• Chapter One: Adrenaline Rush


    My mother gave me only two things before she died: my life and my name. My name is Mary Garrison. I think she named me Mary because she wanted me to be the very image of the Virgin herself, who gave birth to baby Jesus in a Manger.
    Some image I turned out to be. I'm not even Christian.
    You see this bar? This dingy looking, ugly eyesore in downtown Tacoma? The one with the green neon lights that read, "The Scorpion's Tail"? Take a look at the people passing by it on the sidewalk. I'd like to tell you that I'm this woman right here; Daddy's little princess who gets whatever she wants. I can't believe she has the stones to walk around on this side of the tracks with those diamond earrings and that Prada purse out in plain sight, yapping away on that very expensive looking cell phone. That's a mugging just waiting to happen.
    I'd also like to tell you that I'm that lady; the one with her nose in a book and a fairly nice hat on her head. She's got it all: brains and beauty. Probably has a nice home to go to at night, too, complete with walk-in closet, state-of-the-art appliances, and smoking-hot boyfriend that all your girlfriends just drool over.
    Hell, I'd even be proud to say that I'm that chick, with the pencil behind her ear, the coke-can glasses, the full headgear braces, and the bad case of acne that never seems to go away. At least she's got a head full of brains. Even if she doesn't have a boyfriend, she'll wind up at Yale, mark my words. That is, if she doesn't get depressed and suicidal because she's ugly and fat first.
    If you guessed that I'm any of these girls, you're probably stupid and not worth my time. No, I've been there the whole time; you just haven't been looking low enough.
    See the girl in the gutter? Black clothes, black hair, grey eyes like stone, breath that could knock an elephant flat, and so drunk she can't stand up? That would be me. Mary Garrison, at her finest. No, not really. You probably aren't worth my time.
    See, I like beer, because I like to see who'll be the first to jump on the "vulnerable" little drunk girl who can't defend herself. It doesn't usually take long, but it's the looks I get while I’m down here that I hate. I don't mind the looks of contempt and hate. The looks from people who're thinking "get a job, you drunk" don't bother me at all.
    It's the looks of pity that I can't stand.
    The people who look down at me and feel sorry for me. They don’t even know me well enough to pity me. I don’t want pity. If they’ve got time to pity me, they’ve got time to do something to change why I am where I am that they’re feeling sorry for me.
    But despite how long it seems, it isn’t long before some guy walks over and offers me a “ride home”. He looks about 30-ish, with a bald spot on his head. He isn’t fat, but he isn’t heavily muscled either. The phrase “room for improvement” springs to mind. I politely decline his offer with a smile, telling him I’m fine on my own.
    There’s an all-too-familiar glint in his eye that tells me he won’t take no for an answer. He walks over and grabs my arm, dragging me toward a dark alleyway, undoubtedly to have his way with me.
    It’s exactly what I was waiting for.
    I close my eyes for a moment and concentrate. See, I don’t need to be afraid to get my adrenaline pumping. I don’t need to go cliff diving, and I certainly don’t need a rollercoaster ride. All I need to do is concentrate, and will my body to produce the chemical. I take my time to do it, though. The longer I wait the more certain he becomes that I’ve passed out, or that I’m not going to put up much of a fight. Good. He can think that, because it means I’ll catch him off guard.
    And that’s exactly what happens.
    In one swift motion, I pull away, somersault forward, and whirl around on the balls of my feet in a fighter’s pose. He blinks for a moment, not believing what he’s just seen. Just a second ago I was drunk and helpless, and now I’m ready to fight for my life. For some reason, he seems to think this is funny, because he starts to laugh. I want to lunge forward and shut him up now, but I hold off, obeying the warrior’s golden rule: never make the first move.
    After a moment, he stops laughing, but keeps the sick, twisted grin on his face as he saunters forward to subdue me so he can have his dirty pleasure. Of course, he doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s not going to have that pleasure tonight. He aims a fast, strong right hook at my head, and I easily dodge it, ducking, and whirling around, bringing my leg up beneath him and landing a clean, hard shot to the gut with my boot. I hear the wind rushing from his lungs as the would-be rapist lands on the ground, forearms and shins first, clenching his stomach with both arms.
    I can tell you right now, he’s gonna feel that in the morning.
    I stand there for a moment, looking down on him, and waiting. It takes him a moment or two, but he staggers back to his feet, with an expression of rage plastered across his ugly mug. It looks like he’s not going to give up.
    Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough. No, quite obviously I didn’t. It looks like I’m going to have to fight dirty. Perhaps then he’ll get the point.
    He lunges at me with a guttural roar, like that of an animal. I fall to my knees and thrust my arm upward, grabbing his package. He howls as, in one swift motion, I turn one-hundred-eighty degrees and flip our positions, putting me on top with a firm hold on his junk. His eyes are bulging out of their sockets, and he is looking at me, pleading me to have mercy and release him.
    I lean in close to him, with an intense glare.
    “Listen to me, and listen carefully, dirtbag.” I begin in a low, serious tone. “You will forget what happened here, you will not go to the authorities, and you will forget my face.” I squeeze harder, I lean in even closer, to where our noses are touching (he must’ve caught a whiff of my breath, because his nose crinkles, but my hygiene habits are the least of his concerns at the moment), I intensify my glare, and I lower my voice even further. “And if I hear so much of a whisper of you trying anything like this again, you won’t live long enough to regret it. That’s a promise. Are we clear, pusbag?” He nods fervently, not being able to speak from the pain I’m causing him (not that he doesn’t deserve it), and I release him.
    He scrambles to his feet, clutching himself as he staggers out of the alleyway. He turns to watch as I stagger over to a nearby dumpster and lean against it, sitting on the ground. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the effects of the alcohol are returning, only stronger now. I’m probably going to remain conscious for another minute, at the most.
    “W-who are you?” he - “Pusbag”, that is - manages to ask, nervously.
    I look over at him with a sadistic grin on my face. “I’m the devil’s virgin.” I say with as much force as I can muster (I can already feel my strength fading). He gives me a look, one that attests to how insane he thinks I really am, and he runs away as fast as his wounded manhood will allow. It flashes through my mind that he might come back after I loose consciousness and try, again, to rape me, but he looked much too scared to even consider it. I think he finally got my point.
    I chuckle for a moment, and then sigh as I look up to the night sky, aglow with the light of a crescent moon, the moon that is so much like the birthmark on my right ankle. I glance down at it for a moment, asking myself, as I have many times before, if my “abilities” are a gift or a curse. I look back up as the darkness in the corners of my eyes begins to close in and the moon in the sky is the last thing I see before falling unconscious.