Dawn In The Dark Ch. 04byGale82©
This is the final episode of this story. I've had a lot of encouraging comments; for which, thank you sincerely. I trust that some of the 'anonymous' may feel just a bit embarrassed when they find out that it isn't what they'd believed it to be -- but I won't hold my breath waiting for any apologies! This one means a lot to me -- hopefully you'll understand why when you reach the end -- and it's also just about written itself at times.
It wasn't just the bed and its covers that made me feel warm and comfortable, it was also the complete darkness of my bedroom. That room, thanks to my husband's attention to detail -- and his consideration -- was my sanctuary and my refuge.
Some people are afraid of the dark and I can understand that; walking home on my own one time after a power cut, on a moonless night, I will admit that I was terrified. But that was different; there were strangely-shaped shadows that moved eerily as the wind moved the branches of the trees, and every sound seemed to echo or be enhanced in some way. My room was different. There were no shadows because there was no light, and the unimpaired blackness of my surroundings was as comforting as a favourite blanket.
That night, I seemed to have folded it around me. Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to hide from all the pressures and strains of the way my life had gone; I don't know, I'm no psychologist, but I do know that I was under a lot of stress at the time. I'd spent the evening at home, as usual, but I'd had Annabelle to keep me company.
Okay, if you've been following this story, I know that may come as a surprise so I'd better explain a little.
Although we hadn't exactly hit it off to begin with, after the accident Annabelle -- or Anna as she preferred to be known and which I was now used to calling her -- had turned out to be rather different from my early impression of her. She was, of course, in her own words, 'a self-admitted, cock-hungry slut,' but she was so open about it that it simply made me laugh. That was her lifestyle -- and she was very well aware that it could never be mine. I'm not going to go into her personal history (she's already decided to that herself on this site eventually), but I ended up feeling unable to find any way to condemn her for what she was and what she did.
Once you got past that, she was actually a lovely person. Whilst I was in the process of recovering, she would come around almost every day to cook and clean -- and it was a bit embarrassing to find that she was a far more efficient cleaner than I've ever been! I also discovered that she was far more intelligent than her bubbly personality made her out to be. She took an interest in everything; world news, politics; scientific progress -- you name it. Therefore, when she had an occasional free evening (not that there were many, given the social life she led with her fiancé, Morton), I enjoyed being able to relax over a glass or two of wine with her and swap some stories about our very different backgrounds.
The previous evening had been the latest of our get-togethers. We'd drank some wine, sent out for an Indian takeaway meal and talked for hours. Disappointingly perhaps, for some readers, there was no mention of sex or of our partners -- it was a real 'girls' night in' where we talked about holidays we'd enjoyed, our very different schooldays, clothes, music -- stuff like that. We hadn't really noticed time passing until it was very late and, not for the first time, decided that she should sleep in the spare room rather than make the journey home.
I know that I'd been very slightly drunk -- not staggering or, I hope, talking a load of rubbish as I sometimes do when I've had too much -- but I had a nice glow about me as I insisted on leaving the clearing up for the next day, and we went to our rooms tired but contented.
I must have been more tired than I'd realised because I didn't even bother to put my pyjamas on, I just stripped, threw all the clothes into the laundry basket and practically fell into my bed. I slept well -- very well -- which was exactly what I really needed.
What time it was when I was disturbed, I had no idea. As I've said, the room -- my wonderful haven -- was totally dark, and I think I was probably in that state of half-waking, half-sleeping or, possibly, just emerging from a pleasant dream, when I felt the familiar sensation of a warm hand stealing across my body and gently clasping my breast. It felt so pleasant that I wasn't the least bit disturbed by it, especially when Harry's thumb and forefinger tweaked my instantly responsive nipple.
I think I just managed a small groan of pleasure, kept my eyes closed, and wallowed in the exquisite feelings. As ever, there was a gentle series of feathery kisses planted on the back of my neck and across my shoulders, quickly followed by the consciousness of his warm body pressing closer and the unambiguous intention announced by the wickedly solid shaft that pressed against the back of my thighs.
Moments later, his left arm slid around me so that, for a few seconds, both of my nipples received the attention they craved. That made me gasp with pleasure, but it was brief-lived as one hand made the short journey downwards to where the impatient warmth and wetness craved its touch.
It was almost unreal -- as if my mind had simply closed down and left my body to accept the delights being offered -- as if it was, perhaps, the ideal continuation of whatever dream I'd been having, and I made no attempt to halt its progress when a finger found the already wet place it was seeking. There wasn't the usual slow and sensual touching and stroking, the stiffened finger merely pressed straight into me and began to poke back and forth vigorously but, in my highly charged state, that fitted well with my mood. So well, in fact, that I lazily parted my legs as the tip of the rigid erection sought to replace the industrious finger.
That was when it happened! There was a sharp stinging feeling, as if something was tugging fiercely on one of my hairs, and it made me give a small, but aggrieved yelp. It also made me reach, down automatically to make whatever adjustment was necessary to ease it, and it only took a second to learn that that the bracelet-type watchstrap had managed to trap one of my pubic hairs as the finger was working on me.
Was it that pain that brought me to my senses? Or was it the realisation that Harry never wore a watch? Maybe it was both. I suppose I'll never know. What I do know is that I suddenly understood that it wasn't Harry who was trying, frantically now, to insert his erection into me! For a second, maybe two, I simply froze with the horror of what was happening, and that brief hesitation was very nearly enough to bring about a disaster.
Recovering, I immediately tried to wriggle free, but the hand that was against my entrance tightened and tried to hold me in place while the hard penis poked desperately in search of invasion. I kept on squirming, trying to get free of it but, whoever was holding me was clearly strong and, when I tried to scream, the hand that had been fondling my breast was suddenly clamped over my mouth and I heard Morton's voice say:
"Shut up, you stupid bitch! You know you want it! You haven't had any for...."
And that was when he screamed -- far louder than I could ever have managed -- because I bit down on one of his fingers as hard as I could and refused to stop. As his grip on me loosened and his erection moved back a little way, I instantly reached behind me, found his balls, and squeezed them just as fiercely as I could possibly manage to.
"You fucking cow!" he yelled. His finger was pulled from between my teeth and his hand went to my throat and began to squeeze, but I had already pulled my legs and hips well away from him and freed one leg from the covers as I tried to escape from the bed. He was still determinedly trying to throw his nearest leg across me and force me onto my back and I lost my grip on his balls but, when he began to move across as if to mount me, I began to pummel him with both hands.
To be honest, I never had a chance of winning. He grasped my wrists and pushed me down, forcing his legs between mine, and I heard his grating voice again;
"You'll fucking-well pay for that, you nasty bitch. You could have had a nice fuck... now you're going to find out what a really rough shag feels like!"
I tried to scream, but it just didn't happen, my throat felt too constricted and I could feel the tears of anguish already tumbling down my face. And that is when the room was suddenly flooded with light.
For a moment or two I was blinded by it and couldn't see anything, but I heard Morton say:
"You're just in time to see this cunt get what it needs...." Before Anna's voice said:
"You fucking asshole!" and, at almost the same time, there was a piercingly loud 'crack' and Morton slumped on top of me.
I was too stunned to move. I couldn't begin to work out what had happened, but Morton was being moved off me -- pushed off me -- and Anna was saying; "Come on, Dawn... let's get you away from here," as she slipped an arm around me and helped me to get off the bed and stand up on very shaky legs. Before she could say anything else, I practically dived into the bathroom and started to vomit into the toilet bowl.
I was still there on my knees, crying, sobbing and trembling violently, when she came in with some underwear she'd found in my drawers, plus a pair of jeans and a jumper. "You're okay," she said, "That bastard's still unconscious! I hit him with a wine bottle... an empty one," she added, as if it mattered, "they don't shatter like they do in the movies, do they?"
"Is he alright?" I asked, though God knows why.
"D'you think I care? Worthless piece of shit!" she said furiously, and then, "Look love... if you want me to call the police and get him done for attempted rape, I'm fine with it! I'll back you up all the way. Right now, if you like!"
"No... that wouldn't be good," I replied. Until then, I hadn't been capable of really thinking, but I knew that a criminal case, with attendant publicity, wasn't going to help. Anna tried asking again, saying that some time in prison -- with the possibility of learning what rape felt like from the victim's point of view - would do the 'lousy cunt' some good. It was only when she was certain of my wishes that she said:
"Okay! I suppose I'd better go and see if killed the fucker... or if I have to call an ambulance. You should probably have a shower and get dressed. I'll make us a cup of tea when you're ready."
"Where did the wine bottle come from?" I asked, although I don't know why. I think I was still in shock.
"I brought it upstairs with me to finish off after you tottered up to bed last night," she grinned, "Just as well, really... or I'd probably have to compensate you for breaking that nice bedside lamp over his thick head!"
She closed the door behind her and I remained where I was for a little while. Then I heard her saying:
"Oh! Still alive are you?" and, whatever his reply was, she went on, "Right! Get your useless fucking ass down those stairs and out the door!" Then: "If you need treatment, take yourself to the hospital... and don't forget to tell them it's an injury received while you were trying to rape your best pal's wife!" I didn't hear what he said, his voice was too low, but Anna's reply was clear enough.
"You must be fucking joking! Stay with a rapist? No chance! We're through, Shithouse! I'll be over to collect my things as soon as I make sure your victim's okay! Now... get the fuck out of my sight before I decide to see if it's possible to actually smash that bottle over your thick skull!"
I heard the door being slammed and locked and, before she felt it necessary to come and see if I was okay, I managed to persuade my still-trembling legs to support me while I stepped into the shower and turned it on.
Even though I'd been rescued in time, I still felt unbelievably dirty and grubby. It was almost impossible to believe that I'd allowed Morton, however unknowingly, to touch and fondle me so intimately. I began to wonder if I was really all that much different from Anna; if I was just as capable, given the right circumstances, of giving way to those same instincts - to wonder if my senses were always properly controlled by the mind that is so vaunted by human beings.
I stayed in the shower for a long time, washing myself over and over again (when I told Anna about that later, she made me laugh with a hilarious comparison with Lady Macbeth!) until I finally dried myself off, dressed, and went to the kitchen where Anna was waiting for me. "The traditional British remedy for shock," she announced, "A cup of hot, sweet tea!" and pointed to a steaming mug on the kitchen table.
"Anna... thank you," I said sincerely, aware that I hadn't done so before, but she brushed it aside as if she was embarrassed. We sat down at the table and, without even noticing I was doing it, I got stuck into the slices of buttered toast she'd prepared.
As I ate, and sipped at the scalding liquid, she told me that we'd both forgotten about locking the front door the previous night. Because she hadn't told Morton where she was going, he'd probably assumed that it was an assignation with one of their 'swinger' friends. Her guess was that he'd been miffed when she hadn't returned in the morning and decided to come to my house to see if he could make any kind of progress with me. Finding the door unlocked, and me so soundly asleep, he was obviously prepared to take a risk -- possibly reasoning that I'd never dare tell Harry about it.
"Are you really through with him?" I asked.
"You jus' bet your sweet li'l ol' ass, Honey," she said, in the worst mock southern belle accent I'd ever heard in my life; but it made me laugh. Then she changed the subject. "Tell me about Harry," she said, "What's the latest?"
For a second or two, I wasn't sure that I wanted to say anything, but then I realised that I was just being foolish. Anna liked Harry, but she didn't 'like' him the way she 'liked' single men. She'd told me, many times, that he was gorgeous and that we were the loveliest couple she'd ever met -- even if our expressions of love for one another turned her stomach sometimes -- and we somehow preserved a grain of faith that it was possible for two people to be truly happy together.
Since the accident, she'd turned out to be my unexpected best friend. In fact, it had been her face I'd seen when I first woke up. Actually, that isn't strictly true; apparently I'd slipped in and out of consciousness many times before I was finally able to open my eyes and take in my surroundings.
I had, and still have, very little recollection of the accident. I've been told that, as we were emerging onto the motorway, a BMW X5 driver, suddenly realising that he was likely to miss his exit, executed a stupidly dangerous overtaking manoeuvre and swerved into the inside lane. He struck our car on the driver's side and sent us spinning then hurtling into, and over, the barriers at the side -- coming to land, upside down, some 150 yards further away. The BMW driver completely lost control and swerved into the path of an oncoming articulated lorry. We survived; he didn't.
After the rescue services had managed to cut us from the remains of our car, we were airlifted to hospital and I have to say, whenever I hear people complaining about the National Health Service, I feel a strong desire to spit in their faces. We were given the best treatment you could possibly expect anywhere.
In my case, there was far less to be done. Apart from the bang on my head -- which gave cause for concern for a few days -- I came away relatively unscathed. Of course, I did have a broken right leg, four cracked ribs and a hell of a lot of painful bruising, but the only cuts were on the right side of my face and neck; being thrown to one side meant that the windscreen glass almost completely missed me and I ended up with just a few small scars -- most of which have more or less faded and can be easily concealed with make-up.
Harry, however, was on the side of the car that took the brunt, not only of the initial collision, but the impact with the barriers and the eventual 'landing.' Both of his legs were broken, one foot was almost completely crushed, and there was so much internal damage that it was touch and go whether he'd survive or not.
Once I was conscious, I kept asking about him -- demanding to know how he was -- and worrying more and more when my questions weren't being answered. It was only when a surgeon came to see me, told me that I'd need another few days in hospital for 'observation,' and that my husband was being 'well looked after,' that I completely 'lost it.'
I swore and I cursed (when you've spent a bit of time around building sites, there aren't many profanities that you're unfamiliar with!) and told him that, if someone didn't tell me exactly how my husband was in the next five minutes, I'd get out of my bed and walk all around the hospital until I found him and found out for myself! (I meant it at the time -- my leg was plastered and my ribs strapped up -- and the chances were that I'd have fallen on my face before I made it out of the ward - but I'd have given it a bloody good try!)
The surgeon looked shell-shocked. I'm sure he hadn't expected that kind of tirade, but he promised to return within the five minute deadline -- and he did. That was when I learned that Harry had still not regained consciousness and, very gently, he told me that my husband was due for surgery that same day which would probably determine a great deal. I insisted that I should have a wheelchair so that I could be taken to his bedside as soon as he returned from it. He hesitated, but when I said that I intended to be there one way or another, he sighed and gave the instructions.
As he and his entourage exited, the really sweet old lady in the bed next to mine looked over at me and I was prepared for a rebuke. Instead, she beamed at me and said:
"Brilliant, My Love! High time someone took that arrogant fucker down a peg or two!"
The nurses and porters weren't disturbed -- it was Anna who turned up and insisted on taking me in the wheelchair. She'd been in to see Harry a few times after she'd visited me, so she knew the way. She also warned me to be prepared, telling me that there were quite a few facial injuries and to steel myself for what I was about to see. It was just as well, because my beautiful Harry was almost unrecognisable that first time I saw him.
I cried. I cried an awful lot of tears and it very nearly broke my heart to see him like that. One of the nurses suggested taking me away but, fortunately, Anna understood me better than that. She knew that I'd go when I was ready and not before, and told the nurse that. After that, until I was able to master the crutches they gave me, Anna took me to see him every day and we spent many hours together at his bedside.
The surgeon had learned to approach me warily, and also to give me undiluted information about Harry's condition. He was happy to tell me that the operations had been successful and my husband was officially out of imminent danger. He also told me that the healing process was going to be long and protracted -- that it was by no means certain that Harry would ever be able to walk again, and that he was probably going to lose his sight in one eye (those eyes as blue as a clear, mountain pool... that my heart told me to dive into!) and that damage to his groin meant it was impossible to determine whether or not he'd be able to obtain an erection again.
I wasn't there when my husband first recovered consciousness, that happened in the middle of the night before I was due to be discharged; but I was there the next day when he woke up, sitting in a chair by the bed, and the first words he heard were; "I love you more than life itself, my Harry."