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Chapter Two

Serenity

I hop from one foot to the other outside the bathroom door. This is the third day in a row that Ava’s roommate has hogged the bathroom in the morning. She hates me. I know she’s doing it on purpose. She doesn’t even have to go to work for hours and she knows I’ve been getting up early to job search.

Ava is my friend from years ago. We lived in the same town until she decided to get the hell out and left me to stew in misery. Not her fault, of course; I chose to stay because I was in love. She had no idea how bad it would get, or, knowing her, she would have come back and dragged me out.

Ava is the woman we all want to be like: strong, independent, outspoken and gorgeous. The exact opposite of me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit jealous. I guess I do have pretty features, or so I’m told. I have curly blonde hair halfway down my back, bright blue eyes, and bow lips. My ex called them blow-job lips. My ex called me all kinds of things, but I don’t want to think about that this morning.

The important thing is I left that life behind. Ava was kind enough to let me crash on her couch for as long as I needed. She owns a small house in a quiet neighborhood. The only downside is she has a bitch for a roommate who was not happy to have me here. I don’t know why exactly. It’s not like she and Ava are friends at all. Ava works during the day, and Beth works nights; they hardly see each other. I avoid eating anything Beth claims is hers, using anything she uses, or even sitting in the chair she likes. I know all of this because she snottily handed me a list when I walked in the door.

I don’t tell her off. I wished I could, but unfortunately, I am a people person; I aim to please. That’s what kept me in my relationship. I didn’t have the guts to put a stop to it.

I am on the verge of peeing myself when the bathroom door opens. Beth looks me up and down with disdain before hitting me with her shoulder as she walks past. My need is too great to show any reaction, so I hurry to the toilet, not wanting to embarrass myself any further.

I am grateful that I take showers when she is at work. I hurry to clean up and look myself over critically. I have on dark wash skinny jeans, my favorite jeans that make my legs look longer on my five-foot-two frame. My tank seems to be appropriate for applying at a nightclub. I finish it off with my favorite suede ankle boots.

This is as good as it gets. I look at myself critically. My boobs are too big for my frame and my ass is too big. Ava assures me that tits and ass are the parts that men love to grab onto. Maybe I should change my shirt. Shit, no time. I’ve never worked at a bar.

I started at the local dinner in high school in my town and worked there until a month ago when I quit. After the last severe beating, I picked myself up off the floor, found what little voice I had left, told him to fuck off, and moved to Oregon. I plan to find a job where I can at least support myself, find some tiny apartment, and work on making myself happy. A man didn’t figure into that plan and wouldn’t for a very long time.

It may have taken me a while to learn my lesson, but once the light bulb came on, it wasn’t going off again. I let myself be used, pulled into a pretty face and the promise of a stable future. Never again. I get to make my own decisions now. Make choices for my future.

It starts today.

I cautiously tiptoe into the living room, breathing a sigh of relief when I don’t see her. She must have slithered back to her room.

I grab my purse and keys and hurry out the door. I have some time to waste, so I can familiarize myself with the area and grab some food.

I startle when my phone rings as I’m starting my car. Not many people call me. Unfortunately, my parents are one of them. The only other person that would be worse was my ex.

I debate for a moment and then answer. “Hi, Mom.”

“It’s about time you pick up when I call.” Her angry voice sends anxiety through me.

“I’ve been busy.” I can’t reason with my mother; I never could. She can never admit she may be wrong in any way. She was horrified when I left Tom, even when she saw the bruises. Instead of giving me comfort, she lectured me, appalled I was giving up a secure future.

“Too busy for a phone call? Have you decided to tell me where you are?” I can picture her pinched face looking at me in disapproval.

I decided not to tell her where I was moving. It was better for all of us. Alright, who am I kidding? It’s better for me. I know she still speaks to Tom, and it wouldn’t take much to get her to tell him.

“I will tell you when I am settled,” I lied. “How’s everything there?” If I let her, she'll keep me on the phone forever. I have to move this along. Let her say what she called to say. I know it wasn’t over concern for me. How sad is that?

“Your father is still upset with you. Taking off as you did. No explanation. Not taking into account our feelings on the matter. What about Tom? He’s so sad. He can’t eat. The other night he just pushed his food around his plate. Your father had to have a few drinks with him to calm him down,” she says scornfully.

“You had him over for dinner?” My stomach drops.

“Of course. He was going to be our son-in-law.”

“But he’s not now. Mom, you saw the bruises,” I remind her weakly.

“He just got carried away.”

“I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”

“He said he was sorry.”

“He said that a lot.” Why can’t I scream at her? It wouldn’t matter to her if I did. She would find a way to turn everything on me.