Page 23 of Cheshire

“Is that a word?” I asked.

She smiled faintly. “Probably not, but I’m making it one.”

Her words wrapped around me like a blanket, warm and comforting. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel alone. I didn’t feel like a freak, a broken thing.

I felt seen. Understood. Accepted.

Jo’s hand tightened around mine, a lifeline in the darkness. “You are amazing, Eliza,” she said. “Your strength, your resilience… it’s inspiring. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still standing. Still fighting. And that’s incredible. Not everyone can break free.”

I leaned into her touch, soaking up her warmth, her steadiness. The hole in my chest, the one that had been aching for so long… it felt a little less empty now. A little less raw.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt the beginnings of something that might have been healing.

Jo glanced at the sketchbook again, a glimmer of an idea dancing in her eyes. “You know,” she said slowly, “I’ve been working on some poetry lately. Trying to put my own demons into words.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “What if… what if we combined your drawings with my poems? We could create something beautiful out of all this ugliness. And if we can come up with enough pages, maybe we could find a way to have it published? There have to be more women out there who can relate to what we’ve been through, who need to know it’s possible to break free.”

My heart skipped a beat, a thrill of excitement rushing through me. “You mean… like a collaboration?”

Jo grinned, her whole face lighting up. “Exactly. We could tell our stories, Eliza. Show the world that we’re more than just victims.”

The idea took root, blossoming into possibility. I imagined our pain, our healing, our hopes, all woven together. A tapestry of trauma and triumph.

“I love it,” I breathed, my fingers already itching for a pencil. “Let’s do it.”

While I sketched for another few hours, she sorted through her poems, and it looked like she might even be writing more of them. When I set the book and pencil down, she pulled it over.

“This one,” she murmured, tapping a charcoal sketch of a woman emerging from a cage. “I have a poem that fits it perfectly.”

She flipped through her notebook until she found the poem she sought. Her voice was soft as she read it to me.

Trapped in a cage,

Bars forged in fear and hatred.

Imprisoned.

Broken.

But I’m the key.

And today,

I choose to be free.

A lump rose in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. Jo’s words, my art… it was like they were made for each other. Like we were meant to become friends.

We lost ourselves in the creative process, Jo’s words danced across the pages as I brought them to life with bold strokes of my pencil. The outside world faded away until there was nothing but the two of us, our art, and the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with each passing minute.

Laughter bubbled up from some forgotten place inside me as Jo cracked a joke, her eyes sparkling with mischief. It felt strange, foreign, like my body didn’t quite remember how to make the sound. But it also felt right. Like I was remembering how to live again.

“I can’t believe I actually had fun,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I didn’t think I ever would again, after…”

I trailed off, the ghosts of my past rising up to choke me. But Jo just nodded, her gaze filled with understanding.

“I know,” she murmured, her hand finding mine. “But we are more than what they did to us, Eliza. We aren’t just survivors. We’re fighters. Artists. And we can show the world just how strong we are.”

Her words ignited a fire in my chest, a blaze of determination that consumed the lingering shadows. I squeezed her hand.

“Together,” I whispered, and it was a promise. A vow. “We can do it together.”

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