Down The Rabbit Hole (Short story)
 
                                Down the Rabbit Hole

                                                             A    Rob Johnson short story


I clung to life, struggling to stay awake.

     On Thursday, January 1st, I felt the burn of a bullet in between my breasts after he’d taken advantage of me. 

    Before then, I walked into a cold alleyway, a leather coat covering my thin, vanilla shoulders, my heels clickclickclickclickclicked swiftly through an alleyway. My sparkling, black skirt fluttered in the wind.  I started damning and cursing December the 31st, and yearning for summer. A loud BANG startled me out of thoughts. That's when he heard me. It was the last time my heart pounded, as fear wrenched a serrated knife into my chest. My legs became stone. I pleaded for my life. That's when he pointed the gun at me, my mind fluttering when he said, "no witnesses." That was when he caught me. He held me down. He raped me. I had cried before he used the gun. I became completely removed from my body. 

     Before then, I got pissy fucking drunk at Meghan's party. We got wasted at her new house, waiting patiently for a new year to lapse the last. Before I walked into that cold alleyway, before the party was over and everyone stumbled home shitfaced, we all held our glasses up, getting our resolutions together, then we bid a toast to the new year, all of us laughed and had a good time, dancing to LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem. It was more compact than overstuffed sardines in a can. Noises were blurred together with the voices; people stomped their feet to the blaring music. Meghan and I were both shitfaced, our arms around each other's shoulders, not able to contain our giggles. Meghan gasped when she heard something like a vase breaking. We exchanged glances for a moment, then laughed again. I spilled my drink onto some guy's shoe. We locked eyes. Meghan egged me on. I had taken her up on her bet. I didn't back down. He and I went upstairs, I closed the door to Meghan's room, and, regretfully, one thing led to the next...

     Hours later, on January 1st, I was murdered.

     Before then, I started to get ready, staring into my bathroom mirror, fixing my long, brunette hair, which was all stringy and soaking. The only thing wrapped around my pale body was a velvet towel. I got dressed for the occasion. I decided against putting my wedding ring on my finger, putting it back in the drawer and closing it shut. I picked up my purse, made it outside, and past my vehicle. I decided against driving.

     No Madeline! *cough* Get in the car!

I wish I didn’t ignore my advice. My heels clickclickclickclickclicked all the way to Meghan’s party. Oblivious to the facts, on December 31st, I was killed by a stranger.

     Before then, I had taken Meghan up on her bet after spilling drinks on some guy’s shoes. He wasn’t my husband. We got pissy fucking drunk; I cheated on my husband. I pleaded with Meghan to take it to the grave. She took up the vow. We’d study our nursing books tomorrow, judging from what she told me. I left out the door, putting my thick fur coat over my body. I stepped out into the cold, winter.

     Unbeknownst to me, once December 31st expired, the ball would drop. 

I would be raped and murdered.

And the world around me slowly began to fade…