The Stars Are Blue and Red

     I peel the wrapper from the bottle attempting to separate myself from the aura of the room, which is full of people. Warm, horny people. Stupid, happy people who are all stronger than I am. I need out but am trapped between my best friend and a sweaty someone who talks too loudly. Something about his buddy's girl being a dirty whore. I want another beer but couldn't really afford the first one. I indicate to my friend, who is engrossed in conversation with a semi attractive Mexican gentleman, that I need a smoke. She shoots me a disapproving glance but lets me out. I don't give her disapproving glances when she wanders off to fuck strangers unprotected, but whatever.

     Making my way to the entrance is painful, but the cool air of Huntington Beach is worth it, or at least that's what I tell myself. As I wade through the putrid human surf I keep my eye on the door to maintain focus and combat the panic that threatens me every time I brush elbows with a stranger. Finally I make it to the door. I pull out a smoke and attempt to light it in the coastal wind beneath one of many street lights. This is not an easy task, but where there's a will and whatnot. It tastes awful. The pack was a gift though so I won't complain. I think maybe I'll quit after this, probably not though.

     The sound of drunken enthusiasm wafting through the doors of the bar make it difficult to escape my overpopulated present, so I decide to walk in the direction of the beach. I hate walking and smoking at the same time, but I hate people more. The breeze forces me to pull my simple black hoodie closer to myself and wish I had brought my gloves to keep my hands from aching. The sidewalk is dead, both literally and figuratively. All the glorified apes are shut into the warm clubs and restaurants lining the road, I hear the sounds of laughter and anger and other vocal emotions all the way down the road. Thankfully, when I reach the pier the sound of the waves washes away the voices of inebriation. Finally, it's just me, the ocean, and the stars. It is freezing balls down here though. My breath is shaky as I drag the last few good puffs from my cigarette. I don't flick it into the ocean as ninety eight percent of careless smokers would have, I am better than that. I make sure it's good and out before dropping it into a trashcan. 

     I reach the end of the pier, and looking up I remember how I miss the stars. Being from an innocent little town in the mountains I've seen more stars than most Californians. I can even pick out a couple constellations. Not here though. Here it's just dark... and yet not dark enough.

     The blackness of the ocean is ominous and calming and the faint blue line of the horizon inflates my sense of adventure. Whenever I stand on the edge this way I find myself fighting an urge to jump into the water and let the tide carry me wherever it wills. Tonight is the same. I climb up onto the railing, one bar from the top to give my shins something to lean on for balance. Leaning over the edge I enter my own world of fantasy. I am a flying pirate and that horizon is mine. If I have to kill a thousand of the king's men to reach the edge of the world then so be it! Yes, I realize I am a dork.

     A squeal that was almost certainly human wakes me from my daydream. I turn my head to see, nearly losing my balance on the railing. Panic saves me and I cautiously descend to the sturdy wooden pier. Turning I see a drunken couple meandering in my direction all touchy-feely like drunk people sometimes do. I casually position myself behind the snack stand so that I am hidden but not obviously hiding. Watching them I resent and envy the company they share. Tender touches and flirty giggles are things of the past and the future, I hope, but not my present. They could be if I wanted to catch something, but I believe in quality over quantity.

     She is wearing a dress that barely keeps her from an indecent exposure charge and a tiny jacket that appears to be utterly useless even for California weather. She is unsteady in her hooker heels, her expertly coiffed hair is disheveled and she has dropped her purse at least twice on her journey to the sidewalk's end. The man seems sober enough. He is wearing some more sensible clothes, as it is acceptable for men to be comfortable and attractive at the same time. He has dark hair and a full, well kept beard. His smile is nice and he appears to be helping her walk, which is nice. They're a cute couple I guess. I still don't want to talk to them.

    They are getting close enough now that I can begin to move around the stand, keeping myself on the opposite side of the couple, to avoid being seen. I doubt they would have noticed me even if I wasn't acting like a skittish freak, but just in case you know? They plant themselves on a bench on the end of the pier and commence sucking face while I make my way back to my friend who will likely be going home with the mystery Mexican.

     Roughly halfway down the pier I hear the squeal again, louder, more like a scream. I'm thinking how obnoxious she is when she does it again, and this time it sounds urgent. I look behind me without stopping, assuming someone's being a bit melodramatic, and I see the bombed bombshell pulled to the ground by the man who accompanied her. Her attempts to get back up and her repeated shrieks convince me that this could be more than role play or melodrama. I turn back quickly, but I don't run. I don't have a clue what the man is capable of, so I don't want him to notice me yet. I stay out of the middle of the walkway, hoping that the railing and the dark will camouflage me somewhat, and that he is too preoccupied with his hostage to really look my way.

     I am close enough now that I no longer doubt whether or not I am truly witnessing an assault. I crouch behind a trash can to assess the situation. The man has the barely-counts-as-a-skirt hiked up around the girl's waist, one hand wrestling with his belt, and the other holding the pretty thing in place by her bra. She is still screaming, but the wind and the water likely carry the sound away from the population. I am at a loss. Obviously I can't just stand here and watch it happen, but I am kind of a pathetic person. I was recently beat up by an eight-year-old. There's no way I am going to be able to stop this strong looking fully grown man from getting what he wants, from either her or from me.

     Except... I think she might have dropped her knife. I can see it, about halfway between me and them. There's no way I'm getting to it without him seeing me, but I have the element of surprise on my side. There is a girl in front of me, seconds away from being raped, and I'm debating whether or not to go for the knife? No, I'm not debating, I'm going for it. I mean I'm on my feet, running towards the knife. What the hell am I doing? Even if I get to it first I'm not strong enough to keep him from wrenching it out of my hands. Well I did get to it first but look! Here he comes, dick out and everything, looking like a moron ready to kill both of us. I guess since she's sober and smart enough to be running away and making no effort to help me after I saved her ass it's really just me in danger. Awesome.

    I somehow manage to hold onto the knife as he tackles me to the ground with a thud and an "Unf!" He's squashed all the air from my lungs but I still have the knife. Of course lying face down with him on top of me doesn't really give me much opportunity to use it. He starts at my clothes like he intends to pick up right where he left off with the skanky coward.

    "What's the matter? Were you jealous? Couldn't stand that she was gonna get some of this and you were gonna be alone? Not fair right? You're hotter than that slut right? Well yeah, but I can tell you're a frigid bitch. Let's see if we can't do something about that." It only took the length of that speech for him to get my pants down far enough to really throw me into a panic. I can feel his hard-on pressed up against my cold, bare ass as solid as the pink leather hilt that's starting to sweat in my grip. "Now sweetheart I'm just gonna flip you around so I can get at you good."

    As he turns me around to face him his grip on my arm loosens enough that I can to bring the knife down between our chests. As his body comes down onto mine, the hilt presses painfully into my chest. His rape tool has made it inside me, but the blade of the knife is buried deep in his chest. 

     His breath reeks of whiskey as he exhales for the last time directly into my face. It's almost exciting, his blank eyes staring into mine as his blood soaks into my clothes. I stay for a moment, my knife in the dead man raping me, maintaining eye contact as I catch my breath and attempt to process everything that happened. I don't know how much time passes, but by the time I push the man off me I am completely soaked in the dark red liquid. 

     No one ever came to save me, but I have successfully saved myself. It feels amazing. I am not as weak and pathetic as I thought, and I saved someone in the process. I turn back to the end of the pier and walk toward the horizon. Resuming my place on the second bar down, I lean over the railing, eyes closed, taking deep breaths of salty air. I feel more alive in this moment than I remember ever feeling in all my 25 years on this earth. I feel like I can do anything. I can fly. I can swim to the end of the horizon, like I've always wanted.
     The stars in the ocean are twinkling blue and red, and instead of jumping I think I am falling but I land on something soft. There are faraway voices all around me. One even said my name. Why are the stars so upset? This is the best day of my life.