When scalding hot coffee overflowed the mug, Lisa was yanked back instantly from ugly thoughts. She grabbed the mug with her left hand, shaking her right in a futile effort to cool it.

Les continued, saying, “But we can’t print that. Or anything about the way in which she was murdered.”

Sucking on a scalded knuckle, Lisa turned back the way she had come. As she moved toward her desk, the tremble in her hand brought unnoted spills from the too-full mug. She over-corrected on a wrong turn, and spilled more.

How in God’s name could this upset me so, she wondered. Tammy MacAlister had been raped and murdered five days ago, and it was still headline news. All media outlets were pumping it. And there was extensive national attention as well. Morbid attention, some perhaps mixed with dark, twisted, unacknowledged sexual fears or even fantasies.

As she slipped into her chair, she set the mug down, then gazed at the monitor without seeing it. She knew why they couldn’t print the details. The police did not want to publicize the MO. And she knew exactly how the woman had died. She shuddered at thoughts of that.

Brutal images had been assaulting her since she first heard the reports. She continued to seek to slow their quantity and intensity. The impact of what Les had said, words she’d heard before and often repeated in her mind, assured her these attacks would persist for some time.

Abruptly she pounced on the keyboard, ignoring the coffee growing cold. Long slender fingers struggled to keep up with dashing thoughts.

If you have been raped, you have two choices. You must immediately begin a lifelong struggle to restore mental health and continue embracing the best life has to offer. Or break your nails digging a deep hole in the dreary recesses of your mind, crawl into it, pull your murky despairs and dreads over top of yourself, and turn off the world. The latter is an unacceptable choice.