Page 31 of Silas

I pull the hair dryer out of the bag from under the sink. “The shampoo and all that stuff is complimentary. Means it’s free for you to use as much as you want. You can stay in the shower as long as you want. Use all the hot water. I’ll come back in thirty minutes and check on you. Okay?”

She nods. “Thank you.”

I just smile. “Nothing to thank me for, honey. Like I said, take your time. Relax.”

I slip my Glock at the small of my back and drape my shirt over it, then pause in the doorway. “Naomi?”

She’s facing away from me, fingers tugging her long thick auburn hair out of the braid; she turns to face me. “Yes, Silas?”

“You’re safe now. You’re free. Try to remind yourself of that. Okay?”

Her eyes shimmer. “Thank you. I won’t ever be able to thank you enough for what you’re doing for me, Silas. I mean that. I owe you my life.”

I let the door close and move to stand in front of her. My hands itch to cup her lovely face, to feel the softness of her skin. I don’t.

“You don’t owe me shit, Naomi. Not a damn thing.”

“Are you helping me because of your mother?” She gazes up at me, her silver eyes soft and searching.

I feel my molars grinding, feel a tumultuous wildfire of unprocessed emotions roiling inside me. “That’s part of it, yeah.”

“But not all of it.” She says this while gazing at me with an inscrutable expression, twisting the hair tie in her fingers.

“No.”

It seems like she wants to say more, ask another question; her mouth opens, closes, and then she turns away from me with a soft sigh.

I want to tell her it’s her—that there’s something about her driving my actions. The words dissolve in my mouth and leave a bittersweet aftertaste.

if only

Naomi

The door clicks closed behind Silas, and for the first time in my entire life, I’m alone and safe and free. I take a moment to simply breathe in the sensation. Enjoy it. Something light and effervescent wells up in the pit of my stomach—as if I could simply float away. It’s a lightness in my spirit.

I feel a smile tugging at my lips, laughter bubbling up inside me. I’m alone. I’m safe. I’m free.

I spread my arms out like wings and spin in a slow circle, head tipped back, eyes closed. Just because I can. I let a small giggle escape—just because I can. No one will hit me or yell at me for being too loud, for feeling a moment of happiness.

I was not allowed joy; Papa made sure of that. If I laughed, he would find a way to cut me down. If I found something I enjoyed, he would take it, or ruin it. By the time I was thirteen, I had mostly stopped trying to find joy in life. The sole exception is Mama’s guitar, but that’s lost to me, now.

The idea of a shower pulls me into the bathroom. I was allowed to bathe, but hot water was strictly rationed for everyone and usually turned off in my case. What will it be like to stand under a stream of hot water for as long as I want?

Time to find out—I’m so excited my hands shake. I twist the knob to turn on the hot water, and the nozzle head spurts, sputters, and then sprays. Within seconds, steam begins to unfurl from the many thin streams of water.

I remove my clothing and place them on the bed, and return naked to the bathroom.

I examine myself in the mirror: Unbound, my hair falls nearly to my waist—I was not allowed to cut any more than an inch off of it at any time, because Papa believed women are meant to have long hair; my breasts are fairly large for my otherwise slender frame; bruises mark my skin in varying stages of healing, a palm-sized yellow-green one on my left hip, a dark purple-and-blue one the size of a grapefruit beneath my left breast, and a myriad of smaller ones on my thighs and hips. I twist to see as much of my back as possible; more bruises cover my shoulders, back, and bottom. Long, thin, keloid stripes scar across my shoulders and backside, from the times when Papa decided merely beating me senseless wasn’t good enough—he frequently whipped me with a length of extension cord.

No more.

No more bruises.

No more scars. No more broken ribs, no more bloody noses or black eyes.

I put a hand under the spray and add some cold water, check again, add a bit more, and then step into the shower, tugging the curtain closed with a zinging rasp of the rings across the rod. The hot water beats on my back and shoulders, and I can’t stop a moan from scraping past my teeth. Goodness, it feelssogood. For a while, I just stand there and luxuriate in the hot water. Turn to let it stream onto my front, on my face. I soak my hair and then wash it with the shampoo, rinse it, wash it again, rinse again, and then work the conditioner in from the ends to the roots. While the conditioner sets, I lather a clean washcloth with the shower gel and scrub my skin—some of the bruises still ache, others don’t. My ribs feel a good bit better today, but I know from experience moving and breathing will cause pain for a couple more days.

Freedom, however, does wonders for healing.