A biker pulled my attacker off me, then stayed all night to make sure I was okay. When I finally asked him why, his answer broke my heart.
I was walking to my car after an eleven-hour nursing shift when someone grabbed me from behind in the hospital parking garage. He had his hand over my mouth, dragging me toward the stairwell.
I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight. He was too strong.
Then a motorcycle appeared out of nowhere. The headlight blinded us both.
The biker who pulled my attacker off me didn’t say much. Didn’t ask questions. He just made sure the man ran—and stayed gone.
Then he called the police. Called security. Gave me his jacket because I was shaking.
His name was Marcus. I learned that when the police took his statement.
He was maybe fifty-five. Leather vest covered in patches. Gray beard. Scarred knuckles. The kind of man my mother would’ve told me to avoid.
But his eyes were kind. And he stayed.
Through the police report. Through the hospital exam. Through the three-hour wait for my roommate to pick me up.
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