,” she says. “They mean they’re sending the police to see what’s going on. We can talk about that later. Take a breath, son.”

You try to force your stomach back down out of your throat, to quiet the pounding in your head. Maybe it’s not as bad as you thought. You inhale deeply, closing your eyes as you do. Then you push the air out of your lungs.

“Now, has she hurt herself?” your mom asks.

You shake your head, forgetting she can’t see you. “No. Well. Sorta. She nicked her wrist when I tried to pull her arm away. So I stopped.”

“Good,” she says. “You could have made it worse. I’m not going to lie, this is bad, son. You’re going to call 911, because she needs help quickly.”

“Okay,” you say, not entirely certain.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You need to know so you don’t panic. Call 911, give them the address and tell them your fiancée has a knife to her wrist. Tell them she hasn’t hurt herself yet. Then open any doors in your house that will allow the police to get to her quickly. They’ll come first and because she has a knife they HAVE TO disarm her quickly. You will get out of their way. Once they’re done, they’ll call the paramedics in. They’ll take Rebekah to hospital. You will not be able to go with her. Once they’re gone, call me immediately. Is that clear?”

It is, but it sounds terrifying. She’s talking like they’re going to have a SWAT team storm the place or something. Rebekah’s not going to hurt anyone, except maybe herself. She wouldn’t. Surely the cops have to understand that.

“Mom,” you say. “I’m scared.”

“I know, son,” she says, her voice soothing.

“What if they hurt her?”

“They know what they’re doing, but it won’t look nice. That’s why you stay out of the way. Now, make the call.”

“Okay mom…”

You’re shaking so much you can hardly stand up. You follow your mother’s directions step by step. The call, giving only the necessary information. The doors, front and back left open, the living room door too. And then you wait.

Three cops come in at once, a woman and two men. The female officer eases you aside, saying she needs to talk to you in the living room. With a glance at the two men, you go. When you notice one has his gun drawn, though held low, you want to grab it from him. It’s only what your mother told you that stops you. This won’t look nice. But it will help Rebekah. The other man is talking quietly but firmly. She’s not responding.

“Can you tell me what happened, sir?” asks the female officer.

“She’s my fiancée,” you say. “We got a message from her little brother that his parents had broken his arm. And she got really mad and scared. I don’t know. I know they abused her too. So I went to call 911 for him from upstairs and when I got back… she was… oh god.”

The officer nods. “So you called 911 for her brother already?”

“Yes. They’re sending the police I guess. I don’t know.”

“That’s right, sir. If you notified them of an injured child and an abusive situation then they will send officers. Now, what about your fiancée?”

“Rebekah,” you say.

“Yes, Rebekah. You say she was like this when you got back?”

You nod vigorously. “Yes. I tried to get the knife but I couldn’t.”

“That’s all right, sir.”

From the kitchen you hear Rebekah scream. There’s the sound of a quick struggle. The table skids across the tiled floor. And then one of the male cops speaks up.

“We’ve got you, miss,” he says.

“This is Officer Murdoch. The weapon is secure. You can come in now.”

It takes a moment for anything to happen. You have time to look into the kitchen and see Rebekah lying on her belly in the kitchen. Her arms are twisted behind her back and held together by handcuffs. One of the cops is kneeling on her back, pressing her shoulders to the floor with one hand.

“SHE’S PREGNANT!” you scream. “Don’t hurt her!”

The cop holding her down adjusts, but still maintains pressure between her shoulders. Rebekah’s not fighting. She’s just sobbing loudly.

As the EMTs enter, the cops release her from the cuffs and help her up. She doesn’t fight them, but she’s still not responsive. You collapse on a chair and stare forward at what’s happening. They check her blood pressure, look into her eyes, take her pulse. It all seems to pass in a fog as the energy drains from you. Your head drops into your hands as voices speak around you. When they finally put her on a stretcher you’re barely able to focus anymore.

“I love you,” you say in a voice that a whisper would drown.

And then she’s gone. On the TV, some advert is playing for a new movie coming out. It ends, and another ad begins. How many have played now? It doesn’t matter, but the question is something you can reach for. It’s trivial and emotionless. The movie ended long ago. You grab the remote control and press the off button before dropping it on the floor. It takes at least another hour before you can take your phone out again and call your mother.

“They left.”

It’s all you can offer.

“How did it go?” she asks.

You sigh and try to remember. Whatever had kept you moving is gone.

“They knelt on her back. Then they took the cuffs off. They took her on a stretcher.”

“Yes,” she says. “They would. They probably had her secured to the gurney too. Did they give her an injection?”

“I don’t know,” you say.

It's true. Thoughts just aren’t forming anymore. Whatever you had thought was the worst thing that could happen before this was nothing.

“I know, sweetheart,” your mom says. “You’re going to go to bed now. I know this must have taken everything out of you. There’s no point in going to the hospital tonight anyway. After she tried to hurt herself they’ll have to check her out physically and have their psychiatrist consult with her too. Tomorrow you can check with the hospital. In the meantime, is Jada there?”

“No,” you say.

“Call her if you can,” says your mom. “Tell her what happened. She can help look after you. She’ll be pretty shocked too but from what I hear she’s a girl with her head screwed on. Can you do that?”

“I dunno.”

There’s a pause. You can vaguely hear some muttered chatter. Then your mother speaks again.

“I need to finish something up at the DV shelter, so I can’t leave tomorrow. But I’ll be there in two days.”

And that’s it. You don’t even remember saying goodnight before you collapse onto the desk.