Better Off Dead Read Online Free Page A

laughed at this scene where a dog jumps
out the window. It was funny, but the way he laughed was horrible.
People turned to stare. It was so... cruel. And strange. It sounds
silly now. It's not silly, though. It's an awful sound. And the man
who raped me made the same sound."
    "And you said all this in court?"
    She nodded, "It didn't do any good. His
lawyer made me sound insane on cross-examination, like I was
hearing things all the time, like the rape had destroyed my mind."
She ran a hand through her hair. "Maybe it has."
    I stared out the window at the beautifully
landscaped yard. "How long since you've been outside the
house?"
    "Thirteen months and three days," she
answered promptly.
    "And you've tried?"
    She nodded. "When I go out onto the porch, I
can't breathe. It's not imaginary. It's real. I could barely get
back into the house last time I tried."
    "When was that?"
    "Monday morning." She stared at her
trembling hands. "I try every Monday morning. Hoping, I guess, that
the feeling has gone away."
    I was impressed. She had courage. To have
withstood the trial and, now, to face her demons every week like
that, not to give up on trying to beat them—it took guts. I wanted
to help her. Maybe all she needed was a little help.
    "What did your cleaning lady mean when she
talked about terrible phone calls and letters?"
    She winced.
    "You didn't save them?"
    "No, I have them. I even kept some of the
phone messages on tape. It's just that... I can't."
    "You don't have to look at the letters or
listen to the tapes," I told her. "But let me take a look. I want
to know if you're in any real danger."
    Without a word she rose and led me into the
living room. It was furnished with a floral-patterned couch and
matching armchairs. A thick area rug and large pillows scattered
around the hearth added to the welcoming air. Yet the whole room
looked brand-new, as if no one ever sat in it.
    There was a desk in one corner of the room.
Helen unlocked a side drawer filled with stuffed white envelopes,
the cheap kind sold in every 7-Eleven from here to Alaska. The
postmarks were all local and ranged in date from just after the
rape trial had ended to a few days ago. An old cigar box in the
bottom of the drawer held a collection of microcassettes as well as
a small tape recorder. I sat down and began to go through the
letters, opening up each one and reading the contents.
    They looked so innocuous. No cut-out letters
pasted together. No torn magazine photos or psychopathic scrawls.
No weird symbols or satanic drawings. Each letter consisted of
nothing more than one simple paragraph, computer-printed in the
center of the page, using a universal typeface.
    The first letter read: “Nothing will ever
erase the fact that you liked it. I felt you responding beneath me.
I could feel your excitement. I am counting the days until we can
do it again.”
    The second one read: “I saw you today on
Ninth Street buying a book. I never knew you liked art history.
Your hair was up and you wore a white sweater buttoned to the neck.
Why are you hiding your scar? That scar is a symbol of our
love.”
    The next one was worse: “Your days of hoping
are over. Soon I will visit you again. Maybe at your home this
time. I followed you there. Apple trees are lovely, aren't they? I
would like to take you beneath the apple tree, maybe tie you to the
trunk first for old time's sake. Prop you up the way you like it.
Give you what you want once again. Before I take what is mine.”
    The rest of the letters grew progressively
more threatening. He was watching her, that much was clear. No
wonder she never left her house.
    "Helen," I called out into the quiet. No one
answered.
    I found her perched on a counter in the
kitchen, a cup of coffee in hand. She was staring out the window,
watching two squirrels chase each other up the trunk of a beech
tree.
    "Helen?" I said again. She turned to me.
"Did you tell the police about these letters?" Her eyes flickered.
"Why would I?" she