Rescuing A Snow Angel Ep 02

Rescuing a Snow Angel 02

Jim Rawlings Meets the Twins -- Carmen and Gabriella

Written by

Donald Mallord

Copyright by DMallord, 2021, USA., Revised 2022, All rights reserved.

4,800 MS Words

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Special thanks to kenjisato for his impeccable editing of this resubmission. Before we became acquainted, I posted this story, thinking I had done a good job of editing. My word! That certainly was wrong! The first posted version contained grammatical errors, misuse of homophones, and other writing faux pas. His cleanup now reads so much better!

Thanks, also to those who took the time to provide feedback on the original story line! It really helps me stay inspired and to continue these writings. And thank you, for such good ratings in the first effort of capturing the spirit of Jim Rawlings, a returning warrior!

BACKGROUND

Staff Sergeant Jim Rawlings began a hesitant re-entry into the civilian world, transitioning from a psychologically traumatized and maimed prisoner of war. Re-entry began by taking cover in a safe-harbor atmosphere as an MBA graduate student. That story, 'The Dorm Went Dark - I Got Lucky!' chronicled many of his unresolved issues and how he did his best to deal with those matters.

After a year-and-a-half of courses, Jim Rawlings was now a forensic accountant. He found employment in a Midwestern city and got lucky—again, on Christmas Eve! Becoming a new hire at Worthington and Worthington Accounting, he found temporary lodging and work at a dilapidated hotel undergoing conversion into townhomes. Rawlings manages to rescue a runaway waif from near death before sun up on Christmas Day in a sequel to the dorm story entitled, 'Rescuing a Snow Angel!'

This day's encounter begins as his rescued girl-in-distress filched bus fare from his wallet and slipped away; intent on returning home to South Bend, Indiana to make amends with her parents. Making his security rounds, today, has Jim thinking he is seeing double as a snowplow pulls into the hotel's parking lot.

Characters in this story are of legal age of consent. The reference to sex is not descriptive—just alluded to as a precursor to future events between the three of them in a slowly building storyline.

The main character, Jim Rawlings, experiences a PTSD [post-traumatic stress syndrome] episode, as it is known by today. In the Vietnam era, it was just considered neurasthenia—a type of nervous breakdown from war—or labeled "shell shock." That recounting, by him, in his relapse may not be suitable for some readers—its depth of anxiety is more than in the first episode so if you have similar experiences, I would hesitate to have you read this one. I've kept the details brief and left out all the peripheral feelings and heightened anxieties that would truly explain the fear such events a war veteran would have experienced. This is Literotica—not a counseling session event.

Rescuing a Snow Angel 02

Jim Rawlings Meets the Twins -- Carmen and Gabriella

Now, day two, into my living quarters arrangement with Chris Mortenson, the project manager, I pulled my collar tightly against my neck and stepped out into the dawn's dim light. The overnight mixture of heavy snow and freezing rain had turned the hotel parking lot into an ice-skating rink and it was damn near impossible to stand up on the sidewalks. Holding onto anything I could grasp; I made my way around the perimeter looking for vagrant entries. This morning, I was following Chris Mortenson's version of general order number two: 'To walk my post in a military manner, always staying on the alert, and observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing.'

As I trudged over the icy encrusted snow, the only sounds I heard came from the crunching of my boots breaking through the top layers of ice—crunch, pop, and the rhymical snapping that echoed from the building's hard surfaces. Carefully, I made my way around the complex. My tracks were all that I saw; a good sign, I noted as I carefully made my way around the backside of the building.

How Rachel, my snow angel rescue, had made her way to the Greyhound bus station for the sojourn to South Bend in this weather, weighed heavily on my mind. I just hoped that the Greyhounds were running up the I-75 corridor toward Indiana, without much delay. Christmas Day was really no time to be on the road, but hell it was her choice. I could only imagine how surprised her parents would be to find her on their doorsteps. She had not been in contact with them, according to her, and had been wandering around the States for four years; in a homeless state of being.

I imagined her skinny body, bundled up in Murphy's ragged Army field jacket, reaching for the front door knocker and giving it a soft rap. From somewhere in the recesses of my brain, came a familiar thought, 'Knock and it shall be opened to you.' I hoped that was the way she was received at her parents' home this Christmas Day! I hoped they pulled her into their arms and beat back the demons that drove her away from them so long ago. Certainly, she was trying to stave them off in the early morning hours as she rode and pounded me to ecstasy this morning—and then pilfered a hundred bucks from my wallet, as she left me sleeping off my sexual exhaustion. The corners of my mouth turned upward at the thoughts of her plunging up and down on me, with mounting intensity! Certainly, the extra sheen of perspiration added to her glow; as the beads of sweat rolled down her face and dripped onto my chest. It felt good—the sex certainly helped beat down a couple of my demons!

My thoughts abruptly halted, as I noted the maintenance room's entryway door slightly ajar. I had not spotted it open after midnight, but there were no signs of tracks entering or exiting the area. Guess, it was left open by the construction crew. I launched my one-hundred-ninety-five pounds against it and banged my shoulder into the steel door, breaking the icy grip that held it frozen to the cement slab. With a metallic groan, it gave way. A cursory survey found the dark room void of life—just filled with some tools and bags of stuff. Among the scattered items, I found a snow shovel, an ice spud, and two bags of rock salt. In the corner was a dilapidated salt spreader and I took that out as well. I also grabbed an old boom-box from a table and put it inside the spreader before making my way back to the front office. The 'sounds of silence' in the office apartment was getting on my nerves. Perhaps a little background chatter would dull some of my more pensive thoughts. The books I had bought to while away the time until I started my new job, certainly didn't handle that very well.

Setting the radio in the office, I stepped back outside and began to chip away at the icy doorway. That cleared, the next move was to cut a path out to my truck, spreading a trail of salt as I went. The snow angel sculpture by Rachel, on the hood of my truck, was now readily visible in the morning light. So was the totally encrusted door handle and ice-laden windshield—no way I was going to jerk that door open anytime soon. So, I headed inside for coffee and breakfast. It was time to get warmed up. At least, I had honored my agreement with Mortenson; to check for vagrants, today.

Plugging the old radio in, I was glad to find it working and dialed in a local station. The tail end of Janice Joplin's distinctive voice filled the silence --

Oh Lord, won't you buy me

A Mercedes Benz?

My friends all drive Porsches

I must make amends

I worked hard all my lifetime

No help from my friends

Oh Lord, won't you buy me

A Mercedes Benz?

The announcer's banter about local news and the weather forecast occupied, then slowly diminished, the anxiety levels created by the previous day's stark silence. I had found myself jumping at the creaks and pops of the metal building structures as they reacted to the increasingly colder weather. The sound of a human voice, even if on a radio, helped quell a bit of that jumpiness. Finishing my oatmeal and bacon for breakfast, I was startled by the gate alarm going off. For an instant, I felt the gut-wrenching moves, while lunging for my weapon, then cursed myself, vehemently!

'Fuck you! You're not in the Army anymore, sergeant! Get your head out of your ass!' The crystal-clear image of my M16 leaned against a hooch was right there! I saw it as clear as day and then it faded, as I sprang from my chair toward it. Bad way to start the fucking day; the smell of death seemed so real, at the moment!

'Back to reality, dufus,' I thought. I grabbed my jacket and gloves, heading out the door to find out who was at the gate. I heard the clatter of the gate's chain fighting against the ice-filled links as it started opening. Rapidly, I headed toward it. Guess someone has the code, also. According to Mr. Mortenson, no one was supposed to be on the premises until two weeks from Monday.

A four-wheel drive truck, with a hydraulic snowblade, pulled into the lot and stopped. Despite the cold, there was no visible exhaust—an indication that the truck was on the move for some time. The truck bed was stacked with sandbags for weight, adding to its mass for traction. The driver had spotted me ambling toward him. If I were a betting man, I'd allow this guy was here on business. The bundled-up figure pushed open the truck door and slid to the ground as the other door opened and a second pair of boots landed; seconds behind the first pair. Barely five foot tall it seemed, the diminutive figure called out, "Hello! I'm Gabriella! This is my sister Carmen! We're here to clean the lot! Chris sent us!"

The driver was certainly animated as she waved in every direction at once. She seemed to have all the energy and commotions of a squirrel racing up a tree with a mouthful of acorns. She gestured to the snow and waved her hands back and forth in the air as justification for her presence. Then, stopping mid-conversation, she froze.

"Are you Jim Rawlings?" she quizzically managed to squeeze her thought in, amidst all the chatter.

"That would be me."

I answered, trying to determine if I was having double vision—or just staring at an identical set of twins standing side-by-side before me. I couldn't help but smile back as their bright eyes glistened and broad smiles spread across the fur enclosed faces of the plow-girls before me.

"Then you're in luck, Jim!" she said, as she reached in her parka to retrieve an envelope. "Chris says to give you this, if I saw you, today."

I tucked the envelope into my jacket, having thanked her for the delivery. Later, I would be pleasantly surprised to find another three hundred dollars and a note to meet Mr. Mortenson next Monday, after New Year's Day, to discuss lodging.

The driver was clearly no stranger to that big plow, as she deftly cut her way through the massive drifts, and skillfully banked the snow against the fence lines. Meanwhile, her sister set to work spreading sand along the walkways, to add traction for the soon to return workers. Having idle hands and watching the diminutive lady rapidly deploying the sand; I grabbed another bag and started spreading it along the main sidewalk.

"We got this!" a melodic voice called out, as I began to assist.

I heard the words ring out over the sounds of the roaring truck engine and the clatter of the blade scraping over the concrete parking lot. I turned to reply that it was okay; that I didn't have anything better to do, so I was just helping them out. As I turned back to the task at hand, I heard the voice shout out, again.

"Nice, ass!"

I responded by whirling back around, not sure of what I heard, certainly not what I thought I had heard, and shouted, "What did you say?"

"Watch the ice!"

I heard her answer again, with a giant grin, as though repeating her first comment. She just kept working...with that same smirky grin as she dove into her work.

Over the roar of the truck, maybe 'watch the ice' was what she said—but it sure sounded like the former! I helped spread a few more bags and then headed inside to put on a pot of coffee for my comrades-in-arms. On a cold morning like this, coffee was always a welcome ally.

By the time the pot was done percolating, I could hear the truck resting at idle and then cut off. The silence of the vacant buildings returned. I poured two mugs of Army-style java and strolled back outside. About to round the corner where I last saw the twins, I heard the girls talking and stopped, out of sight, to listen.

"He's got a nice ass, Gabby. And he's cute, too! Damn nice blue eyes and built like a brick..."

"Yeah, Carmen I saw cute, too, but you can't tell me he has a nice ass 'cause his coat is covering it up! You just made that up, sister! You'd jump anything in a pair of pants," came Gabriella's mirthful rejoinder.

"Okay, okay, so I didn't see his ass, but I say, we knock him out, drag him back inside, and jump his bones all weekend!" Carmen giggled as she shot back with another sassy reply.

"Like we would really do that, you know! Besides he looks like he could take both of us with one hand tied behind his back," Gabriella came back, in another playful response.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about, girl! Rope him...and see if he can take both of us while tied up! I'd fuck him to the cows come home!" She burst out laughing.

"Dammit, it's cold!" were the next words I heard. It was then I found a breaking point in the conversation and walked around the corner. Both girls looked up, a bit surprised to see me coming with steaming mugs.

Surprise turned to smiles again, as I handed them the coffee mugs. "Thanks, Mr. Jim! And Merry Christmas!" The girls exchanged glances, with a hint of impishness in their smiles—the mental telepathy of twins flowing between them, no doubt.

As the girls stood sipping the coffee, we exchanged small talk. I found out they were locals, fresh out of high school, and working in a joint business adventure. Their dad had run a lawn and snowplow business, which they inherited this past summer. I shared the fact that I just arrived in the city and would be starting a new job with Worthington and Worthington Accounting. Their eyes lit up at mentioning Mr. Worthington's place. He is also one of their clients as it turns out; with mutual reciprocity. He also handles their accounting, something I would probably be involved in at some point, as we figured out how my forensic accounting specialty would fit into the Worthington client services.

"Got to respect a man who runs a flag up the pole every day," Gabriella mentioned when talking about his business. It seems Worthington has three flagpoles and a daily ritual of hoisting flags: American, state, and the black POW flag with its iconic reminder, "You Are Not Forgotten," in front of the Worthington accounting office. The flags face the park, as a reminder for all who come to rest there. A reminder that not all have been returned.

I noticed neither of the girls drank very much of the coffee and from the grimaces on their faces, I began to figure out that they were cream and sugar girls. I invited them back to the office to doctor up their drinks. Army coffee was pretty much black and strong enough to be cut with a bayonet in most places I had been. I'd not thought of that in my filling and carrying out the mugs to them. They acknowledged that my hunch was right about the cream and sugar and acceded as to how they'd appreciate some; but the strong coffee was just right! They might have been saying that out of politeness, I suppose. But, from their demeanor, I felt they were raised to be respectful and socially responsible—not the kind of girls to tie someone up and jump their bones, maybe.

My thoughts wandered back a few years as we walked to the office. No one would be tying up my arms, again, as long as I had breath to prevent it. I'd spent nearly three months bound, gagged, beaten, maimed, and up to my neck in a pit filled with shit and water to please my tormentors. Not going to happen, never again, I vowed—after I'd watched the last of them dying in the jungles, gunned down by my Recon Ranger rescuers. Hope to hell their bones never got buried and were left to rot in the jungles of 'Nam. Fuck'm! Fuck'm, every last one of them!

Just then a shiver ran down my spine; whether from the thoughts running crazy through my head just now, or the cold, I couldn't say which one caused it. But the rush of anger that mixed with my emotions was leaning to the vivid images of the past rushing into the present and overpowering my senses. I stifled the anger and tried my best to even out my breathing before reaching the office door. I recognized the onset of another panic attack.

It might be better to hustle the girls on their way and take my anger out in solitude. And as luck would have it, Gabby happened to check her watch and exclaimed, "Holy Sh...Smokes! Carmen, we gotta get going! We're late for the Food Market plow! They open in an hour. Sorry, Jim, we got to run; but we can stop back for coffee another day! That is, if you'd like us to?"

I nodded, as the girls shuffled out to their truck, waved goodbye as they bounded inside, and steered their way back out of the gate, and onto the four-lane, disappearing down the empty roadway. With the holiday just around the corner and the heavy snow conditions, there were only a few vehicles on the icy roads.

I fought back the temptation to smash the cups into smithereens and focused instead on the Major's mantra, written as part of my multi-pronged therapy approach. I had it memorized to help calm me:

"Focus...

Watch the sunset,

Focus on the ball of fire,

Push your anger into it.

Let its glow fill your eyes;

Watch it dip below the horizon, growing dark;

watch it fade from sight.

Let it take your anger down with the darkness.

Breathe, breathe slowly, breathe deeply,

exhale gently.

Feel the ropes untying and sliding away.

Let them follow the anger

as it sinks into the last of the sun's glow.

Close your eyes and rest, sergeant,

breathe and exhale gently.

Let your anger flow away into the darkness."

The bitter cold sent a shiver through me. The cold, for sure this time, as I became aware of myself sprawled, flat-assed on the cold cement with my back against the wall and my arms wrapped around my drawn-up knees. Just rocking back and forth, as I sank into another trip down into the black, tiger pit. I felt the confining space, the smell of shit coming to me as I stood knee-deep in it.

I could hear the faint voice of Janis coming from the window above me ...

... My friends all drive Porsches

I must make amends

I worked hard all my lifetime

No help from my friends

Oh Lord, ...

I don't remember much of the rest of the day. Somehow, I must have struggled to my feet and made my way inside. I just...woke up...flat on my back, lying in a bed. My head was pounding as I shook it to clear the cobwebs and shake off my blurry vision. It took a concerted effort to struggle and to break free of my restraints. I tried to rise up. Glancing out the window, I focused on the sun disappearing below the western horizon. The Mantra resounded in my mind.

"Got to get out! Got to follow the First General Order!" I hissed, sounding more inebriated than a soldier coming back to reality. "I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved."

I can't let Mortenson down! I could sense the tenseness in my muscles, raw from fighting against the ropes. It took a bit longer to realize the ropes had long vanished in that faraway jungle as I stood bound, waist deep, in a tiger pit of human excrement. Yet, my breathing was still the same, now, as then. The smell...began to dissipate as I returned to full consciousness.