Claimer: Purely fictitious, none of this is real, NONE. All the characters are made up by me and play no role in reality. Enjoy!

Dedication: To all those who've suffered from any kind of abuse.

Perfect Year: 1985

Everything seemed so perfect, so right, how would I have known that only thirty minutes from now, everything would be ruined. How was I supposed to know, that in exactly two months from now, I could have lost everything. My practice, my fiancé, my everything, just because of one precious life.

Getting off my horse, I handed Skittle's reins to George, a thirty something man who had worked on this countryside farm with my father since he was sixteen. George didn't know how to converse with the opposite sex, to cook, to clean, none of those 'mundane stuff' he told me once. All he knew were horses, and he knew that he would one day become a stable master.

Lakeville was as beautiful as it can get. Although somewhat dull, with youth population being less than a quarter of this village, it had a sense of security and peace that was rarely found anywhere else. Named after the pond on the other side of village, it was my small little paradise. A place I returned to after my psychiatric practice became under too much stress. I was a criminal psychiatrist, sometimes used to prove a person's innocence or guilt.

Walking towards my red sports car that I loved, I slid in behind the wheel and began my travel back home. My fiancé, Ryan Steele, was one to cause shivers of fright to other men. He was a criminal layer, fighting for justice more actively. He had admitted that in the beginning, he had allowed the innocent to go to jail and the guilty to be free just to win a case. He had changed all his codes when a little girl had been killed due to his client. And that's how we met. After a few sparks and arguments, it became blindingly obvious that what we had was more than 'sexual' tension. It was more, and after six months of dating, he had proposed.

A fairy tale story…one that I would never forget and one that helped me later.

The sun was shining down on me and I was humming Jennifer Lopez's song, Walking on sunshine. I glanced at the file beside me, that I had up on in my paradise. My new case was not an easy one. My client's name was Harris Michael, born July 9th, 1946. His age now would have to been around forty. His crime, he had killed thirty-five prostitutes (or waitresses who revealed too much skin), sold their skin as alligator skin to be used for shoe making or whatever else in the Black Market. He showed no signs of remorse, indicating that he may have an anti-social personality. Of course, he was charming, the cool guy in the office, the one who had chicks hit on him. After all, his life consisted only of bucks, bucks and f…chicks. It was also interesting to note that his family came from somewhere in the south, I can't remember the name of the town. While interviewing his teachers in grade school, they had indicated that there was no one name Harris Michael who had resided in the town sometime in the past.

Interesting, perhaps he was home schooled?

Only ten minutes had passed since I had gotten off Skittle, but I already felt so sore and it was starting to get dark. Stopping at a motel, I was surprised when fat raindrops splattered.

"Oh, god."

Rushing into the motel, I shook my hair inside, my straightened hair curling around. My brief case and my backpack were with me here, so I had no reason to go back out. Looking around the dim motel, I noted spider webs in the corners, and the tables that had never been used.

"Hi, there," a brunette said, her southern accent strong. "Welcome to Stacy's Motel. How can we be a service to you?"

So what if the motel looked dinky and dangerous, it was better than staying the night in my car. "Hi, I need a room please."

"A bedroom?" She asked turning around to get keys. I nodded, glancing at my watch. Only five minutes had passed since I had gotten out of the car. It was 9:15.

"Yes, one room, how much would that be?" I asked, shifting my backpack over to take out my wallet.

"One night, two fifty."

She eyed my credit card with distaste. Then scowling she said, "Look lady, if you don't have the money…"

"Oh, so you want cash?"

"Please."

Sighing, I took out my emergency money. Making sure that the brunette never looked at my secret place, I handed her two hundred and fifty dollars.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she gave me the key, before saying, "Enjoy."

"Thanks," I said. Glancing at the key number I was grateful that it was on the first floor, room 121. Walking out, I glanced around, then starting walking in circles until I reached my room. Shoving it open with my keys, I stepped in.

It wasn't so bad, well, not as bad as I expected. Placing my bag and briefcase on the bed, I turned on my cell phone, before taking out its charger. Dimly I realized another five minutes had passed.

There were two messages for me. One was from my mother, who now lived with her second husband. After my father had died because of heart attack, my mother lived like a spinster for six years. I was happy she had remarried, and Steve, my stepfather, had always been my mediator, helping me with my clients.

"Sweetie," my mother said clearly, "I am worried about you. Where are you? Psh, what am I asking, you're probably at the Paradise. Well, whenever you're available, give me a call. Bye."

Click.

Deleting the message, I listened to the second message, never noticing a shadow standing at my window, staring down at me with pure hatred.

"Lana banana," Ryan's deep voice teased, causing me to smile. "Haven't heard from you in a while," at this I snorted. I had spent a night at his place not a day ago. "Alright, I know you're thinking, we're not conjoined twins and can't separate because we're ah…joined. (cough, cough). All right, I'll get my mind out of the gutter. Any way, you should know that your latest client just got off free. Don't panic. He's probably headed north to get as far away. Police are looking for him. Any ho, call me soon. Love you, miss you, and miss lovin' you. Later."

Grinning, I started to dial his phone number. I had only dialed the first six digits, when there was a harsh knock on the door. Jumping, my cell phone landed on the floor, next to my bed. Curious, I walked to door. My instincts screamed for me not to go near the door.

"Who is it?" I called out, glancing at the watch. It was 9:25. Not late, but still, spending a night at a dinky motel alone was bound to get anyone's nerve strung up.

There was no reply.

Instead, after ten seconds, the knocking continued.

Taking a deep breath, I put my brief case under the bed along with my bag. Holding my cell phone, I walked closer to the door, feeling every bit frightened.

Oh, why couldn't Ryan be here when I needed him?

Years of training in self-defense finally kicked in, and I mocked the knocker, "Don't even think I'm so stupid as to let a stranger in."

Ten seconds.

"I have something for you," The knocker's male voice said, devoid of any emotions.

A chill went down my spine, and I started realizing the danger I was in. Holding my breath, I slowly picked my bag, my briefcase. Walking into the washroom, I saw the washroom window not so up; it was large enough to let an elephant in. Opening the lock, I leaned out, realized that I would be in more danger outside than inside. Getting back in, I was startled when I was suddenly grabbed from outside. He held onto my arms and mercilessly pulled me down to him. I knew from his grips that I would have bruises on my arms.

That was the last of my worries. I realized whom this was, and was too stunned to do anything but stare at him in fright.

"Bitch," he said, and then pulled me closer so that I could see his face. "Think you could just waltz into my life and label me off as a sicko? What do you have to say about that?"

"Let me go, Harris Michael," I said, just as the thunder struck.

Instead he sneered into my face, his bad breath marking what he hadn't even touched.

"I'll show you. Bitch. I'll show you."

Before I realized what was happening, he had ripped of my pants. Without another inkling as to what he was about to do, he pushed himself into me. I cried out, "NO!"

"What? No big words? No anti-person?" He sneered.

I couldn't stop my tears, and I couldn't stop myself. I started to claw his face, his eyes. Muddy brown eyes burned down into my memory. He lay me down on the floor, with him on top, as he pushed himself even more. Screaming for help, anything to save me.

I was already ruined.

Harris Michael held onto my arms causing me to cease my fights. I tried to knee him, but couldn't. Instead, he had slapped me so hard, that my head jerked to one side. His lips feasted all over me, biting, clawing, as I screamed and screamed.

Finally, I heard someone. It was the brunette who owned the motel. "Hey, what's going on here?"

Just as quickly, Harris Michael pulled himself out, and ran. I was too much in a shock to do anything but just stare at him as he quickly pulled his zipper up and ran.

"HEY! Stop!" The brunette called out. Just then she stopped in front of me, her eyes wide, "Jesus."

I could only stare at her, before bursting into tears.

Later:

An hour later, I was sitting on a hard, uncomfortable chair. A blanket was wrapped around me, and a hot chocolate cocoa in front of me. I answered the police officer, a kind lady in her forties, as much as I could. I reported to her whatever Harris Michael had said to me, before he had preceded to penetrate me.

God, that sounded scientific, penetrate. As if I was never a victim, as if I never felt so used, so dirty and cheap. The act was horrific, a nightmare, something all women fear constantly. I was just unfortunate to have experienced it.

Ryan walked in just then, but I was far too busy studying the random patterns on the tabletop. The brunette, whose name I learned later was Stacy, was guarding me like a bulldog. She didn't allow anyone to enter, and when Ryan gave an anguish cry, she turned to him, ready to attack him if necessary to keep him away.

"Baby," Ryan whispered, walking closer to me. My eyes stayed down, tracing patterns on the tabletop. His green eyes reflected his worry, concern and fury. His Hispanic skin looked paler than usual. Before he could reach me, Stacy launched herself in front of him.

"Watch it, mister! Shoo! Get away, you freaking vultures!"

"I am her fiancé." Ryan said to her, all the while staring at me. Tears finally spilled, and I thought at his statement. He was still here, when I needed him.

Bitch. …sicko…

I began to whimper, and brought my knees to my chest. Hearing his voice in my head renewed my horror. The lady officer gave me a pat on my back, to which I flinched away, yelling, "DON'T TOUCH ME! I feel so dirty!"

"Officer, and Mr. Fiancé. Please, give her some privacy."

Stacy lead me to the shower. Seeing the exact bathroom style from Room 121, I flinched away before returning to my stony state. She handed me a towel, before saying, "If you need anything, just holler."

Quiet. I stepped into the hot shower and glanced at my body. I saw bruises all over.

Suddenly I heard his voice again, I have something for you.

I fell back, scratching myself, my privates, my breast, my neck, wherever he had bitten me. Muttering which eventually lead to, "Get it off! Get it off of me!"

Just as suddenly, I fell against the tub, crying while I scratch my lips, my hands. My arms.

Two weeks later, my life started to become somewhat normal. I kept in touch with Stacy, whose motel was being closed down. Instead, she had opened a new restaurant. It was called Stacy's restaurant.

As for Harris Michael, he was given life imprisonment, no treatments. He was to spend his life in an insane asylum. I had filed my charges against him, with the help of Ryan.

Sweet Ryan. He stood by my side, made me move in with him, when I was too paranoid to go out. His apartment was spacey with not a lot of belonging. When I had moved in, it started becoming homier, especially when I put up my paintings. Ryan had been surprised and we had ordered pizza that day.

Ryan still hadn't touched me intimately, and for that I am forever grateful. He understood that I needed time to recover, and it was a relief to know that he would never take advantage of my vulnerable state.

One morning, he found me slouched over his toilet seat, throwing up my dinner. He sleepily pulled my hair away, and turned away frowning, his unshaven face appearing more puzzled than ever.

"Sorry," I said, and then sat back. "I think I have the stomach flu."

"How long?" He asked, still looking away from me.

"What?"

"How long have you had this stomach flu?" Ryan turned to me, his eyes anguished, still asking me kindly, in that gentle voice.

"A couple of weeks, maybe less. Why?"

He didn't say anything. He only got up and left, slamming shut the door to his room.

Biting my lips apprehensively, I turned to the toilet, flushing it away. As I was brushing my teeth, a sudden thought struck me.

Was I…

No, no way.

Sobbing, I clutched my stomach, rocking back and forth. No, no, it wasn't true.

It was only a scant second later that I rushed to the toilet to throw up again, this time, just water.

That day, it was unusually tense between us. I was in denial, while Ryan was coming to terms with it. He brought home Chinese, teasing me to learn how to cook. I reminded him back that he could do the same, since we were no longer living in the dark ages. Still, the humorous environment was almost sapped. Ryan looked tired as though he had been walked forty days on a dessert without anything and minimal water. I didn't feel any better, and I was beginning to loose weight.

"So," Ryan asked, before taking my hands in his, "What do you think?"

He sounded so serious that I turned to him, putting down my Chinese, and pulled away from him. I shrugged, staring at the TV, "I am not pregnant."

In a terribly, hoarse voice, he asked, "Can I…hold you now?"

Turning to him, I noticed tears in his eyes, realizing how much Harris Michael had affected our life. In that moment, noticing Ryan's pain, his anger, his concern and love, I resolved one issue. I had two choices. One was that I could get out of Ryan's life so that he could eventually get over me and become someone, while I lived as a hermit, growing old until one day I was sitting on my porch with a gun, a million cats, and shooting the local postman. Or I could embrace Ryan's love and let it heal me. I can get on with my life.

I smiled at him, felt it quiver as I reached for him. He held me there, in my safe haven, and I was at awe with the love we shared. We shed a ton of tears, expressing our love for each other. Though he still hadn't touched me intimately, I still felt cherished.

Four months later:

It was foolish of me to ignore my growing belly. I was pregnant, and I had to decide what to do about it. Today was my appointment for an ultrasound, and I had already made up my mind about what to do with the baby.

"So, have you decided?" Ryan asked tentatively yesterday during our picnic. I had just gotten off from my mother, who was pleased that we were finally going to get married in November, next month.

I smiled at him, before saying, "About what?"

"The baby, Lana. You can't just ignore it any longer."

I sighed, and then held out my hand for him to hold. He automatically held it and was uncomfortable with my silence, before saying, "If it's a girl you can name her. If it's a boy, I'm naming him Ryan jr."

"There will be no baby, Ryan," I said, my voice wobbling a bit.

"What?"

"There. Will. Be. No. Baby."

"And again, I ask, what?"

"I'm having an abortion," I challenged him with my stance, folding my arms across my chest forgetting that I was also holding his hands. When his fingers brushed against the side of my breast, I blushed, while he pulled away as if burned.

"An abortion? Lana, that's a life you'll be killing."

"It's not alive," I retorted back, and then said, "I have been reading books on it, and it's completely safe. No harm done."

"Yeah, no harm to the baby," he replied sarcastically. I gaped at him, before turning away, and walking briskly to our picnic area. I thought he would be supportive of me. I thought he would be there for me, but no, he just had to back off when I was making the biggest decision of my life.

"Lana! Stop!" I heard him yell. Wiping my tears, I grabbed a peanut butter sandwich before dashing off.

He caught me by my arms and pulled me to him. He was about to say something else, when he noticed my tears, "You were crying?"

I started to shake my head no, but then changed my mind. What was the point, he was seeing me cry. So I nodded and felt my lips tremble. Biting my lower lip, I looked up at him, thinking I was right. It is my life.

"You don't understand, Ryan. I may be carrying a total crazy here. He could have passed the gene…"

"Will you… Never mind. Look, if…if you really want…want to…loose that baby…I will be right behind you. But please, just go for the ultrasound tomorrow," he placed his finger on my lips when I started to argue, "Just do this for me."

Knowing how hard it was for him to say that, I merely reached out to hug him.

The ultrasound:

My bladder was full, Michael Jackson's song that played over a million times was repeating over and over, and the receptionist could not stop flirting with Ryan, especially when she realized that I was just a girlfriend.

"Ms Lana Garfield?" the technician asked, before smiling at me as I stood. She held up her hand to stop Ryan from coming. "Let me set her up first and then you may come."

Smiling, she helped me sit on the couch, while she turned on the machine.

"How many months are you pregnant, Ms Garfield?"

"Um, I think it's four months now."

"And this is your first ultrasound?"

"Yes."

"Have you any sexual content after your pregnancy?"

"No."

"Any thing else you would want to tell me? Any allergies, illnesses?"

"Nope, none."

"Fantastic," the tech said, before placing a jelly like substance on my stomach, then placed a roddy…thing on top of it. I winced at the sudden coolness, before glancing at the ultrasound pictures she was taking.

Curious, I asked, "Can you tell if it's a girl or boy?"

"It is a little too early. But I can say, my, what a healthy baby."

"Thank you."

She continued pressing buttons before she said, "Would you like your husband to see this as well?"

I nodded absentmindedly. Smiling, I didn't take my gaze of the ultrasound, before thinking…Oh, life. She was beautiful, the way she shifted.

Then I glanced at my jellied tummy, thinking, I have that in here. A precious life. Who knew what she would accomplish? Maybe she would become a teacher, or a pilot, or lawyer like her father, Ryan, or perhaps a doctor, like myself. There was no way this innocent could be the byproduct of Harris Michael.

Why?

This baby, with our love and care, would grow to be a responsible adult, one who sympathized with the needy, and cheered with happiness over occasions. Harris Michael was only her father in the genetically, but Ryan would be her father in every other sense. How would a child grow out to insane when being raised by my gentle Ryan?

Just then Ryan walked in, his expression anxious. I knew why he had done this, made me come here to this ultrasound. To be aware that by abortion, I was killing my precious. For that I could never be angry. So I held his hand, before saying, "Her name is Janet."

After Janet is born, they are married (Seven months later):

Ryan was cooking breakfast that day, his chest bare, only an apron on him, while his hippie style jeans hung loosely on his waist.

"Lana banana," he greeted, before placing a chaste kiss on my cheek. "Wonderful of you to join your husband."

I smiled, before smelling the air. "Yum smells good! What is it?"

"Blueberry pancake, what you love, darling'" He winked at me before resuming his cooking. The radio blared, voicing out local events. Janet slept in her cot, and I walked in to place a kiss on her forehead.

Ignoring my screams as a woman raped, I walked behind him, placing my arms around his waist, my cheek against his back. He stilled, before asking, "Honey, what are you doing?"

"I love you," I said, and then whispered, "I miss you."

"Lana," he started, before closing the burner. His voice had an instant catch, and I knew he had his eyes shut.

"I miss lovin' you," I continued achingly. Ryan turned then, his green eyes wide. His normal Hispanic skin red, but whether it was due to cooking or something else I didn't know. Before he could say anything, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him. His arms automatically came around me, holding me close to him, my t-shirt brushed against his apron. My skirt, legs, was between his jeans.

He was breathing unevenly, and then said, "Lana."

"Please," I pleaded, looking up at him. "Make me forget him. He haunts me, and he's touched me, made me feel dirty and cheap. Help me forget him. Love me, Ryan."

Ryan placed my hands from his chest to around his neck. His forehead touched mine as he gazed into my eyes, seeing my feelings.

"Are you sure, chocolate eyes?" he asked, and I melted due to his endearment. Tugging loose the apron, I let it fall on the ground, and then raised myself to him.

"I'm sure," I answered. I had expected him to pull me close, get it over and done with in just a minute. So I was surprised when he started to nuzzle my neck, right under my ear. I forced myself to arch against him, when what I desired were his kisses, this foreplay. I wanted to get it over and done with.

"Stop pushing yourself, love. Just go with the beat," Ryan murmured before picking me up. I giggled at his sudden act of hero carrying his damsel, and he grinned down at me. Pushing open the door to his room, he placed me gently on the edge of the bed.

"Funny slippers," he said, pulling away my Mickey Mouse flip-flops. I only blushed in response, not knowing what to do.

"Relax," he said, kissed my toes, "You have nice feet."

"Ryan," I exhaled and fell back when his tongue began to suckle on my big toe. In response to my outburst, he began to lick my ankles.

"Relax," he repeated, but this time, I grabbed him, pulling him to me and kissed him with urgency. He kissed me back with the same measure, and then pulled away. "I want you so badly."

"Then take me," I whispered, unzipping his pants as he pulled off my shirt. He shook his head, then said arrogantly, "You're aren't ready for me."

I gasped, "Are you implying…"

He grinned, began to tickle me on my side, which was the most sensitive area. Immediately giggling, folded my arm on my midsection. "I'd like to think that…but we know I'm just your honey sweet Ryan."

This was the man who people cowered away with fear? Well, I'd tell them a different story. Just as my mind began to wander, he kissed me, then said, "Focus on me."

As we began to make slow love, I knew that we would be okay. Life would go on, and although I never went back to my psychiatric practice, I started working as a pediatrician. Because of a baby named Janet.

FIN

AN: Hey all! My first attempt at a "short" story. Honestly, I was hoping for a just two pages, but it kept going on and on and on. Anyway, please no flames (unless you have a good reason, like criticizing.) This story is one of the most closest to me (even more important than any other I have written). Hopefully, as a girl/woman, you can understand what she's going through. And if any of the guys are reading this…my message: just be patient. Oh, and if you're wondering what's happening with BIG MUCH, read my bio. Thanks and review!

April 2005