Chloe

Copyright © 2013 by Cleveland O.
McLeish

All rights reserved. No portion of
this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning
or other—except for a brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without
the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

Other books by this author can be
purchased at Amazon.com or through his website at www.christianplaywright.org.
For further information, please e-mail [email protected].

This novel is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination
or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to
people living or dead is purely coincidental or maybe prophetic.

McLeish, Cleveland O.

Hard Cover ISBN-13: 978-1484170489

ISBN-10: 1484170482

To Nordia, my true love, and my very
best friend through it all.

It’s never easy finding people who are willing to dedicate
their resources and time in helping to get a project of this magnitude
completed. I am eternally grateful to everyone who contributed directly or
indirectly to the success of this project.

My wife, Nordia McLeish, who believes and knows that this
story is really close to my heart. She continually demonstrates her love
through well needed prayer, smiles and support.

My newly found friend, Heather Lynne Merten, who is a very
skilled novelist who took time out (several months) to help me convert my
Screenplay into its proper novel format. Her valuable contribution will never
be forgotten and I speak favor on her own projects and believe God will increase
her borders.

My family, who supports everything I do. Namely my mother,
Pearline, and little sister, Stacy, brother in law, Marky, just to name a few.

My Father, God, who inspires me to write through the Holy
Spirit. He never left me for a second on this journey and I must say, I have
never spent so much time on one project before.

My Brother, Jesus Christ, who sits with me for hours; Walks
with me; talks with me and talks through me. This is as much His story as it is
mine.

Thanks to all of you.

Cleveland O. McLeish

April 2013

It is half past eight when Cleopatra finally leaves Janine’s
house. She strolls down the sidewalk with half a mind to throw her books into
the nearest dumpster. Midterms are fast approaching and college is not easy.
Everything rides on tests and attendance. In high school, homework could keep
anyone afloat, even after bombing an exam. Here, that is not the case. They
studied all afternoon. If she ever sees another Calc problem, it will be too
soon.

She is so preoccupied with stress and mental fatigue that
she does not notice a man emerge from his car, parked on the wrong side of the
road.

Cleopatra is eighteen at this time. She stands at average
height with dazzling blue eyes and rich chocolate brown hair, easily tousled
and parted to the side. Several freckles dot the bridge of her nose and the
crown of her shoulders. While she is fit, she is no force to be reckoned with.

Her feet move about as sluggishly as her mind does. She
puffs a loose strand of hair from her eyes. She hardly reacts when her cell
phone slips out of her pocket. Luckily, it lands in a rectangular patch of bark
framing someone’s yard. Wishing she had more free hands, Cleopatra adjusts her
books to her hip and stoops down to pick it up. Seeing movement from the corner
of her eyes, she turns her head. The figure of a man looms on the sidewalk in
front of the house she just passed. He is wearing a sweatshirt, the hood of
which is drawn up over his head. He lingers there, his feet rooted to the
cement.

Cleopatra’s heart rate kicks up. Trying to tell herself he
is only out for a late night jog, she stands and continues on her way. Joggers
wear sweatshirts, she knows, even on warm nights like this. Sweating helps them
lose water weight. Patrick used to run track. He did it all the time.

You’re just imagining things,
she tells herself.

She becomes keenly aware of the heavy thuds of his stride
behind her, just underlying her lighter footsteps.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. You’re imagining it.

Her pace becomes more brisk. She can feel the tension of
rising panic creep up her spine when she can hear him do the same. She chances
a glance over her shoulder. The man slows down, but only just. And to her
horror, he is gaining ground. Cleo’s heart starts hammering. Cleopatra turns
down Seam Street. The next time she glances back, he has turned too… and he is
even closer, but making no effort to adjust his course as to skirt around her.
She is not imagining things anymore.

She immediately breaks into a run.

Cleo and Patrick are young. Patrick lives in a house given
to him after the passing of his parents. It is hunkered down next to an
apartment building in a blended pocket where the residential district ends and
commercial franchises begin. And this late in the night, all she can see are
“Closed” signs.

Cleo, gripped by terror and choking on denial, cannot find
her voice. But there is a glimmer of hope in a high, lighted window ahead. It’s
open. They will hear her. If only she can reach the steps…

The man is upon her in seconds. His hands, like steel
pincers, seize her arms. He wheels her around and shoves her against the wall
under the awning of a local diner. And even as her books tumble out of her
arms, she wonders why she did not listen to her intuition. She shrieks. Above,
the window is shut and the light goes out. There’s a thick finger against her
lips. She reflexively goes mum.

She can only see faint features of the assailant in the
darkness: a strong jaw, stubbled chin, broad nose, and the telling lines of
middle-age etched into his cheeks. The odor of alcohol is strong on his breath.
Cleo makes to scream again, but the swift knife blade against her throat
changes her mind. His lead weight holds her fast. She doesn’t need to wonder
what he wants.

She struggles in vain as the man drags her into the nearest
alley and between the dumpsters she swore to throw her textbooks in only
moments ago.

•

Cleo wakes in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled and clinging
to her nude body. Her breaths come in short, shallow gasps. This is nothing
new. She has not slept well, if at all, since the incident. Something else is
eluding her too, for several weeks too long.

The house is small and sparsely furnished, but comfortable.
Paint cans sit unopened and collecting dust on the top shelf of their closet.
Their home improvement projects have been put on hold.

“Tell me,” Patrick encourages gently, laying naked beside
her. Patrick, a handsome blonde made of lean muscle and blind faith, is easily
five inches taller than Cleopatra. They have been together for some time. She
stays over often. By now, he is highly attuned to her habits and wakes with
each of her nightmares. He watches her vigilantly. The tear that rolls down her
face does not go unnoticed. Patrick sits up and props his arm on his knee.

“Baby, what is it?”

Cleopatra’s eyes search the ceiling. The words come out
numbly, confessing to the ceiling what she still refuses to acknowledge
herself.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine.
She says it as if she cannot stomach it. She says it as if it’s a death
sentence. She says it as if she already knows… that
it
is not his. By
the sick mask that is her expression, Patrick can see that congratulations and
optimism are the last things she wants to hear, no matter how natural it is for
him to emulate both. He is devastated, but he cannot let her see it. He has to
be strong for her in this time when she is so fragile.

Afraid to say the wrong thing and shatter her completely,
Patrick gets out of bed. He clutches the cross around his neck. How can he
carry her through this… when she could be carrying something that will never
let her forget?

•

The following evening, Patrick and Cleopatra are having a
spaghetti dinner at their foldout table. Patrick even took the time to fashion
a table cloth in hopes it would give the wobbly old thing a more romantic feel.
Patrick has always been a fine cook, but under the constraints of their budget
they cannot afford many ingredients. Even when Cleopatra comes over, their
meals are simple, but they still eat well. Or at least, they did until
Cleopatra, for the majority of the day, stopped eating entirely.

Cleopatra picks at her food, mindlessly twirling the noodles
around her fork. Patrick watches her, wishing he knew what to say. This is not
the sort of nervous that comes on a first date from lack of conversation. This
is something new, and something he struggles with on a deeply personal level.

Cleopatra has barricaded herself behind a thick rampart of
pain and self-loathing. He cannot recall the last time she looked him in the
eyes. Though Patrick sees Cleopatra no differently, even loves her more after
the scare of losing her forever, she hardly recognizes herself when she looks
in the mirror. The real travesty, the real culprit, is invisible. And it is
nothing his words will ever heal.

What does one say to a lover who has lost all love for
herself? Patrick elects not to say anything. Instead, he twists some noodles
around his own fork and assumes an impish smirk, playfully trying to feed it to
her, the way they used to do. She swiftly blocks his attempt with her hand.

“I can’t carry this child, even if it is yours,” she
declares.

The statement comes avalanching down on him.
Even if it
is yours.
Patrick takes a breath. He needs to be blunt to hide how much
that stings.

“A little too late for that.”

“Maybe fifty years ago,” she says curtly. “Not now.”

Patrick considers her words. He knows what she is alluding
to. Having been raised in the church and a devoted Christian himself, Patrick
is firmly opposed to the idea.

“You’re not having an abortion,” he negates, resolutely
setting his fork down on his plate. The very idea makes him nauseous.

Cleopatra however has no such moral dilemma.

“Ma’ mother doesn’t know I was raped. Ma’ father can’t know
either. I have to get rid of it.”

Patrick’s throat goes dry. He shakes his head. “That
‘it’
could be
my
child.”

Numbly, “Could be his. Just need you to give me the money
for an abortion.”

The idea assaults him—that his money would be the
clincher—his money would be all she required—his money could purchase murder.
Patrick assumes a lot of responsibility when it comes to Cleopatra. This would
be no exception. He would blame himself for the rest of his days. “And I won’t
be giving it to you. You’re not aborting this child.”

Cleopatra stares vacantly at her plate. “We don’t have a
choice.”

He scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah, we do.”

Patrick, who wants to end the discussion with that, picks up
his fork again and resumes eating. Meanwhile, Cleopatra is busy remembering.

•

That dreaded night Cleopatra, dressed casually, takes a seat
on Janine’s bed. She seizes her shoulder bag, drags it towards her, and unclips
the flap, extracting her calculus textbook and thinner paperback work booklet.
Janine strolls in with a bag of Doritos and two bottles of soda clutched
against her chest just as Cleopatra is tying her hair back into a ponytail.

They have a huge exam the day after tomorrow. Midterms are
always killer.

“So,” Janine begins, getting situated. “How are things with
Patrick?” she wants to know. She pops a chip into her mouth and chews blithely.

“What do you mean?” Cleopatra asks with a secretive smile at
the corner of her lip, trying her best to avoid eye contact.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Janine responds, reaching
over to poke her arm teasingly. She offers her the open bag of chips.

Cleopatra sighs. “It’s not like that,” she says with a grin.
“It’s good with him, but it took us forever to get to that point. He’s a strong
Christian and his reputation is pretty important to him at the church and
everything. Technically we don’t live together. Most of ma’ stuff is still at
home. He believes in waiting until marriage, which is a nice sentiment… but
it’s just not ma’ thing, you know? So we compromised and everything has worked
out pretty well since then.”

“He’s dreamy,” Janine swoons. “You’re really lucky.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?”

Pretty handsome might be an understatement for Patrick
Taylor.