Chapter 15: Travel Nurse (Part 2 of 2)
The house is so quiet. But not really. When you pay attention, you hear the ambient noises in the house which our brains filter out. The air conditioner blows through the ceiling vents overhead. The ice machine attached to freezer occasionally makes a clunking sound. Outside, a dog barks in the distance. Birds are chirping. Then there’s the old clock that belonged to my grandmother. The chimes are turned off, but there is still a soft ticking sound, reminding us all that time always moves forward. Tick…tick…tick. The house seems to have a life of its own that continues when no one is inside.
Chase, our beagle is sleeping in the den. Iris, our tabby cat is curled up on the guest room bed. The stillness of the house slightly disturbs me. One of the psychological side effects of being an ICU nurse is that I’m frequently reminded of mortality and the temporary state of everything. For some reason, the house is giving me that message now. It tells me that time is so indifferent to our lives.
She’ll be here in an hour.
I reset my mind to focus on the fight. I’m off work this Saturday morning; Clarissa is with her father. I have no distractions. I eye each room, trying to decide which one will serve as the arena. The living room is large; that will work. Are there other options? The den has a large desk taking up too much space. The playroom has very little furniture that can easily be moved away, providing enough open space. Clarissa’s games and toys are here. Pictures of her, of her and me, of her, me and her father are all over the wall. No, I don’t want to fight seeing pictures of my daughter in the midst of her favorite things. The living room it is.
The living room is large with a carpeted open space between the entertainment system and furniture. I manage to push the sofa back farther; relocate the coffee table and a few lightweight end tables. I set aside some vases, figurines, candles and potpourri and we’re set.
Attire. Robin and I didn’t discuss attire. In fact, we didn’t discuss much of anything. The only rules we mentioned were no eye gouging or scratching the face. I take it that means I can punch her in the face. But what should I wear? I rummage through my dresser among an assortment of sports bras, crop tops, tank tops, T-shirts, long and short yoga pants, other types of spandex shorts, gym shorts. Then there’s the cheetah print bikini that I haven’t yet worn. I bought it with fighting in mind. It’s more durable than skimpy swim suits. Some women don’t like fighting in bikinis. They’re not practical and can come off too easily. But bikinis bring out the best in me. They are as close as a woman can be without being naked. Bikinis make me feel primal, animalistic, but still feminine. I can be exposed but empowered and still legally covered enough. Bikinis strip away pretension and show what you have. So, should I wear it against Robin? I’ll just wait and see what she’s wearing. I’m flexible. For now, I slip on gym shorts and a sports bra.
I start stretching and loosening up. She’s probably on her way.
I’ve thought a lot about Robin’s fight with Beth. I’m struck by the fact that she was outsized and outweighed, but looked confident and sure of herself, just like she does everything else. How good is she? She looks obviously experienced. On the other hand, Beth was so sloppy, rushing in and leaving herself wide open. I’m sure I would have beaten Beth. Maybe Robin is exceptionally good. I try to block out thoughts that I’m making a mistake. I must forget that that I should have handled the entire situation at work better. I’m here now. This is how it must be. I cannot work with that woman. I’d rather lose the fight and move on. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to quit my job. There are plenty of other hospitals in town; I’ll have no problem finding a new one.
I look out the window. It’s a beautiful day outside. People are tending their lawns, walking dogs, getting into cars to go somewhere. I would be out there too on a morning like this. I have a commitment. Suddenly, my house feels dark and confining, like a crucible. But this is what my world has come to. The clock ticks, the vents blow, the refrigerator hums.
My cell phone rings, the caller ID flashing the security number of our gated community. “Robin Price is here at the gate,” the man informs me.
“Let her in.”
I return to the window and wait, feeling the familiar apprehension and nerves that come with an arranged fight. I must block them out. The lovely morning scene of sunshine, my manicured front lawn highlighted by my garden of hibiscus, hydrangeas, shasta daisies, and an assortment of perennials is invaded by the arrival of a rented black Toyota Camry, slowing down in front of my house, then pulling into the driveway. She’s here.
I tighten up my ponytail, wrap it into a bun, fasten it and wait. The doorbell rings. It’s time to get this over with. No more thinking. I open the door.
Robin stands on my doorstep dressed in a blue sweatsuit, holding a gym bag. Her hair is pulled back and braided. Her face is solemn.
“Come in.”
“Nice house,” she mutters softly as she crosses the threshold, her eyes scanning the house interior.
“Thanks,” I respond, barely above a whisper.
“Um, Robin, I thought we could have the fight in here,” I tell her, showing her the cleared out living room. “There’s good space and it has a carpet.”
“Fine with me,” she says, with an almost detached tone.
Robin walks to the far end of the carpet, surveys the arena, then drops her gym bag, before turning to me. “Kiva, are really sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“To be honest, I was shocked you challenged me. I mean, I knew Beth hated me and she left me no choice but to fight her. But you? I liked you. I didn’t know we had a problem. So, I’ll ask you right now if you want to back out. It’s totally OK with me if you do. I won’t think any less of you.”
“No, Robin. I already committed to this.”
“OK then,” she says ruefully, “but once we start, I’m not going to go easy on you.”
Her words give me a slight chill. I can’t let her try to intimidate me. “Neither of us are going to go easy.” I retort. “That’s why we’re here….so, what are we wearing?”
“Well, when it’s a private fight, I like to wear as little as possible. Are you OK with nude? Or just panties?”
“Let’s make it panties.”
Robin removes her sneakers and socks, then steps out of her sweatpants, revealing black brief panties, lacy at the trim. I follow her lead and remove my footwear and gym shorts until my lower body is stripped down to my grey cotton bikini panties. She takes off her sweatsuit jacket and pulls her T-shirt over her head. I lift my shirt off as well.
We stand across from each other in our panties and bras. Robin reaches around her back and unfastens the clasp of her white bra. I unzip the front of my brown sports bra, separate the two sides, letting my breasts drop down, then slide the garment off my arms and on to the floor.
Robin and I inspect each other’s bodies. I am an inch taller and probably 6-8 lb heavier. She is thin but tightly muscled. Her body is wiry but looks strong. Her abs are solid and well-defined, trying hard to be a six pack. I heard she was seen frequently in the gym, and it shows. Robin’s breasts are a little unusual. They are small, thin, long and cylindrically shaped, culminating in large areolae. In medical terms, those are known as tuberous or tubular breasts. I suspect most men would not consider them attractive. Instinctively, I move up and down on my toes, bouncing my shapelier breasts in front of her. If bikinis are a combination of raw power and sensuality, toplessness adds yet another dimension of femininity, vulnerability and pure animalistic drive to a female fighter's psyche.
Her small but stern face stares at me with intensity. “Are you ready to start?” she asks.
I nod. I set the timer to the microwave oven to twenty seconds. The ding at the end will start the fight. We stretch and loosen up during the twenty seconds.
Ding.
From what I saw in her fight against Beth, Robin is a good fighter. How good? I’m not sure. She stood up to the larger woman’s aggression without being fazed. I’m not going to make the mistake Beth made and assume I can overpower her. I will start out defensively and see what she does.
Both our hands are up as we circle each other. Striking is my strongest asset, so I take a boxer’s stance and flick out some jabs to see how she reacts. The travel nurse, blocks and dodges and moves laterally. That’s very smart of her. I throw a quick jab to her face. To my surprise, she ducks quickly and retaliates with a crisp kick to my thigh. We back up and circle again. I resume with probing jabs, then feign a left hook. Robin fights back, throwing a flurry of her own. Suddenly, we’re a blur of swinging arms, and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh. This is what I want – a fist fight.
I land a hard left hook to Robin’s ribs, causing her to wince and grunt. A second one lands, and I know I’m in control. Until I’m not. Ignoring the pain, Robin shoots in on me, grabbing the back of my hair, jerking my head back. In an instant, she spins me around and leaps up, wrapping her legs around my waist. We both tumble to the floor. I desperately pull and punch her legs to keep from being scissored. We roll on the floor, struggling for control. I can’t let her scissor me.
I manage to pull her legs apart and roll her over until I’m on top of her, holding her arms above her head. We’re lying body-to-body, my rounded breasts flattening her sad misshapen ones. I lift myself up to mount her, then start pummeling at her head. I’m hitting mostly forearms as she deftly blocks what I throw at her. Suddenly, she grabs my wrist and twists, sending a jolt of pain up my arms until I’m forced to pull away and dismount her.
We both rise. I cautiously move into striking distance and let go with a big right hand. Robin ducks, and in a flash, she ends up behind me. A pair of arms wrap around my neck and head; both of my carotid arteries are under pressure. Fuck! I know this hold, it’s a rear naked choke. I’ve never used it and I’ve never been trapped in one before. But I know the outcome – unconsciousness. I try not to panic, but I squirm, creating just enough distance between our bodies, giving me space to throw my elbow back into Robin’s ribs. She loosens the grip just enough for me to spin away, turn, and land a right hook to her jaw. Robin stumbles backward, catching herself against a wall. She glares at me, rubbing her jaw. This fight is just starting, and I now know what I’m up against – a skilled fighter.
I move in, firing more jabs, then feign a left hook. Again, Robin dodges, then dives down at me, seizing my leg, taking me to the floor with a single leg takedown. She did it so easily. I can’t give her a chance to tie me up. I kick furiously with my free leg, catching her in the head, sending her backward and allowing me to roll out of the way. I’m trying not to lose my confidence. Robin is a complete fighter. My only advantages over her are my striking and larger size. My best chance to win is by landing blows. I cannot let her take me down and tie me up.
Robin regains her bearings as I stand to my feet. This time, she initiates the offensive, coming at me, swinging her left arm. I easily dodge it and fire a hard kick to her midsection. The travel nurse folds over, crumples to the floor and rolls to her side, clutching her abdomen.
Here’s my chance. She’s hurt, I must act now and put her away. As I approach Robin lying in a fetal position, with lightening quickness, she rolls over, swings her leg, sweeping my legs out from under me, sending me crashing to the floor on my butt, landing with a thud. Was she faking? Does she have great recuperative powers? Or maybe both?
Robin is on me in an instant, wrapping her legs around my waist, using her arms to cut off my airflow. I’m in big trouble again. Fortunately, my chin is tucked down enough that she doesn’t have full access to my windpipe. I can still breathe, barely, but for how long?
I’m up on all fours with Robin on my back, her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck. Using all my strength, I stand up, then fall backwards, sending Robin crashing down on her back. Fortunately, she releases the hold. I roll on my back, and for a moment, the two of us lie on the carpet, facing upward, our chests heaving for air.
We both roll over, getting to our hands and knees. I rise to my feet first as Robin and I lock eyes. I taunt her with a hand motion that says, “Come and get me.” She lowers her body and shoots for my legs again. This time, I back out of the way, and she misses. I countermove in on her, seizing her waist and lifting her off the floor in a bear hug. I squeeze and bulge my biceps as hard as I can, planning to twist and slam her to the floor.
The wily travel nurse lets out a loud groan, arches her back, then smashes her head into my face, giving me the sensation that a bomb went off. I stumble backward, feeling Robin’s body slip away. I’m stunned, fearing I may have a broken nose. I check for blood but find none. Distracted, I feel the force of her diving body take my legs out again and I fall to floor. I roll to my side, but my head is snapped back as Robin yanks my hair from behind. A pair of legs wrap around my neck, closing off my trachea.
Oh shit! This might be the end. I’m not really sure what this hold is, it seems to be some kind of figure-four choke. My fingers claw into the carpet; my air and circulation are cut off. I feel like my face is bulging. I have to try anything. Resorting to my most primal instinct. I claw at Robin’s thighs, digging in my nails, scraping and scratching as hard as I can into her flesh. She loosens up enough that I can take in a breath and tuck my chin down enough to prevent my windpipe from being closed off again.
Robin is frustrated and stands up over me as I struggle on all fours. She delivers a vicious kick to my side, dropping me down again. She pounces on my back, rakes her nails against the skin of my back in retaliation and wraps her legs around my midsection. Her arms again search for my neck, and I frantically try to fight them off. Like the skilled wrestler she is, she rides me, limiting my movements and looking for new opportunities. I feel very vulnerable in this position and must escape. I hold onto the travel nurse’s wrist as they try to work their way to my throat. I’m able to lift up to my knees as she clings to my back like a leech, her legs still holding my waist. My body wobbles as Robin searches for a finishing hold. I let go of her right wrist and fire an elbow backward, catching her in the jaw, causing a clacking sound. The grip of her legs on me relent, I can force them apart and scramble away to safety.
We both rise to our feet, panting, our bodies shining with sweat, our bare breasts carried up and down by our respiratory muscles. I feel my arms and legs tightening and quivering. Robin slowly stands rubbing her jaw. This fight is not going my way. This bitch has had me on the defensive since the battle started. She is determined to choke me out and I don’t know how much longer I can fight off her relentless attempts. I’m feeling fatigued and tight, and my confidence is waning. I am not going to outwrestle this woman. If I am to win this fight, it will be through my strongest aspect – power punching. If I am going to unleash a fury of strikes on Robin, it must be now, while I have enough strength left.
Robin and I square off. I put up my hands and circle her with the desperation of a boxer needing a last round knockout. I throw hard jabs at her. She blocks and avoids. I throw a few hard right hooks which land out of harm’s way. I try not to be wild. I’m aware that if Robin takes me down with a counter move, it could easily be over. She maintains a defensive position as I continue with a volley of blows. She knows what she is doing. She knows I am tiring. And I know she is calculating when to strike. I’ve got to strike first, but now, Robin is slippery as water. I have no choice. If I lose this fight, boxing will be the hill I will die on.
With my strength and endurance waning, I ball up my fists, plant my feet. With a flicker of movement, I shoot her left hand out, aiming for Robin's jaw. She sees the punch coming and dodges to the side, but my right follows swiftly, catching her on the cheek. The force of the blow sends Robin staggering. Finally, my chance to end the fight has arrived. I don’t let up, my punches come in rapid succession, each one a powerful statement. My right hooks punish her ribs like Rocky Balboa pounding a side of meat. An uppercut snaps her head back. She stumbles, trying to hang on. One more blow could do it.
Robin lunges at me in desperation, wrapping her arms behind my head and bends my neck forward. My punches are now flailing into nowhere. She pulls me closer to her body and lifts her knee up high, striking me in the forehead. I’m stopped in my tracks. Another knee buries into my midsection. I stumble backward, unable to breathe. I see her rushing at me and I cannot defend myself.
The travel nurse flings her body at me, wrapping her arms around my torso and arms like a middle linebacker making a tackle. She trips up my feet, sending me falling backward to the floor. I have no way to break the fall. I land hard on my back with Robin’s weight on top of me.
I’m on my back with Robin’s arms wrapped around my waist, trapping both of my arms against my sides. Her hands are locked together behind my back. Her head is pressed against my chest. I feel her legs searching for mine, trying to take control of them. She’s trying to grapevine me and I can’t let her. I kick and thrash, trying to keep away from her predatory feet. She can’t grapevine me, her body is too low. Yet, her lower limbs are relentlessly after mine. My feet have nowhere to go, it feels like it’s a matter of time.
Finally, I feel my knees being pushed together as Robin scissors her thighs around them. Her calves slip under my feet, pushing them up off the floor. Below my feet, her ankles cross, then lock. She squeezes her legs tightly; I can barely move my legs at all. She’s scissored them together. Robin is on top of me, taking complete control of my arms and legs; I am thoroughly trapped.
I’m tightly pinned to the floor, but at least this is not a submission hold. I’m more concerned about the wind being knocked out of me. My breath is rapid and loudly audible. Robin’s weight and her arms constrict my diaphragm, making oxygen recovery difficult. I’m very vulnerable, but Robin isn’t doing much beside holding on. She must be out of breath, hurting too. But I know that she will be going for the kill any moment. The longer she waits, the better it is for me.
The moments go by. She still hasn’t moved. She hasn’t loosened her grip on me either. I keep waiting for her to do something but she doesn’t. I don’t know how much time has passed but my breathing is slowing down some. I make a few attempts to break free, but Robin doesn’t relent and squeezes harder to let me know she has no intention of changing her position at this time. Fine. The next move is hers. The ball is in her court. The more she delays, the more strength I’ll get back. She’s losing her opportunity to finish me off.
My breathing is better. Whatever Robin does next, I’ll be ready for it. I’ll give her credit. She knows her wrestling. I’m as tied up as can be. But that’s not how you win a catfight. She has to let go of her grip or release my legs sometime. It does her no use to keep me locked up like this.
More time passes and I’m starting to get impatient. I want to get out of this hold. I convulse my body and try to power out. Her arms are like steel cables strapping my arms to my sides. My legs are squeezed together, my feet are suspended off the floor above her interlocked ankles. I struggle and squirm. I can’t break out. Robin doesn’t seem to have any interest in advancing this fight. We’re wasting time. Enough is enough.
“Robin,” I finally say, “this isn’t going anywhere. Let’s call it a stalemate and restart the fight.”
“It’s not a stalemate,” she answers. “You need to give up.”
Is she fucking kidding? “Give up? Why?”
“Because you’re helpless.”
“Okay, you got me pinned. But this isn’t a wrestling match. It’s a catfight. You win a fight by submission or when one woman can’t continue. That’s what we agreed on.”
“So, submit.”
“This isn’t a submission hold,” I protest. “If this was MMA, they’d stand us up and make us fight again.”
“This isn’t MMA.”
“It’s not a catfight either. You don’t win with a pin.”
“Oh, no?” she answers matter-of-factly, “haven’t you heard of submission by pin?”
“What the fuck,” I groan.
“Who said a submission hold must be painful?” she adds. “You can submit when you realize you are completely helpless with no chance of escaping. Just tell me when you’re ready to surrender and I’ll let you up.”
“Bullshit!” I growl as loudly as my raspy voice will allow. “I’m not submitting to this. You can’t last long like this either. So, are we going to just lie here for days?”
“Yes, if that’s what it takes,” she says. “But it won’t take that long. You’re going to break soon. You just don’t know it yet. Remember, you can give up any time.”
“Fuck you,” I grumble defiantly. This woman is nuts. Fine, if she wants a battle of wills, she’s got one. I’m not losing my job over getting caught in an immobilizing but painless wrestling hold. She can’t maintain this hold for long. She’ll get tired or crampy. She’ll have to break. I have it easier. I can just lie here. Robin is the one who has to expend energy.
I take a few deep breaths and relax. As long as I don’t struggle, I’ll have the advantage. The humiliation of being pinned indefinitely isn’t lost on me. If spectators were here, I would be embarrassed into submission, but this is between just me and Robin. I’m not losing to this bitch. I’ll wait this out for as long as it takes. I feel her hands behind my back, pressed to the floor. That has got to be uncomfortable for her. I’ll try to make it worse. I arch my back as much as I can, then push it down to the floor, trying to crush Robin’s hands. In response, the travel nurse digs her thumb into the flesh of my lower back, causing a spasm of pain in my lower trap muscle. Shit! I relax my body, as Robin jerks her arms and legs into a series of squeezing contractions, trying to assure me she is still in charge. I bear through it, take some more deep breaths and rest again. This is infuriating.
My head is only part of my body that can move freely. With the back of my head against the floor, I look up at the ceiling. A fly is buzzing around overhead. It must have snuck in through an open door. My cell phone on the end table vibrates in response to an incoming call. There have already been several text message notifications. For the first time since the fight, I notice the clock ticking. Something is tickling the sole of my right foot. It’s that damn fly. I can’t do much with my foot other than shake it back and forth. It’s gone. Another call on the cell phone. The fly now lands on my right big toe. I flick it away.
The doorbell rings. I can’t answer it and it’s probably not important. Oh my God! I just remembered that my housekeeper sometimes comes every other Saturday. Is she due today? I can’t remember. She has a key to the house. Oh fuck, what if she walks in.
“Robin, we have to stop,” I tell her. “That might be my housekeeper. She has a key.”
“So, you’re giving up then?”
“No, let’s finish this later.”
“You’re joking, right?” she says. “You stay here till you give up.”
“She can’t walk in and see us like this.”
“Well, if she does, she’ll get quite a show.”
Now what? The door bell doesn’t ring again. A minute later, I hear a truck drive off from the front of my house. It was an Amazon delivery.
“Looks like you got a package,” Robin teases. “Your knight is shining armor just left.”
Bitch. I instinctively struggle, trying to break free, but my attempt goes nowhere. I know how calculating this woman can be. This is what she wanted; I won’t fall for it again. She can’t maintain her position for long. I won’t waste energy. I’ll wait.
The airflow hums through the air conditioning vent overhead. Outside, firetruck sirens wail from the far-off interstate. My landline phone rings. And rings. Then my voice message activates:
“Hi Kiva, this is Mom. You said you were off work today. You didn’t answer your cell phone, so I thought I’d try your landline. I hope you’re okay. Call me back when you can. I love you.”
“That was so sweet,” Robin mocks. “I’m sorry Kiva can’t come to the phone right now. She’s all tied up at the moment. She’ll call you back when she becomes available.”
“Asshole,” I grunt. I told myself I wouldn’t fall for her crap again, but she pushes my buttons. I thrash and push as hard as I can. Robin tightens her squeeze on my torso and arms and forcefully contacts her leg muscles, leaving me out of breath again and as trapped as ever. Once again, I try to lie still, trying to recoup air and preserve what strength I have left. I hear a buzzing in my right ear. The fly has returned and lands on my forehead. I vigorously shake my head back and forth to dislodge it.
I hear familiar voices from outside. My friends Cheryl and Laura are walking their dogs on this lovely Saturday. I usually join them when I’m home. It sounds like Cheryl is talking about her recent trip to Lake Tahoe. They’re getting closer. And closer. “Hey, it looks like Kiva’s home,” Laura says, “her car is in the driveway.”
The doorbell rings. The banter continues as the doorbell rings a second time. “She hasn’t answered the text I sent her,” Laura adds. “Maybe she’s sleeping off a night shift.” Their voices fade as they leave my door. Laura chatters about the deal she and her husband received on a new minivan. Their voices become more and more indistinguishable with the growing distance until they fade out entirely as they continue their journey up the street…without me.
A wave of demoralization washes over me and I struggle to fight it. I’m reminded of an incident from my distant past. In sixth grade, I wrote a raunchy poem on a piece of paper and handed it to my friend Carrie while class was in session. She had a hard time controlling her giggling. She passed it to another friend who passed it on to another. Soon, most of the class was squirming in their seats, trying to hide their laughter.
Out teacher, Mrs. Dixon noticed. She confiscated the paper and demanded to know who wrote it. When no one answered, she told us that no student would be permitted to leave the classroom until she learned who authored such a vulgar composition. We all sat in tense silence until Norman Gruberman broke and ratted me out. Mrs. Dixon sentenced me with an afterschool detention and gave the poem to my parents. Do you think my parents praised their daughter for her creative talent and understood that a preadolescent exploration of sexuality was completely normal and natural? Of course not.
On the day of my detention, I watched as groups of my classmates filed out the door at the end of the school day. I sat in an empty classroom while Mrs. Dixon sat at her desk doing administrative work, occasionally peering at me through disapproving eyes. From the window, I watched bus after bus leave the school as my friends went about their lives…without me.
I need to stop these negative thoughts. What is Robin thinking? This can’t be enjoyable for her. I must occupy my mind. I play music in my head. I think of my favorite song lyrics. I mentally play some of my favorite albums. I analyze the plots of my favorite books. I fantasize that I’m in other places: beaches, mountains, historical sites, I travel the world, I visit other planets.
The clock continues to tick. Honestly, I’ve lost all track of time. I don’t know how long it’s been since the fight started. Now the kitchen faucet is dripping. Crap, I thought that had been fixed. The fly returns. This time it lands on my upper arm. I can’t shake it off; that is how tightly Robin has my arms pressed against my body. It walks around on my skin. Why is this fly landing on only me? Why not Robin? Do I smell a certain way? Are flies like vultures and sense when a creature is about to…die? No! I tell myself. Stop the dark thoughts.
Robin and I haven’t spoken in who knows how long. My throat is dry and scratchy, my bare scratched back is raw and starting to itch from being pressed into the carpet fibers. My legs feel a bit chilly, now that the sweat has evaporated. I’m starting to feel a little crampy, but I can push through it. Something has to happen to force Robin off of me. I notice her nose has the sniffles. Maybe she’s getting a head cold. Maybe a wasp has entered the house and will sting her. Maybe a chunk of ceiling will fall and strike her in the head. Perhaps she’ll have an asthma attack…something…anything.
I can’t keep my mind from drifting and the dark ideas still surround me. The ceiling looks a little hazy and I know I’m dehydrated. The room spins when I turn my head to either side. Robin sneezes and blows wet snot onto my left tit. Fuck, now I’ll catch a cold. Her head on my chest feels heavy. Her body presses down on my belly and hips, my arms and legs are locked up tight. I imagine myself enclosed in a human shaped box, like the iron maiden torture device. My breathing has become shallow and rapid, I need to stop and get my mind under control.
I forget my commitment to not lose energy and I struggle for what seems like the hundredth time to free my arms, before letting my muscles go limp again. My lungs suck in as much air as possible then exhale. I can’t move my legs. I don’t even feel them. I try to swallow, but can’t seem to generate enough saliva to satisfy my parched throat. I tell myself that there is no cramp starting in my lower back. How long have I been trapped on the floor like this? I don’t know, but the shifting sunbeam on the wall tells me that the earth has rotated significantly since the last time I stood on my feet. I can’t move. There is nowhere to look but up at the ceiling as I lie helpless under the gaze of the unsympathetic retracted floodlight overhead. My heart rate and respirations speed up. I know what this is. No, not now. This is not the time for a panic attack.
Years ago, I had a recurring nightmare. My car swerves off a road and tumbles down an embankment, landing upside down at the bottom of a ravine. I manage to squeeze myself out, but before I can get away, the car rolls one more time, pinning me on my back. I’m not crushed, but I can’t move. I stare at the road above me as countless cars go by, the drivers unaware of my predicament. I’m trapped and alone. This is awful. Somebody please, find me. I’m going to die here.
“Help,” my throaty raspy voice barely manages to croak out.
“Kiva?” I hear Robin’s voice ask, perhaps with a touch of concern. “Are you giving up?”
“No,” I tell her as I snap back into reality.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure.”
Okay, I’m feeling better now. I can handle this. I fill my mind with happy thoughts, mostly childhood memories. I think of kiddy shows and Barbies. I think of my daughter Clarissa and her recent birthday party. I play only upbeat music in my head; I re-imagine my favorite romantic movies and comedies…Drip…drip…Shit! I think I feel water on the carpet under my back and I can’t move. The water is rising! My living room is flooding!
Long Island Sound, New York, 18th century. There’s a section of ragged rocks on the coast near New Rochelle that are seen only during low tide. The place is called Execution Rocks. It is said that criminals and wayward slaves were sentenced to death by being chained to the rocks. They would drown when the water covered them during high tide; their corpses and the skeletons of previous victims were exposed with the next low tide.
ICU nurses see a lot of death. Sometimes death is sudden, like a cardiac arrest, and leaves its victims no time to think about it. Sometimes death is a long slow process, like a terminal disease, and allows to sufferer to anticipate it. I think of the terror of the prisoners as the water slowly rises; they know that it’s a matter of a short time that the water will gradually close in on their heads, then fill their lungs. Then, they will be no more.
Fuck! No, stop it, Kiva. Get your mind under control. That’s folklore. There’s no proof that ever happened. Take some deep breaths. I’m going to get out of this.
The sunbeam is gone from the floor and has traveled halfway up the wall. I haven’t seen the fly in a while. I’ve lost sense of time, but I know I’ve been lying here a long time. I won’t give up. I think Robin might have fallen asleep. I jerk my arms and legs, trying to catch her off guard. She squeezes as hard as ever. How does she do it? What goes through her mind?
The ice machine rumbles. The clock ticks. The AC blows, the earth rotates. In his book, “Pale Blue Dot,” astronomer Carl Sagan described the earth as an insignificant speck of dust in the midst of a vast universe. On that tiny dot lived every human being ever: kings, peasants, saints, sinners, every hero and coward, every couple in love, every mother and child…and on a miniscule corner of that tiny dot, Robin Price is holding Kiva Shepherd pinned to the floor.
I turn my head toward the kitchen and see some activity in the corner of a window. A spider has an insect trapped in its web. The doomed bug is buzzing frantically while the spider works to subdue it, wrapping its threads around it. I think it might be my fly. I can’t look. I close my eyes.
I I have a strange sense that I just woke up from something, that time has passed, but I don’t know how much. I might have fallen asleep or passed out. Muscle cramps are everywhere and getting worse. The ceiling is blurry, the room is spinning without me moving my head. Robin lifts her head then crashes it back down on my chest like a big rock. Her entire body over me feels heavy, I can’t…breathe.
Salem, Massachusetts, 1692. 80-year-old farmer Giles Corey and his wife were accused of witchcraft. When Giles refused to plead guilty or not guilty, he was subjected to torture by a method called pressing. He was stripped naked and forced to lie on his back on the ground. Heavy wooden boards were placed on his body. Rocks and boulders were placed on the boards to create unbearable pressure in order to force a plea. He remained steadfast in his refusal and died under the rocks three days later. After another three days, his wife was hanged for witchcraft. I admire his defiance as he slowly asphyxiated. Would I have done the same?
I can’t breathe…Tick…Tick…Cars pass overhead, and no one knows I’m here. I’ll die down here before anyone finds me…Drip…Drip…The water is rising and will soon cover my head until sea water enters my lungs…My chest hurts…The boulders are getting heavier.
“I am not a WITCH!” I scream out....Help! I’m down here! I don’t want to drown!”
“Kiva? Are you alright?”
“Help!”
“Kiva, you’re delirious. You’re okay. Just give up.”
““The car! The rocks! The chains! Get me out of here! I don’t want to die!””
“Kiva, it’s Robin! You’re dehydrated and disoriented. Just give up!””
“I GIVE UP! Get me out of here! I just want to go home!”
“Kiva, you ARE home.” Robin shifts her body, pulls her arms from behind my back and rolls on her back to the floor. “Kiva, take a deep breath. You need fluid.”
My senses begin to return. I recognize my ceiling, the walls, I know I’m home and I’m lying nearly naked on my floor. Robin starts asking me questions in the exact manner we, as nurses, assess a patient’s orientation. State your name, place, today’s date, and so on.
Robin’s face grimaces in pain as she rises to her knees. She looks like shit. Her face is slightly swollen. Her body is full of bruises. “Fuck, I hurt all over,” she says. She gradually stands and offers me a hand, but before I could take it, she stumbles and drops to all fours. “I’m lightheaded,” she explains. “We’re both dehydrated. Do you have any electrolyte solutions?” she asks.
“Yeah, there’s a carton of Pedialyte in the pantry.”
“Stay here.” She instructs. “I’ll get it for us.”
A few minutes later, Robin comes crawling back, Pedialyte tucked under her arm. We consume a few liters of the life-saving solution, rich in dextrose, sodium, potassium citrate and more, saying very little to each other. “Okay,” Robin offers, “let’s try to stand.” She lifts herself up, stiff and unsteadily. A moment later, she stabilizes her balance. “You need to get up now,” she says, “you could have rhabdomyolysis from being pressed to the floor for so long,” referring to a condition caused by breakdown of muscle cells, potentially resulting in kidney damage. She extends a hand and pulls me up. “Careful,” she says, “sit in a chair first, don’t change positions too quickly.” She’s right. I feel a sense of dizziness upon standing that alleviated with sitting. “Drink more Pedialyte.”
Robin sits down as well. “Damn, Kiva,” she says, “you are one crazy bitch. I can’t believe you lasted that long. Any other woman would have given up hours ago.”
“Hours?” I ask. “Were we down there for…hours?”
“Damn right,” she answers, “Our fight started six hours ago.”
“Six hours? We were down there for six hours! Holy Sh-“
“Honestly, I don’t think I could have held on much longer,” she says. “You didn’t want to quit.” I think she means it as a compliment, but it doesn’t make me feel good about myself, having been pinned down for six hours. “Take it as a show of respect,” continues, “I didn’t want to face you standing up again.”
“You know, Kiva,” she adds, “You’re a good fighter. You hit like King Kong. I thought I was going to lose my guts. Work on your grappling and submission holds and you’ll be unstoppable. My trainer knows people. I’ll get you the name of someone around here who can work with you.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
I can’t hide my glum mood. For some reason, Robin hasn’t mentioned the elephant in the room. “Let’s talk business,” I begin. “You’re the new ICU manager. Bev will be very happy. I’m impressed. It took you only a month to own the ICU. You’ve changed policies and procedures, won over the director, got rid of two senior nurses. I don’t know how you did it, but congratulations. You won’t have to put up with me for long. I’ll send out applications on Monday. I have connections around town. I’ll be fine.”
Robin’s face becomes sullen. “No, Kiva, that won’t be necessary. You’re not going anywhere. I already turned down the job offer. I told Beverly. I’m going home at the end of the week. The time just isn’t right for Paul and I to move.”
What the fuck? “Shit, Robin, why didn’t you tell me. We went through this fight for nothing, and you knew all along there were no stakes?”
“You were determined to fight,” she explains, “so I wanted you to be at your fiercest, thinking your job was on the line. I must say, that was very admirable, and you did put up a great fight. But you’re right, maybe I shouldn’t have put you through that. It’s just that…there was so much tension this month…and I don’t know…it was mostly my fault…I know some of the nurses hated me…I never intended to…”
Robin breaks down into sobs as I silently watch her. “Do you know what it’s like always being the new nurse,” she asks…”always being the outsider…not really being accepted. Or given the worst dirtiest cases because I’m not one of them…I guess I stopped trying to make friends and tried to show how much superior I was…I’m sorry I didn’t mean to…”
“Robin, you are a fantastic nurse,” I assure her. “Nobody expected you to prove something. All we wanted from you was for you to do a good job. You did that. There was never a need to go beyond that. And you gave us great ideas on how we could become better. I would tell you to focus on how to give critical feedback constructively. It takes a little tact.”
“Thanks, Kiva…I think you’re right…so…should we try to stretch our legs and walk?”
We rise from our chairs, both of us stiff and achy. The dizziness is gone. I can at least move around. It’s now early evening, my bare skin feels chilly. I notice Robin’s snot is still on my tit. It’s time for a shower.
We head to the bathroom that’s connected to the master bedroom. I peel off my panties and enter the large walk-in shower enclosure and open the shower heads as Robin tends to her bruises. The warm water feels like a salve over my sore muscles. Water stings my back where the skin has become raw from the carpet fibers and scratches. From behind me, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see that Robin, now nude, has entered the enclosure, shutting the door behind her.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks.
She pours moisturizing bath lotion on my shoulders and works it into my skin, massages my neck, then lightly cleans off my scraped up back. We lather up each other’s hair and try to alleviate some of the pain we caused each other.
“You are gorgeous,” she says. I’m feeling self-conscious and slightly uncomfortable as she looks me over up and down, admiring my chest, my legs. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. Robin follows. Our hair hangs down over our faces like damp tendrils as we dry off.
“Did I tell you that I’m a licensed massage therapist?” Robin asks. “I’m hoping to do it as a side business when my traveling days are over.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Would you like a massage?” she offers. “You will feel a lot better. It’s the least I can do after what we just went through. Try it. I’m very good at it. I have some stuff in my bag.”
I’m so stiff and aching and I have no doubt Robin excels in anything she does. “Um…Yeah, okay.”
“Come this way.” With both of us still nude, she has me lie face down on the bed, placing the towel over my ass.
“I’m going to give you the deep tissue massage, but I have some aromas that I still like to use. Do you want lavender, citrus, or eucalyptus?”
“Uh…lavender.”
“Okay, breathe this in, relax, I got some Zen music to get us going…That’s it…deep breaths.”
My mind drifts off to the sound of bamboo flutes and taiko drums as I breathe in my favorite floral scent. I feel tension melt away as Robin’s hands work my shoulders and neck, kneading my trap and deltoid muscles. So far, I’d say she is very good, but that shouldn’t be surprising. She spends a lot of time working my back with her skilled hands and I feel ready to fall asleep. Robin is an excellent masseuse. She moves to my legs, removing all the tightness from my hamstrings and calves, before working her way to my feet, alleviating my achiness and cramping.
She instructs me to turn over and lie on my back. She slips her hands under me, using my weight to work a deeper massage of my shoulders, neck and upper back. It feels wonderful.
“Do you like it?” she coos.
“Yes.”
“I just want you to feel good…You are such a beautiful woman.” The tip of her index finger rests on my right tit, then circles around the areola. I’m starting to feel uneasy. “Look at these gorgeous breasts,” she says. “I wish I had boobs like yours. Look how ugly mine are. I thought about getting implants once but decided not to. I want to be authentic. And you…everything about you is authentic…lovely girl inside and out.”
I’m a little nervous about where this is going. Robin moves the palm of her hand in circles over my abdomen, sliding it over my belly button, then lower.
“Robin,” I ask. “Are…are you…bisexual?”
“Yes, I am,” she smiles gently. “Paul knows. It’s one of the first things I told him about myself when we dated. He’s cool with it. He doesn’t care about my hookups with women. All that matters to him is that he’s my only man. So, in that sense, I’ve never cheated on him.”
“How about you, Kiva?” she asks. “Have you ever tried it with girls?”
“No, I’m straight,” I answer emphatically.
“Really? Haven’t you ever wanted to explore that side of yourself? I’ll help you.”
This is not what I was expecting, and I tell her. “Robin, I haven’t even thought about it.”
“I only want you to feel good. I’ll keep it slow and simple…I won’t do anything that we don’t do to ourselves. You don’t need to do anything except lie there and enjoy. Let me do all the work for you…anytime you want to stop, just tell me. I promise you will feel safe and comfortable.”
If I wasn’t so exhausted I would probably have told her to leave. Maybe it’s because I have no resistance left to give this woman, maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe I really am just lonely, or maybe it’s a combination of all of these reasons. I take a deep breath and spread my legs apart. Robin wastes no time taking action.
“That’s it, my lovely girl,” she whispers in a low sultry voice. “Let me make you feel good. I promise you won’t be disappointed.” Her hand slides lower and lower, her finger tracks through the pubic hair above my mound. Then, to the sound of bells, drums and chimes, I feel Robin’s finger enter me.
She slides up and down the edges of my opening. I let out an involuntary moan as she gingerly traces my inner folds. “Such a beautiful butterfly,” she sighs. “These wings are so lovely, so delicate, let me feel them.” I moan louder and slightly shake at Robin’s caress of my “wings.”
“She’s such a good butterfly,” Robin continues. “She deserves good things…Let me pet her…let me pet her on the head…so she knows I care about her…There she is…there’s her head…that’s my butterfly!”
I’m surprised at the arousal I feel at Robin’s rubbing of my “butterfly head.” My moans are louder and more frequent. I’ve never been much of a screamer, but I can moan with the best of them.
“She likes it. She likes me…Well, I like her too and I want her to know it, I want to show her…I want her to fly. I am going to help her fly. I am going to show her how to beat her wings and fly high in the sky. I think she is ready…Beat those wings, girl. Up and down. That’s it! That’s it! Those wings are flapping!”
My body flushes. I know that feeling well, but this is the first time that it involved another woman. The flushing mixes with a tingle that washes over me. My hips involuntarily rock and buck with Robin’s rhythm.
“That’s it, my sweet lady. Let’s beat the wings faster. Let her go higher and higher!” Robin quickens the pace, and my moaning now reverberates through the house. She has the precision of a surgeon as she finger fucks me closer and closer to orgasm. I can feel my face and chest flush, I tingle just about everywhere. I can feel wetness pooling beneath me, my “butterfly” is pulsating and swelling. Robin adds a second finger.
“She’s growing, she’s gotten bigger. She needs another friend.” The added friction brings another layer of intensity as I try to control my body from writhing. Then, Robin stops, I look down to see her grinning at me.
“Keep going!” I shout before she resumes. Fucking tease. Now it’s harder and faster than before. I thrust my hips up and down as Robin plunges inside me.
“She’s almost home,” Robin’s sultry voice says. Her hand and my hips work into a frenzy. I now feel it deeper inside of me. The pulsations are harder and more frequent. It’s a matter of time. Without missing a beat, my new lover slides her head to my chest, rubbing her face into my erect right nipple.
“These girls are happy too,” she says. “Let me make them happier.” She flicks her tongue around my areola before gently licking the nipple in circular motions, never once breaking her hand rhythm.
The intensity is overwhelming. The pleasure, the tingling, the pulsating, the swelling, the pending contractions, it’s all so…so… it’s all so…I scream out one of my loudest orgasms ever. My body goes onto full tremor mode as I can’t stop the muscle contractions or the explosion down below. The scream transitions into a series of groans. Robin holds me around the waist as I convulse in her arms. She gently caresses my face; I detect the scent of myself mixed with lavender on her fingers. She turns my face toward hers and locks her lips onto mine.
“That’s my girl,” she whispers. “So beautiful.” I groan, thrash and hyperventilate while Robin holds on. As I begin to come down, I notice Robin is now shaking as she lets out a long moan. Her moisture soaks my thigh. I’m a bit confused. I’m now holding her as she goes through her own orgasmic experience. After a few minutes, both of us are quiet and still.
“How did you-“ I begin to ask. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t need to,” she explains. “Getting you off gets me off.”
We share a gentle laugh as she rolls off of me and we are lying side to side. My pain is gone for now. I feel the high of endorphins circulating in my blood, satisfying my opioid receptors. Sex always causes a huge release of them in me. That’s why I always feel so calm, even drowsy, afterward. I stair at the ceiling fan over the bed and think about what a strange day it’s been.
What the_? I’m waking up in my bed. It’s dark. How long have I been asleep? Robin is sleeping beside me. I rise from bed and go to the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s 2 AM; we’ve been sleeping for hours. It makes sense after what we’ve been through. Chase and Iris scold me for forgetting their dinner, so I give it to them late. I return to the bedroom and find that Robin is now awake. Neither of us can fall back asleep, so we sit up in bed, watching a movie on Netflix, holding each other like lovers until we fall asleep again.
It's daylight and I’m waking up again – alone. Robin enters the bedroom dressed in the sweatsuit she wore on arrival. “Good morning,” she says with a touch of ebullience. “I hope you don’t mind; I took the liberty of using your coffee maker. Would you like some coffee? I’ll bring it to you. What do you like in it”
It’s Sunday morning; sunlight fills my bedroom. This fight has cost me an entire day. I sit up in bed and stretch. Robin returns and hands me my coffee mug. We chat and watch morning news on TV as I fill myself with caffeine.
“I have to leave soon,” she informs me. “May I make a request? Since I won the fight and didn’t claim the stakes you offered, would you do something else for me?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m starved. You probably are too. Would you cook breakfast for us? I like two eggs over easy, sausage and English muffin. And…may I keep these?” she asks, holding up my panties.”
“Fine.”
“And…could you stay nude until I leave?”
“No sex and no touching,” I insist.
“Oh, I won’t. I respect boundaries. I just want to look at you a little longer before I go.”
I rise from bed and head toward the kitchen, feeling the flow from the air conditioning vents on my exposed skin. My bare feet slap the kitchen tile as I heat the frying pan. Robin watches from behind me, admiring my bare ass. I get it. She has a naked slave girl fantasy. Tiny droplets of hot oil splatter from the frying pan and leap onto my vulnerable tits. Why did I agree to this? I notice I have the same strange compulsion as I had after my loss to Cynthia. It’s some weird sense of obligation to please my conqueror. I hope I don’t get this feeling again anytime soon.
We sit at the kitchen table enjoying breakfast, my naked butt sticking to the wooden dinette chair. Neither one of us had eaten in 24 hours. The conversation is mostly about interesting locations where Robin had worked and places she’d like to visit in the future. Finally, she rises, picks up her gym bag and begins her exit.
“I texted my trainer,” she tells me. “Here’s the name and number of someone nearby who’d be happy to work with you. He was an NCAA wrestling champion and a UFC contender. He’s not cheap but he will make you into an awesome fighter. I’ll text it to you”
“Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “there’s a huge cockroach in your pantry. I tried to kill it but it got away.”
“Lovely,” I reply. Typical Robin. Always finding the dirt side to everything.
She leans into me with a full body hug and kisses me on the lips as she departs. I shrink away from the doorway, lest any neighbors should see me nude kissing another woman.
At last, I’m alone in my house again. I think I’ll take it easy today. I’m too sore to be productive. I look at the name of the trainer Robin recommended. She’s right. I’m too much of a one-dimensional fighter. I’ve mostly gotten away with it so far, but I can be better. Much better. Maybe something good will come from this defeat.
Did Robin turn me into a lesbian? No, it was only an experiment. I get the appeal of girl-on-girl sex. Men’s dicks are blunt objects that don’t always hit the best spot. Women are finely tuned instruments and have better sexual intelligence. We’re good at reading each other and giving our partner what she wants. But still, I’ll stick with men.
I clean up the kitchen. I don’t see the cockroach in the pantry. In the corner of the floor of the pantry, under the shelves, I see something I had forgotten. It’s a white cardboard box, open at two sides, with a coating of glue at the bottom. It’s a roach trap where the bugs walk in and become trapped on the glue where they remain until they slowly die.
I pick up the roach trap, then I become startled, gasping as I see a big ass cockroach is trapped inside. This one is actually stuck on it’s back; it must have fallen in the glue from above. Its legs flail helplessly as its antennae swish side to side. Disgusting. I toss the trap and roach into the garbage.
Wait, that doesn’t seem right. It’s a living thing. It could take days to die. I retrieve the trap and look inside. The ugly body is firmly entrenched in the sticky substance, the long legs with the spikes on the side kicks in futility. The small head and protruding eyes are something out of a nightmare. Does it know it’s going to die? Does it have a will to live? It seems so cruel. I can’t do this.
According to an internet article, vegetable oil is the antidote to glue traps. I slip on my robe and sandals and take the trap outside, then flood the sticky side with olive oil. The insect grasps on to a small stick I provide; I lift it up from it’s gluey grave and place it in the grass.
“Goodbye, my friend,” I say to it as it scuttles away. “You are…free.”
