Page 2 of Sanctuary

Misty cried out and covered her face and neck with her arms. Each ensuing hit landed on her shoulders until she went to her knees, the pain more than she could take. The woman reached down and began tearing the nightgown from her body between strikes. A blow connected with her fingers, and Misty thought they were broken. She did everything she could to hold onto the nightgown, but the woman eventually won.

Long fingers dug into her hair and jerked her head back.

"Stand up." The woman’s eyes held a satisfied expression that stunned Misty. The crazy old lady enjoyed hurting her.

Misty cried out as the cane came down again. The fire spread clear to her toes. Against the fear and pain, she made it to her hands and knees while snot dripped from her nose onto the floor. Her shaking legs didn’t want to hold her, so she grabbed the counter and stood as straight as she was able. The blows stopped but the woman’s heavy breathing filled the small room.

"Remove the underwear, now."

Shame mixed with pain. Misty slipped the garment down her legs and kicked it off her feet, one arm covering her breasts and her other hand going between her legs.

"Get into the shower," the mean voice said. "Wash your hair and your body. Clothes will be provided when you finish. You have four minutes."

"I need to go pee," Misty pleaded between sobs.

"It’s part of your shower time," the woman stated, her booted feet planted a foot apart, unmoving.

Misty stared at her, knowing the woman would watch her use the toilet, which was more humiliation than she could handle. She pushed aside the shower curtain and turned on the water, stepping inside before it warmed. She couldn’t stop the stream of urine that ran down the drain.

"Three minutes."

The freezing water didn’t grow warmer. Misty could barely see through her tears but she quickly grabbed the liquid soap, lathered herself, rinsed, and did the same to her hair while shivering so hard it was difficult to hold the bottle. Misty peeked from behind the shower curtain. The woman stood with a stack of clothing in her arms. Misty’s clothes were missing.

"Shut the water off and get out," she instructed, handing her a towel.

Misty dried herself, trying to stay covered while she did it. The woman pointed at the clothes which she had moved to the counter. It was a beige, unadorned long dress with a high neckline and long sleeves straight out of history from a hundred years before. Misty pulled the shapeless garment, heavier than it looked, over her head. The dress ended midway between her knees and ankles. She donned the white underwear quickly. There had been no bra, but her breasts were small and she’d never worn one.

"Follow me," the woman said again and walked away. She used a key to unlock another door. As soon as it opened, she stepped back and nodded at Misty to precede her.

The room was spartan, with only a bed covered by a white sheet. No other furniture, although there was a door on the side that might be a closet.

"You do not have permission to speak,” the woman said behind her. “Talking is a privilege here. You also have no bedding. Everything must be earned, other than your clothes and shoes, which are in the closet. If you behave in a manner that cannot be controlled by simple means, your clothing will be removed, and you will stay locked in this room until you comply. Someone will come for you when it’s time to begin your orientation."

Misty simply stared, too afraid to ask a question. Tears slowly slipped down her cheeks.

"You are at the Bridge Home School for Girls," the woman continued. "You will stay here until your behavior is that of a proper Christian woman and not that of a spoiled child guided by Satan. This can be a rewarding time in your life where you learn your place to be a wife and mother, or it can be a time of misery. Either way, you will be a suitable young woman when you leave. Your parents have paid dearly for the privilege of sending you here, and they have prayed extensively." She turned and walked from the room, locking Misty inside.

She stared at the closed door in horror.

Her parents had done this to her.

Chapter Two

Savage Sanctuary Island, Simon

Simon's overly large head went back so far he stumbled and righted himself as he looked at the distant ocean sky. He scratched his graying beard and contemplated the gathering clouds. Simon liked storms. Jerry, his boss, did not. The cats Simon cared for liked them too, but that was because the large storms came with something special attached. From Simon’s experience, these clouds would fizzle out before they hit land. His knees were stiff but the ache was bearable and it also told him that a full hurricane wouldn’t materialize.

He lowered his head and moved to the first pen. Carla and Tibby, female lions about two years old, were brought in together a week before, stared at him with distrust. The bucket of food he carried consisted of goat and chicken meat this time. It was cheaper than beef, and they raised chickens on the island, so that was cheaper still. Savage Sanctuary Island cost a lot of money to run and Jerry was always yelling at Simon about food expenses and vet bills. Simon knew they couldn’t lower the amount of food provided to the large cats or they would become more aggressive along with impacting their overall health.

He approached the pen and Carla’s teeth bared while she made a low grumbling noise of displeasure. Tibby, the smaller of the two, huddled in the back of the cage, her fangs showing though she didn’t make a sound. Simon didn’t really know their story, and he didn’t know them. This was important because he tried to build rapport with all the cats and mostly he was successful. For these two, he would need to wait and see.

Carla came forward when the food was offered but Tibby stayed where she was. Simon backed away so they were more comfortable, though their eyes stayed on him the entire time as finally Tibby began devouring her food. He watched them for several minutes before he went back to the hut for more meals. His next trip to the larger pen would require him to carry four buckets at one time. That was okay; even though he was growing older, he was still big and strong.

The problem with Simon wasn’t his size. He’d been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his throat, and he didn’t breathe right away. They said it damaged his brain. Simon wasn’t sure about that. A man didn’t need to know more than his job required, and Simon knew everything about the cats. They loved him, or at least some of them did. He loved them all, even the mean ones. It wasn’t their fault.

His birth injury didn’t, however, damage Simon’s growth and by the time he was eighteen, he stood six feet seven. When you added his weight to his height, he was overwhelming to the average person. Simon tried not to let stares and mean words by the sanctuary visitors get to him. His world was the cats which were rescued from zoos and private owners. Savage Sanctuary Island made some of its money off people visiting and seeing the rescued cats in their natural habitat. It was all for show because when normals weren’t on the island, the cats were kept in small cages and bad things happened. Simon hated thinking about the bad things.

Normals were not cat people. They wanted to stare, watch them eat, and pat themselves on the back for donating money to a good cause. They thought the cats were better off than if they were out in the wild, which simply wasn’t true. Simon knew this because no matter what people called him, he wasn’t stupid. His job was to care for the cats, and he was very good at his job.

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