AN: I've tried writing fanfiction before, and it didn't work out for me, mostly because I hated having to work within certain characters and their personalities. Then, Parker came along and chatted with my muse and I realized something: He had endless possibilities. I could make him older and let anything happen because his personality wasn't fully developed and his major life events hadn't happened yet. He could basically be my character if, from time to time, I wrestled with characters who would never be mine. Just what I needed…

A young brunette walked carefully down the street. It was an exceptionally quiet night, so no cars flew by her as the stars looked down on her as she trotted down this sidewalk, twitchy and alert, watching and listening for danger.

None came. She sighed, knowing there was only a block left to get home after she exited the alley she had just turned into. Warily, she pulled herself nearer to the building on her right, avoiding the trashcans leaning against the brick wall to her left, partly for the stench and partly because she knew a person could hide in or behind them.

She had hardly past the farthest one when she saw the shadow move out of the corner of her eye. She turned as the man flew toward her and knocked her hard to the cold, damp pavement. She screamed, loud and clear, and fought against him, punching and smacking and clawing at his already scarred face.

It was futile. The man was pure muscle, and her flailing did nothing to hurt him. He pinned her down, throwing all his weight over her. He was so heavy, bearing down so hard on her chest, that she could hardly take a breath, much less cry out for help. She made small, weak noises of protest, and it made him laugh, his breath, smelling of tobacco, alcohol, and rot, pouring out on her face.

"Go ahead and cry, you little bitch. It makes me so hot." Her whimpers stopped immediately. "Why won't you whine for me? Come on, whore, whine. Make noise for me, you slut!" As he yelled, he slammed her head against the pavement, harder and harder until she screeched with pain. He grinned sickly. "Yeah, you want to turn me on, don't you, bitch? Want to make me hard, don't you?"

He tore her blouse off her, then her pants, her underwear… Then he thrust into her, hard, fast, deep, uncaring, mean. She felt blood stain the ground and felt him spill into her once, twice, three, four… She stopped counting and looked at the sky and cried.

When he finally left, she was numb inside and hurt on the inside. She reached for her phone silently and hit number one on her speed-dial.

Parker Booth woke to the high but musical tone of his phone ringing. Tired as he was, he got out of bed to take his best friend's call. She hadn't been online to chat with him after work, nor had she called him before now. It was odd behavior, and he was worried.

"Marissa, it's three in the morning. What's wrong?"

"Parker… Somebody hurt me…"

He was fully awake in a moment and getting ready to leave the moment the words left her mouth.

"Where are you? I'm coming there. Stay on the phone, Marissa."

"I don't know… The alley… I was walking home…"

Parker had already grabbed his keys and had the door open when his father's voice stopped him.

"Parker, where the hell are you so in a rush to get to at three A.M.?"

"Dad! Marissa's hurt; I…" He couldn't finish his sentence before the older Booth cut him off.

"Get in the car. Now."

Parker did as he was told, trying to get Marissa to talk to him the best he could the whole time, but she merely began to sob.

The car ride was much too long for Parker's liking, even though his father had the siren and lights on and was driving about 70 miles per hour above the speed limit. They parked haphazardly near the alley Parker had directed his father to. The boy was out of the car and halfway to the girl curled up on the pavement, crying, by the time the car's engine was turned off.

Booth walked up to his son to find him kneeling down beside his friend, once again making an attempt to calm her with only his words. Parker looked up at the older man as he neared.

"She won't let me touch her. I tried to ask her what happened, but the only thing she'll say was that someone hurt her. I think… She might. have been…" His last word was merely a terrified whisper. "Raped."

"I already radioed for the local police."

Suddenly, sirens blared, and Parker and his father turned to look towards the source of the noise. Booth got up and walked towards the street to flag down the responders, and Parker turned back to his still crying friend.

"The police are here, Marissa. The ambulance will be here soon too. I'm here. We'll find out what happened to you." His face turned angry as he continued, "We'll find the man who did this to you and we'll put him away for good. We won't let him do this to anyone else. I promise, Marissa. I promise."

He was still muttering "I promise" as two cops walked up to him. By then, Marissa had let him hold her hand. He comfortingly rubbed his thumb across it as one of the cops knelt down to speak with him.

"I'm Detective Bill Johnson. This is my partner, Detective Gloria Roberts." He gestured to a woman standing behind Parker. "How did you know she was here?"

"Marissa's my friend. She called me."

"Can you step away from her for a moment? I need to ask you a few questions, and Detective Roberts needs to talk to Marissa."

Parker nodded and released his friend's hand to go to the end of the alley and talk to the investigator. From here, he could see an ambulance coming up the street. There was also about five men and women unpacking things from a van labeled with "Metropolitan !" He turned his sad, scared gaze back on the policeman as he started talking.

"I need to know your name."

"I'm Parker Christian Booth."

As the teen answered the man's questions, his mind barely registered what his mouth was saying: it was more focused on the health of his friend.

I'd just like to point out, after the teeny-tiny amount of research that I've done, what a widespread and horrible problem sexual assault is. It has marked, undeniable effects on the victim throughout his or her life. One in every three women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime, one in every seven boys will be sexually abused before his eighteenth birthday, and one in every four girls will be sexually abused before she is eighteen. As the daughter of one of those four girls myself, I know how scarring this is. My mother recently divorced husband number two, and both spouses were bad choices. Much of the therapy she's had and the self-help books she's read have been at least indirectly related to her trauma. She can't sleep well, especially at night, she's always worried she'll be attacked, and she still can't relinquish control of her life to someone else. Not only has it affected her life, it's affected mine. It needs to change. If you are sexually assaulted, report it. Don't blame yourself. Don't let anyone get away with this. Work to make other people aware of this. Write to newspapers. Write to governing officials; tell them to make sure sex offenders serve out their full terms in prison. Tell your friends, and let them know you're a safe place if they are ever sexually assaulted. Know what various types of sexual assault. Please, please, please help stop this violent, personal, hateful crime.