Corrupted

By Brooke MacDonald

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of sexual harassment, rape, and suicide

Dirty rainwater splashed up onto the sides of my dark brown loafers before cascading back down to the cobblestone streets on which it had accumulated. My dusty grey suit remained dry, sheltered under the black umbrella I held steadily above my head. In my free hand, I carried a leather briefcase, filled to the brim with papers and legal documents.

I paused for a moment before ascending the concrete stairs that led to my modest townhome, taking shelter underneath the awning. I shook out the umbrella before leaning it against the wall next to the door and reached into my coat pocket, shuffling my fingers amongst butterscotch wrappers and crumpled dollar bills to find my house key.

“I like your briefcase; it looks mighty fancy!” I looked to my right and met the gaze of an unfamiliar face. Her eyes were locked on mine, the bright blue counteracting the gloominess that seemed to make itself a permanent fixture these days. She held a baby blue parasol in her left hand, which was covered with a lace glove. She swiped dust off of her dress with her other hand, never breaking eye contact as she threw her long black hair over her shoulder.

I stood there trying to think of a response, but just as I was about to open my mouth to speak, she began talking again.

“Sorry, I should introduce myself. Hi, my name is Tulane Acker. I’m new around here. I actually just arrived by ferry today.

I guess we are neighbors!” I failed to notice the locked chest that was sitting by her ankles, a polka dot scarf tied to its handle. This must have been her last trip of moving her things in.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Thomas Davenport.” I had so many questions for her, but I couldn’t get anything out besides my name. She kept staring at me as a warm smile crept across her face.

“Well, nice to meet you, Thomas.” She set her parasol atop the chest and leaned against the wooden door. “So where do you work? Anyone with a briefcase that nice must be important.” I chuckled. I was stunned at her confidence. She ran her fingers through her hair again, nearly putting me into a trance as I watched it slide down her chest.

“I’m on the government panel.” I waited for her smile to fade. Government officials weren’t seen in a very good light around here, but to be fair, I don’t think anyone saw each other in a good light anymore. But it didn’t. She adjusted her stance, crossing one of her legs over the other, and if anything, her smile grew even bigger.

“That sounds pretty important to me! You must have quite the responsibility then, being a part of something bigger.” I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.

“So,” I tried to change the subject, “what brings you to Lochton?” I was genuinely interested in her response. She was unique from the rest of the people who resided here: curious, radiant, kind. I couldn’t think of one reason why anyone would come here voluntarily. Most of the people who lived here couldn’t earn enough to find themselves a home elsewhere.

“Coming here was never a part of my grand plan,” she hummed. She shuffled her feet, her white heels clacking against the pavement. “I originally come from a small farming town a little bit east of here called Saint Wanbrad. I worked with my father on our farm, but he just recently passed away and didn’t have enough money to help me keep it afloat, so I sold it and came here. My first day at the Cladwelle Accounting Firm is tomorrow. It’s not ideal, but it will keep food on the table.” She darted her eyes back and forth between mine and the ground beneath her feet, but her smile never faded. I all but forgot about the rain that continued to pour down next to us. I cracked my knuckles, trying to calculate an appropriate response.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. I was ashamed that was all I could think of. My mind fluttered with a million things I wanted to say to her. I think she could tell because she started running her fingers through her hair again.

“Well, I better get going. These chests aren’t going to unpack themselves. It was nice meeting you. Thomas. I look forward to making your acquaintance.” She flashed me one last smile before pulling her key out of her woven handbag and quickly entering her home, lifting the chest inside and escaping the rain. I stood there for a few moments longer, taking in the whole conversation, letting images of her replay in my head, before turning the key and going home.

***

It only took me seventeen minutes instead of the normal twenty-five it usually takes me to walk home from work. I couldn’t tell if the giddy pep in my step was due to the forecasted rain that was supposed to show up any minute, the promise of leftover spaghetti from last night, or the chance to catch Tulane as she was coming home from work.

I turned the corner onto my street, and my legs immediately picked up their pace on account of seeing her walking up her porch steps. Her long pink dress swayed with each step; her parasol sat sported over her shoulder. I think she heard my erratic footsteps because she paused before opening the door and turned around to look at me.

I got closer, and her smile grew brighter, causing her eyes to squint—a true Duchenne smile. My pulse jumped a few notches as I reciprocated the smile with a grin and a wave and found myself initiating the conversation this time. “So how was your first day at work? Was it everything you could have ever hoped for?”

Her smile faded only a little. “Actually, there seemed to be a mix up with my job title. I was hired under the impression that I would be one of their accountants, but as soon as my boss saw me, he sat me at the secretary’s desk. Bastard didn’t even give me a chance to plead my case.”

I knew exactly who she was talking about. Edward Cladwelle will take one look at a well-dressed woman and throw her resume out the window. “I don’t know how much of that was a genuine mix-up rather than your boss being intimidated by you. We don’t get many female accountants around here.”

“Well, I can see why. That fool is driving them all out of town!” She set down her light leather briefcase and adjusted her capped sleeve. A look of annoyance painted itself across her face; I didn’t blame her.

made its appearance. “Of course I would! Meet me on my porch at eight?”

I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck. “So,” I felt beads of sweat trail down the side of my cheek, “are you doing anything tonight? I would love to catch dinner with you.” I had no idea what came over me in that moment to ask Tulane such a question. I just met her yesterday, for god sakes. I’m standing here looking like a starstruck idiot waiting for her to respond, to give me any sort of gesture to show she might be the slightest bit interested in me. Her look of annoyance faded, and another Duchenne smile

Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. “Sounds like a date.” Her eyes had never glimmered in this way before: bigger and brighter than I’d ever seen them. I looked one last glance in her direction as she walked into her house and closed the door gracefully behind her before doing the same.

I shut the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, analyzing everything that just happened outside. For the first time in a long time, I had something to look forward to.

Dinner came and went in the blink of an eye. Conversing with her was like a breath of fresh air. She recalled her days living on her and her father’s farm: early mornings tending to the mother hens, lounging on the pasture, reading books, and petting the barn cats Mosby and Tigger. I found myself smiling more than I had smiled in a long time.

She was absolutely breathtaking. Her laugh, her smile, her radiance was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I dreaded dropping her off at her porch at the end of the night, but now I sat in front of the fireplace contemplating everything I had ever known and seen, every decision I had ever made that led me to this point. Everything I had ever done seemed meaningless in comparison to what I would do because of her. —

As I approached my street, Tulane was already sitting on my porch with some sort of document laid in her clasped hands. An eager expression surfaced on her face when she saw me, and she stood up, fixing her dress as she took strides toward me. I found myself forming a grin and picking up my pace.

“Thomas!” A voice as smooth as syrup. “I need you to look over something for me!” We finally caught up to each other, her hand already outstretched with the papers.

“What is it?” I took the papers out of her hand. The stack was at least thirty pages deep. “Take a look for yourself.” The header read:

‘PROPOSAL FOR THE EVALUATION OF EDWARD CLADWELLE ON SUSPICION OF SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION.’

My heart sank for her. I forget what it must be like to be an outsider here. I gripped the packet more tightly. I wanted to read more, but it was moot.

As I handed it back to her, she could see the defeated look that fell upon my face when I read the header, and she followed suit. “What’s wrong? Why are you giving this back to me?”

“I’m sorry,” I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck, ashamed, “There are rules put in place that every proposal has to follow. Yours wouldn’t even be considered.” She put her hand on her hip, and her familiar smile was nowhere to be found.

“What rule could there possibly be that would prohibit me from filing a sexual discrimination claim?”

“I could give you a printout if you’d like. I have a few copies in my office.” I gestured for her to come with me as I started up the stairs and unlocked the door.

I looked behind me as she climbed the stairs, her eyes aimed towards the ground. She looked deep in thought, focusing on something she didn’t feel like sharing with me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in this type of mood before. It made me contemplate whether or not I had done something wrong, as whenever she was with me in the past, she was always happy.

I led her to my office and motioned for her to take a seat in my favorite leather chair right next to the fireplace. She folded her skirt under her legs and sat down, perusing the stack of books I kept on the table next to her.

Walking around my desk, I pulled out the top drawer. Tulane was still looking at the manuscripts, skipping over some and skimming through the others. She seemed eager to learn more about one specifically:

THE FOUNDATION OF LOCHTON: A MEMOIR

“Who wrote this?” She turned the book on its back side. The print was too faded to make out the name of the author on the bottom of the cover.

“Leland Hambletone.” I shuffled the papers in my desk drawer, trying to find what she was looking for. “He founded Lochton.” I found the document and handed it to her across the desk.

She took it in her hands and scanned the rules, focusing on each bullet point. Her brow furrowed as she read further on the list. “What is this?” It sounded like she was about to laugh. “This has to be fake; there is no way that this is real.”

I looked at her as she scanned the sheet for a second time, leaning my arm on the desk. She read it with such anger. I had no idea what thoughts were running through her head, and I was nervous that she would be angry with me.

I felt like I betrayed her. I told her that I was on the government panel the day I met her. I let her tell me how important I was without correcting her. In a way, I understood her anger. I guess I was just used to it, desensitized.

I waited for her to say something, anything. To tell me she wasn’t mad at me, just at the system, but I know how hard it is to separate the two.

“How long has it been like this?” She asked that question as though she was afraid of the answer. She stopped looking at the paper and was instead looking at me. The anger that was in her eyes was gone, and now they just looked heavy.

I picked up the book that she was asking me about earlier and handed it to her. She took it and looked up at me, confused. “Since the beginning. Take it.”

She looked back down at the book, running her fingers over the gold engraved title. She nodded and grabbed her handbag before heading toward my front door.

“Tulane.” I took strides towards her but still kept my distance. She turned around slowly, apprehensively, and met my gaze. “I’m sorry.”

She gave me a soft smile before redirecting her gaze towards the ground and leaving, closing the door softly behind her. I rubbed my temples, desperately trying to think of some way to fix this, whatever “this” was.

I went around the desk and sat in my chair. She had left her proposal on the side table beside the chair she was sitting in. I stared at it from across the room and contemplated my options, trying to think of any legal loophole I could try to get her proposal to pass.

There was nothing I could do.

Cherish. That word played in my head like a broken record. A word I took for granted since Tulane moved in next door. A word that was placed into my lap and then viciously ripped away without remorse.

But it was my fault. I deceived her by sugarcoating my position. I was engulfed in the flames of her radiance, how she was untouched by the plagues of this place that seemed to consume everyone else. I had possessed temporary bliss.

I was zoned out, sitting in the thick leather chair with a stack of documents to my left that needed review. On the right was the completed stack, a mere inch high. I looked around the room, seeing if any of my other coworkers were acting like myself. They were all hard at work, as usual. Somehow, they found the motivation to get through their workload, and the fact that I hadn’t made me feel like a failure.

I picked up the next document at the top of the stack. It looked vaguely familiar. I refocused my eyes and read the title:

‘PROPOSAL FOR THE EVALUATION OF EDWARD CLADWELLE ON SUSPICION OF SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION.’

Tulane. I rubbed my forehead. I told her there was nothing I could do; I told her I was sorry. The fact that her proposal is even sitting on my desk means she paid the $1,500 fee for it to be reviewed. I ignored the papers on my left to be piled up and began to read her proposal for another time, a number too high for me to even count.

I skimmed through the proposal once more:

“[...] hired onto the position of accountant, but when I arrived, I was given a desk in the lobby by Cladwelle and told I would be their new secretary[...]”

“[...] countless instances of Cladwelle walking behind me and touching me inappropriately[...]” “[...] Cladwelle uses derogatory language addressing me and generally referring to women[...]”

“[...] inclusion of testimonies from other women under Cladwelle’s supervision addressed on page thirteen[...]”

I knew it broke the rules. It broke a very specific rule, Number Five: “No extraneous claims of misconduct against high ranking officials and known members of society will be tolerated— they have their position for a reason.”

Despite this, I found myself getting out of my seat and walking to the Head Official’s office. I was hoping, no, praying for him to say there was something we could do.

Spoiler alert: there wasn’t.

***

Lately, my routine after work had been picking up Tulane’s favorite coffee and a scone and writing her a note, telling her how sorry I was that I couldn’t do anything to help her. I hadn’t seen her since she asked for my help with the proposal, so I’d been leaving it on her doorstep. I rounded the corner onto our street. Tulane was sitting on her porch steps, reading the book I gave her. My breath got caught in my lungs, inhaling a swift wisp of air. She looked up from her book at me. I didn’t know how to act at that moment. I didn’t know what kind of terms we were on. I started walking again, cautious not to scare her away.

I got to the edge of her steps. Both of us stared into each other, neither of us uttering a word. I lent my outstretched hand to her, offering her the coffee. She took it and gave me a light smile; I could tell she was trying to say thank you.

I gave her a light nod. I waited for her to break the silence; it wasn’t my place to decide when she was ready to talk to me again. She fumbled with the book in her hands, no longer looking at me but down at the ground beneath her peach-colored heels. Her long hair fell in front of her face, blocking my view of the blue eyes that used to counteract the gloominess that surrounded me.

She looked back up at me and adjusted her dress as she stood up. She turned to her door and slipped inside. She turned around, poking her head out to look at me once more. “Have a nice day, Thomas.” The door closed.

I stopped bringing her coffee a week after our encounter on the porch steps when I hadn’t seen her again. Her only sign of life was when I came home from work to see the book I lent her sitting on my porch. I picked it up; it smelled like her perfume, a sweet aroma of lilac. I glanced over at her door. All I wanted to do was talk to her, but my feet were glued to the pavement. I didn’t possess the courage to attempt to see her again, and I wish I could apologize to her for that. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, escaping the downpour.

I closed my umbrella and set it by the front door before proceeding to my office. I lit a match and threw it into the fireplace, sending roaring smoke and flames up into the chimney. I collapsed into the leather chair and replaced the book back onto the side table where Tulane originally took interest in it. I ran my fingers through my hair and shut my eyes, shutting out the darkness of the world and opting for my own.

I started to doze off in the chair, but I got woken up by a knock on my door. I stood up and walked slowly towards it. I didn’t get very many visitors. I looked out the peephole; an unfamiliar woman stood outside, keeping herself dry under the awning as she waited for me. I unlocked the door and swung it open. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m so sorry to be bothering you, especially in this weather we’re having. I was just wondering if you knew how your nextdoor neighbor was doing?” A worried brow made itself prominent on her face.

“Tulane?” She nodded. “How do you know her?”

“I work with her at Cladwelle Accounting Firm. Have you seen her? She’s been worrying me lately. I just wanted to make sure she was doing alright.” She shifted her weight on her feet. She held a light briefcase and a loose scarf hung around her neck.

I recalled the book that was delicately placed on my doorstep earlier. I honestly didn’t know if she was okay, but I knew I couldn’t do anything to help this woman. I didn’t have Tulane’s house key, and I was sure I was the last person she would want to see knocking on her door right now.

“She’s been worrying me too, but I think she is okay. She came over earlier and left a book she borrowed on my porch. She is probably just busy reading a new one.” As much as I was trying to convince this woman that she was okay, I was more trying to convince myself of that fact. I could tell that my reassurance did nothing as her worried look remained.

“Oh, well, okay. Thank you, sir.” She cautiously gave me a smile and turned around to leave. I shut the door and went back to my office to return to my nap. Should I be worried about Tulane? I know how upset she was over the inability to do anything about her boss, but everyone in this town has been upset at one of the rules at some time or another.

I shut my eyes to try and drift back to sleep, but my heart was pounding. I tried to ignore it, but the volume just got louder and louder, the thoughts in my head getting darker, and my worry for Tulane growing by the second. What if her coworker wasn’t being paranoid? What if she had a valid reason for being worried about her, and now I’m just blowing it off? How could I ever forgive myself for ignoring someone’s valid worry about a girl I claimed to care immensely about?

I leaped out of my chair, my heart still burning, my feet pounding with each step I took toward my front door. I sprinted out into the rain, running up Tulane’s steps and banging on her door. “Tulane? Tulane, please answer the door. I’m so sorry for everything; I just need to make sure you’re okay.” I was screaming, trying to be heard over the rain pounding on the ground beneath me.

I got no answer. I didn’t know what to do, but I was beginning to panic. “Tulane, I’m coming in. If you’re by the door, please stand back.” I started to ram my shoulder into the door, but it wasn’t budging. I tried over and over before gripping the handrails and catapulting my foot through the edge of the door. It nearly broke off its hinges, the wood splintering around my foot. I regained my balance and slid the door open.

It was quiet. The soft sound of classical music played somewhere distant. I crept inside and looked around. The curtains were shut, and the rooms were dark. “Tulane?” My voice was just a whisper now as I made my way down the front hallway, sliding each door open looking for her. “Tulane, it’s Thomas. Are you in here?”

I rounded the corner and saw the last room on the left, a glimmer of light shining through the crack under the door. I crept even slower, the sounds of the classical music growing louder with each step. I looked up at the walls. The bright wallpaper was covered in lilacs, and framed artwork hung from floor to ceiling, depicting some I recognized, some not. Pressed flowers sat in a glass case on the long table to my right, along with trinkets and watches. The classical music was coming from a record player that sat on a table at the end of the hallway underneath a window that was covered by light blue curtains.

I turned toward the door that was glowing with light and paused. “Tulane?” I was still whispering. The house was too quiet.

I cautiously placed my fingertips on the door. It was slightly ajar, and I began to push it further, my eyes glued shut until I could feel I had opened the door all the way.

I opened my eyes and looked straight forward, forcing myself to have tunnel vision. The first thing I saw was my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I stared into the mirror, watching my chest rise and fall with each pained breath. The light was coming from candles, one sitting on the counter beneath the mirror and the others coming from somewhere to the right of where I was looking.

I forced myself to turn to the right.

“Tulane...” My legs collapsed beneath me, sending me to the floor in one swift motion. Shooting pain propelled up into my knees. I was looking at the ground now; my hands were wet. The floor was wet. The candles were still burning on either side of me.

I didn’t want to look back up at that bathtub. I sat there on all fours, frozen, listening to the music and the water still running two feet in front of me. Thoughts I couldn’t make sense of were running through my mind, making me dizzy.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that position before I felt myself pushing up off of the ground and steadying myself.

I looked at Tulane. I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. My lips were quivering. I saw myself reaching for the faucet handle and turning off the water that had already flooded the bathroom floor.

A vase of lilacs sat on the wicker table next to the bathtub and, leaning against it, an unopened envelope. I reached for it apprehensively, my hand shaking.

I couldn’t open it here. I couldn’t stay here. The girl I met just a couple of weeks ago was gone. Her radiance, her glimmer, everything I loved about her from the moment I met her wasn’t here.

She still looked beautiful. She looked peaceful. I found myself reaching my hand out and stroking her hair, before planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, Tulane.” I walked to the door, taking one last look at the girl I let down before leaving to find her telephone.

***

Dear Thomas,

I’m deeply sorry for putting you through this kind of pain. I know it will be you that will find me. You are the only one who truly took the time to get to know me since I moved here, and for that I thank you profoundly. I never thought I would be the person to do this kind of thing. I always thought of myself as being a happy person. I can count on one hand the amount of times I ever felt sad or alone. Something changed, though, since I lost my father, since I moved here. A piece of myself got taken, and despite my sincere efforts, I haven’t been able to get it back. I thought moving here would give me a fresh start, give me a new perspective, and then on the first day I get here, I meet you. The way you looked at me made me feel special again, like I was the only girl you had ever seen. You were reserved, like you were keeping a deep dark secret somewhere where no one could ever find it. I liked you. I liked the way I felt around you. I was determined to get you to open up to me, and I’m deeply sorry that I won’t be there for the day you decide to.

When I came to you that day to get your advice about my proposal, I never expected the answer you gave me. I blamed you for the longest time, telling myself how selfish you were over and over for not helping me. What I didn’t realize was that you couldn’t help me, even though you tried. The night I finally realized was the night it happened. I am incredibly ashamed of myself for writing this, for making you read this, because I know once you’ve gotten to the end you will be angry at yourself for not being able to help me. I beg of you, Thomas, please do not blame yourself. I recognize now that you are just a cog in a broken machine, and I never should have treated you the way that I did. The night I realized how much you cared for me, after bringing me my favorite coffee every day, trying your hardest to help me. I was planning on coming over after work to apologize to you. I had to work late that night; being a secretary came with its own set of tedious duties. It was just Cladwelle and myself still at the office. He offered me a ride home on our way out. I politely declined and said I enjoyed walking down the street under the moonlight when everything was quiet. He insisted, and I became less polite. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He grabbed my arm, forcing me into his car. I thought it couldn’t be bad if he was just driving me home. I changed my mind when he made a few wrong turns and didn’t acknowledge me when I confronted him. He took me to an abandoned lot about thirty minutes from the firm. I had thirty minutes from the time we left the office to the time we got to his destination to get out. I could have opened the door and jumped out, or grabbed the wheel, or something. But I didn’t. I sat there, scared into silence, forcing myself to zone out as I stared out the window. When we got there, he stopped the car. It was facing the river. The water looked so dark, the moon’s reflection fragmented by the ridged waves that ran back and forth. Even though I was afraid, I remember thinking how beautiful it was. He got out of the car and came around to the passenger side. He grabbed my arm, forced me out, and then into the back seat before getting on top of me. Thomas, I pray you know what I’m getting at here, but in case you can do anything legally with this, even if there is just a chance, I will put it plainly: I was raped by Edward Cladwelle. The weeks after that I spent locked in my house. You never ran into me on your way home because I never left. I still received paychecks. I guess that son of a bitch felt guilty. The day you ran into me reading on my porch was the first time I had gone outside since that night. I convinced myself that I needed air, and I was hoping that you would come home and see me. When you came up to me, I could tell that there were so many things you wanted to say to me. I felt the same way. So many thoughts were running through my head, but I couldn’t get myself to speak. I was trying so hard to tell you what happened. I knew you could see something was wrong by the way you looked at me. I was scared of hurting you, of handing you another issue that you couldn’t do anything about. I made sure to memorize the way you looked at me, so no matter what happened, I could never forget. I left you there and went back inside. I finished the book you let me borrow today. As soon as I finished the last sentence, I decided I was going to do it. I made sure to put it on your porch. It seemed like a prized possession of yours, something from a collection. I didn’t want you to have to look for it somewhere in my house. I wanted to thank you in person, Thomas, for always being honest with me even when I didn’t like the truth, for making me feel wanted, and for giving me a reason to smile, but I just couldn’t. Whatever you go on to do with your life, Thomas, just promise me that you will follow what you think is right. That is all I could ever want for you, because I know that you are too good for this place, too good for the rules they make you follow, too good to let what happened to me happen to someone else. My last wish goes to you, Thomas. I know you are capable of great things, and I apologize that I won’t be here to see you achieve them.

With all my love,

Tulane.