Free Imola by RICHARD SATTERLIE

expectations. They wanted love and companionship—and what they craved, they gave back in triplicate. Even the mean ones seemed to warm to her, like she was a sanctuary. She’d loved her job.
    Her future was Jason. She was sure of it. He wasn’t just one of the good ones—he was
the
good one. And tomorrow was his visit day. His visits weren’t as regular as Dr. Leahy’s, but he usually gave a one-or two-day advance notice. On the mornings of his visit days, time crawled by like a roller coaster scaling the highest incline. It was slow, deliberate, but it didn’t bother her. She knew that every inch of elevation provided energy for the belly-tickling descents, twists, and turns that paid for the wait. It was pure inertia as soon as he turned the doorknob—emotional free-fall. But she was buckled in tight. And Jason was right beside her. Their laughter merged into asingle voice.
    The fuzzy shadow of a wind-blown branch flickered on the wall, stealing her attention. She relaxed her smile. But she wasn’t upset at the interruption. The thin wisps of movement were pretty, mostly because they were fleeting, ethereal. They were real, but they couldn’t be touched.
    She stood and walked to the wall. She could superimpose the shadows of her fingers on those of the branches. Mingle with them, play a game of tag. Part of her was with the branches—for the moment, the wall between them didn’t exist. She held out a pinch of hair and let the shadow fall with the branches. She swore it didn’t fall straight back, but caught some of the breeze that gave the branch shadows life.
    An abrupt squeak startled her. She turned her head, but arms surrounded her just below the shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides. She felt a hand cup her left breast, kneading it like a lump of bread dough. She tried to twist her body, but she was forced into the wall, obliterating the branch shadows with an obscene blob.
    “I told you I’d get you, bitch.”
    She knew what to do. Relax. Let Stuart have his feel. He’d soften his grip so she could free her arms and cover up, and he’d be off to his room in his hurried, hunched shuffle. “I’m letting you do it. Now let me go.”
    He didn’t let go or even let up. His right hand maintained the grip on her breast while his left moveddownward, across her belly. Its fingers turned inward, followed the contour of her groin. They moved against her, manipulating, probing, taking.
    Don’t let him. Stop him
.
    Agnes tried to spin from his grip. “Let me go, Stuart. I don’t want you to get into any more trouble.”
    He pressed her hard against the wall so her head was wrenched to the side, her left cheek flat on the cold, green plaster. “Shut up, bitch.”
    “Please. I won’t tell anyone.”
    His left hand continued to probe, harder now, and his right moved off her breast to the middle of her chest. It pulled on her jumpsuit, trying to tear it open.
    He won’t stop. Make him stop
.
    Agnes raised her right knee, parting her legs. His movements halted, but only for an instant. His left hand pushed farther between her legs, and he let out a low moan. His right hand stopped pulling at her garment and returned to her breast. She felt him push his pelvis against her, bracing the contact with his left hand. His moaning and movements synchronized.
    Hurt him. Hurt him
.
    She raised her right leg a little higher and he responded, like a python tightening its grip with each exhalation of its prey.
    Hurt him, damn it
.
    She slammed her heel down on the top of his rightfoot with all the force she could muster.
    A high-pitched scream rang in her ear. Stuart’s grip loosened enough for her to turn and push him away.
    He fell to the floor, screeching, and pulled his right foot up to his hands. He rolled on his back, his screeches turning to loud cries, then to sobs.
    And, at that moment, he changed. Something in the deep recesses of her mind switched him from a harmless but misdirected boy into a dark shell of