This was written for a magazine called The First Line, meaning you use their predetermined first line and go from there. But after telling me it was "very good" and "strong," they declined it haha. So, here it is!
Angels Fall
Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. Maybe they call you Hope or Faith, when you learn that Despair or Atheist would better serve you; but they would never call you that. It’s rare that your name ever fits you, just the perception of you—if that. I was cursed enough to be brought into this world as Angelique, “like an Angel,” but they never called me that. I was always Angel. It’s like a pet name your family calls you growing up like “munchkin” or “pumpkin” or “honey”. Only no one ever expects you to actually be a small person, a large orange fruit or a sticky sweet substance; not like they expected me to be a perfect child worthy of ‘angel’ status. But I knew I was destined for something worse; or conditioned, rather, and birth was only the start of it.
My whole life I was given the wrong names, “smarty pants,” “athlete,” “cheerleader,” “valedictorian,” none of them were me. I was stupid, a slow runner, cheered for nothing and definitely not the best at anything. Even today, as I sat in my chair in a dress I had never worn before in a room full of people, I was given the wrong name. They called me the “defendant” but really I was the “prosecutor”—they had it all wrong, but who am I to correct a judge. No one ever listened to me anyway, though I spoke so softly I couldn’t blame them—half the time even I couldn’t hear myself.
“Victim” was a title I was never allowed to bear. Not the day my father broke two of my ribs, not the day a road raged maniac totaled my car, not the day “slut” was plastered across my high school gym locker in bright red spray paint, and definitely not the day Raymond Fuller stole my soul. No. Instead, today Ray Fuller sat up “on the stand” telling the story about how he was the victim, about how I stole his soul; I’d bet there’d be tears.
“She called me and asked me to come over, said she had a surprise for me.”
Eh, it was true so far. I loved surprising him.
“And did you?”
His voice sounded like sandpaper on plastic, enough to make you wish you were deaf.
“Yes.”
“And what happened when you got there?”
“I knocked on the door and she answered, she had a new outfit to show me.”
He held up a bag with a skimpy piece of lingerie enclosed in it—personally, I thought it was a brilliant choice.
“Is this the outfit, Mr. Fuller?”
“Yes”
He handed it to the judge for evidence, though I don’t know what that had to do with it. Maybe his wife would wear it tonight.
“And then what, Mr. Fuller?”
Oh stop calling him “mister” like he’s the king of the world.
“She offered me a beer.”
“A beer? Do you drink, Mr. Fuller?”
“No, I’m only 20.”
Bullshit.
“How did Ms. Courtier seem that night?”
“She was drunk; she reeked and she was stumbling around, touching me the whole time.”
Come on now, at least make this believable.
“And what happened next?”
“She pulled me into her bedroom, said she wanted to ‘sex me.’”
At least he’s using his own line; he put some kind of thought into this.
“And what did you say?”
“I said no. I told her she was too drunk; she didn’t know what she was saying.”
You’re a twenty year old man, like you would ever turn away free sex. Give me a break.
“And then what happened?”
“I tried to leave, but she pulled me back and forced me….forced me onto the bed.”
Wait, did he just choke? Damn he’s good. He should be in Hollywood.
“And then what happened, Mr. Fuller?”
And here come the tears, just like I promised.
“Then she, she….she raped me.”
I started laughing—good thing I was so quiet, no one noticed. How in the world could I have possibly held Mr. Muscleman down? I mean, I know he’s short…but seriously? Oh wait, he was continuing.
“I stayed until she passed out, and then I left.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Not until the next week.”
“Why not?”
“I was scared. I kept blaming myself….I thought if only I had fought harder to get away, or if I hadn’t even gone over that night.”
The prosecutor stopped him; he knew he was pushing this a little too far, but he could afford to.
“Had you and Ms. Courtier had consensual sexual relations before?”
“Yes.”
“But, on this night you didn’t want to, is that correct?”
“Yes. I told her it was a bad idea and I was leaving before she…..raped me.”
“No further questions.”
Thank God. The judge dismissed him to his seat. I watched him walk by with his money, with his looks, with his jock reputation. He made me sick. If he won this I had no chance; at this point I was just trying to save myself.
My lawyer stood, “The defense calls Angelique Courtier to the stand.”
It’s Miss Angelique Courtier. Get it right. I stood and traced the devil’s steps to the stand, where I swore on a Bible as if it mattered, and took my seat. The room looked a lot bigger from here—roomier, though not fuller. Although it was still rather impersonal, there was a slight homey sensation thanks to the wood that overlaid the cement and drywall. It was comforting to know that one day a murderer may feel loved from this seat just moments before he was sentenced to death. Or maybe I would.
“Ms. Courtier,” that’s more like it, “Did you hear Mr. Fuller’s account of the events that happened on March 17th, 2007?”
Now it was my turn, “Yes.”
“Do you agree with his statements?”
“No.”
“Would you like to tell your side of the story?”
There was an objection from the other side: irrelevance to the question, not the answer. Though I’m pretty sure he was really objecting to my life.
Overruled, “Yes.”
“Start from the beginning.”
“I had gotten a new outfit and I called Ray and asked him to come over to show it to him.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“He knocked on my door so many times I almost yelled at him. He stumbled in through my doorway and broke a lamp. He had been drinking; he smelled and he was holding a beer.”
“Were you drinking?”
“No.”
“Did you give him a beer?”
“No. He brought it with him.”
“Okay, continue.”
My stomach was churning, “He was all over me. I pushed him off again and again but he wouldn’t stop—he was too drunk.”
“And then what?”
Now I fought for words; I kept my gaze on my lawyer—if I even saw Ray’s shape in the corner of my eye I was going to hurl, “I told him to stop, I told him to go home or sleep on the couch and we’d talk the next day, but he didn’t want to. He shoved me up against the wall and broke his beer bottle over my head.”
I stopped, waiting for a little reassurance from my lawyer but it never came. I glanced to the jury, but there were no signs on their faces to help me either. Back to the question, “He laughed in my face, he told me he would have me whether I liked it or not. He held my wrists and forced me into my bedroom, held me down on the bed by my wrists with one hand and raped me.” They waited for my emotional breakdown and a show of waterworks, but I wasn’t Ray. I had cried enough tears; I had none left and certainly none to waste on him.
“So, you did not want to have sex with Mr. Fuller on that night?”
“No.”
“Then, why did you wear such a revealing and inviting piece of clothing?”
“Well, I did want to…have sex with him, but when he came over and he was drunk I changed my mind.”
It was this point that I turned to Ray, I glared him down but it did nothing, “I said no.” And the rich jock smiled, he knew he had gotten off.
I was cross-examined by the prosecutor. He was good, but by then I had no stamina left to fight. I was sure I was going to vomit on his damned paperwork—I should have. I knew he would do exactly like he did: used my outfit, my past sex life and partners, my past with Ray…I would have done the same thing. After all, he was the best lawyer money could buy.
One question I wasn’t expecting, however, knotted my tongue around my tonsils, “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
I needed to say something, but my stupid tongue dug deeper in my throat: I coughed forcefully and out it came, “Because I loved him.”
The prosecutor snickered and leaned on his desk. If I were labeled “lucky” a desk leg would have broken and we would have watched him tumble, “You say he raped you, yet you love him?”
I nodded, “We were together for two years; you tend to be fond of a person after that.” The courtroom was silent. That was his last question. I was dismissed to vomit elsewhere. I don’t know what happened during the closing statements; “Angel” was there, “victim” was not.
It was only a day before we were back in court, awaiting my fate, waiting to be named “guilty”. The speaking juror stood, as did we. I wondered if my dress was tucked into my underwear.
“On the count of rape, we find the defendant,” tumbleweed, “not guilty.”
Maybe I should tuck it in on purpose. My lawyer hugged me and we promptly left the courtroom. We didn’t speak until we reached the street; I unlocked my car.
“It’s not over, you know. We can press charges against him now.”
My lawyer was a woman—all court appointed ones were—but at least she believed me. But I wasn’t up for another fight. They would never convict him anyway—and even if they did, his money would win him a get out of jail free card.
“I know. But, it’s just not worth it. He’ll always have more credit than I will, it’s just the way things work in this town.” I dropped my purse in the car.
She held onto the edge of my door, “What will you do now?”
I smiled and patted my stomach, “I think we’re going out west.” She already knew what I never told her. We embraced one last time, but no words were spoken. I slide into the car and turned the key in the engine. The engine roared and I smiled, rubbing my small belly. I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that in slaughtering a soul he created life—or that in doing so he saved mine.
I think I’ll call her Justice.
It would make more sense the other way round, and in general the police, prosecutors, jury etc, much more likely to believe a woman in any case, and 
. You are an amazing writer. keep it up
