Sister Karen Cawood woke with the smell of liquor and cigarettes hot and suffocating around her face. Her stomach lurched and she gasped, gulping for air. Above her, flickering fluorescent light burned through her eyelids. She pushed at the sheets with numb hands, wrestled them off her body. Kicking, she rolled over. A man grumbled. Pressed to her right side was a thick muscled back, skin as black as soot. She squirmed, turned the other way: another man. This one was white, completely covered with tattoos. An orange moustache drooped away from his lips.
He smiled blearily and growled, “Hey baby!”
She pushed away dizzy, vomit rising in her throat. Head lifted, waves of sickness buffeted her. Naked, she wobbled to her knees. The tattooed man pulled at her forearm-snarling and nauseous she slapped at him. He laughed.
The black man rolled over, his face gray. “Chill out, baby.” A long fingered hand reached out to steady her. “It’s late. You’re at my place…”
“Don’t touch me!” She pulled away, pressing her hands to her face; their sour smell turned her stomach.
“It’s just me,” said the black man. He turned his harsh gaze at the other man. “What the fuck you do to her, Sam?”
“Nothing man! I crashed just like you and now she’s going all- fuck!” The tattooed man pushed himself up on his elbows. “She’s just coming down man, freaking out.” He scratched at his pierced genitals, and Cawood slapped a hand over her mouth, barely catching the vomit.
We drive you from us, unclean spirits all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects.
“Oh, fuck baby!” The black man frowned. She knew his name, but couldn’t find it. “Shit, man she sicked up in the bed!”
“Not my fault.” The tattooed man lit a cigarette. “Anyways, she wasn’t sick earlier.”
“Sorry…” Cawood muttered from behind her slimy hands, and then tumbled off the bed. Her breasts and belly slapped the cold tiles. A beer bottle rolled noisily away.
“You’re right man!” the black man said and laughed, distracted from his own hangover. Cawood crawled away. “Maybe she eat too much.”
“Yeah, sister ate lots!” Sam chuckled. “Fuck, that’s a sweet ass!”
Cawood vomited harshly, noisily.
“She drank too much,” Sam murmured. “Drank me dry anyway.” They both laughed. “Fuck man, what time is it?”
Half blind, her vision and mind jumping, she pushed at a pile of clothing on the floor looking for her own.
“Fucking late…not even morning,” the black man groaned, watching Cawood. “Don’t make a mess, baby. Fuck!”
Cawood’s chest was constricted by dry heaves and darkness. Emotional sickness welled up from her consciousness. She wiped at a string of spittle. There was another. Where was the other man? Her mind replayed a sick image-the other man on top of her-and a man below, the black man-Dave. The other, the white man with sandy hair-her abdomen ached. Her whole body ached. Where was the other?
“Just remember shooting that fucking shit was your idea, Princess,” Dave snarled and pointed. “ Your idea.”
Cawood found her miniskirt and jacket-the material was cold and damp to the touch but it covered her. She barely heard the words. “What did you give me? The drug…RUFI’S?” There were fingernail scratches on her stomach. “What did you say? Shooting what? Drugs?”
“Oh shit,” Dave said, and Sam started laughing. “I knew that was going to happen. But we got you on film saying it was your idea…don’t get all holy roller on us now, sister.”
A tremor of panic started below the level of her pain and worked upward, rising slowly at first then increasing in speed as realization sunk in. “ Filmed it?” The throbbing pain in her brain disappeared with the thought. “Filmed what?”
“Your idea, we just was gonna fuck.” Dave found the energy to sit up now. “You wanted us to film it while the three of us fucked you blue.” He elbowed Sam and they laughed.
The other man grinned. “And we said, what the fuck. Let’s give the bitch what she wants.” He laughed. “Turned out, you fucked us blue!”
“You can’t.” Realization paralyzed her. No. No. No. Snapping out of it, she searched the pile of clothes for her stockings and shoes. “You’ve got to give the film to me.”
“Can’t.” Dave paled. “Raul took his camera home with him.”
“No.” A fresh wave of nausea rose and she vomited again. The men laughed. “You can’t do this.”
“Sick up in the can, baby,” Sam said. “You’re getting that all over!”
The drugs and alcohol were still distorting Cawood’s senses, still shielding her from the full realization of events. No big deal. Not as bad as it looks! She fumbled into her shoes and pushed her hair from her eyes. I can handle this. Her mind spun away from the scene.
“You one hungry pussy, baby,” Dave said, a carnal wave washed over his features. He fished his penis out of his boxers. “What about me and Sammie do you one more time. They say it cures a hangover.”
Choking back bile, Cawood turned from them and hurried shakily down the hallway away from them. Their catcalls chased her. Her numb fingers barely worked the lock on the door. Then she was in a hall outside, careening, spinning into doorjambs and walls. She could think of nothing. Her legs were wet now as liquids spilled from her body. The thought doubled her over with dry heaves.
She had to get home, had to get to her apartment before her neighbors woke up. Terrified, she lurched down two flights of stairs and was in the street. Cawood didn’t recognize the neighborhood. Casting around, she didn’t know the Level. It was deep though. A dead man staggered along the sidewalk toward her and passed. His round eyes were wide with interest or terror.
The dead on the street. At most Level Two if she was lucky. She had no watch, no idea of the time. Headlights cut along the road. The nun waved at the cab. It slowed. She dove into the back seat without looking at the driver. She kept her face shielded with her hand. Voice, harsh and bitter she grated out her address. As the taxi sped from the curb, Cawood sank into her terrified thoughts.