Page 33 of Damian

His mother approaches with caution. The stink of fear growing stronger. She looks at me; her gaze piercing yet gentle. She hides her true feelings well. “I’m Violet,” she replies, her timbre firm but with a hint of vulnerability. Her name matches her eyes. “And this is my son, Alexander.”

My heart swells with joy and relief. I stand up and reach inside one bag to pull out a toy train. Alexander’s face lights up, and he reaches out with a small, tentative hand.

“What is it?” he questions while spinning the wheel with his tiny hand.

“It’s a toy. A toy train. They have big ones outside of this place that you can sit in and ride across the whole country.”

“What do I do with it?” He looks at me with wonder in his chocolate orbs.

“May I show you?” I hold my hand out for him. He places the train back in it. I crouch toward the ground and wheel it back and forth on the ground. “Like this. It helps pass the time when you get bored.”

“May I try it?”

I place it back in his grasp. He plops down in the dirt and gives it a spin.

Violet watches, and her expression softens. “Thank you,” she whispers. The words carry a weight of unspoken gratitude.

With the amount of trepidation oozing from her well-guarded persona, the way to her heart surely will involve my devotion to Alexander.

I stand, meeting her gaze. “I just want to help, however I can,” I say earnestly. “If you want me to leave after this, I will. But I pray I can stay and prove myself to you and Alexander.”

Her head tilts. “How did you know it was me?”

“The same way you did, and Alexander did. I felt it in here.” I point to my heart.

Violet nods slowly. Dare I wish for a flicker of trust to form? “I’m not making any promises,” she announces, her voice gentle but resolute.

I smile, feeling a sense of purpose and connection. I know the road ahead will be challenging, but I’m ready to face it with unwavering determination.

I have two people to fight for, and I’m pretty sure Alexander is already on my side.

Chapter 22

Emjay

“The world contains too many selfish people, but among them are a few who put others first.” ~ Emjay

I watch these people interact with one another and joy floods my heart. Bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, the clearing around us feels like a sanctuary. The scent of fear still lingers in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest floor, but it’s no longer the sharp, acrid stench of terror. Instead, it’s a faint residual presence, being slowly washed away by the fresh, clean scent of hope.

Many of the women hang back, observing the newcomers with wide and cautious expressions. They stand in small clusters, whispering softly among themselves. Their gazes dart between the men and the children playing nearby. Some clutch their hands tightly, their knuckles white with tension. Others cross their arms protectively over their chests. Each woman is a picture of wary curiosity. Their bodies are poised to flee, yet their faces show a glimmer of intrigue.

Basil and Poppa, along with the other men from our past, never cared that their women reeked of terror and hate. They moved through life with an air of entitlement, their expressions cold and unyielding. Maybe they convinced themselves that their actions were necessary—a twisted sense of duty that rendered the women’s emotions irrelevant. I remember the way they dismissed our fear. Their vision glazes over with indifference whenever we flinched or recoiled. To them, our terror was just background noise, an inconvenient murmur in the grand symphony of their authority.

These men smell of nothing but love, compassion, and care. Their presence is a balm, a gentle reminder of what it means to be truly seen and valued. It takes me back to a rare moment in my life when I experienced genuine care from another. I recall the warmth of a kind touch, the soothing sound of a heart filled with concern, the simple but profound act of being listened to. As I stand here, surrounded by the mingling scents of compassion and optimism, I feel a flicker of that old cherished feeling returning, like a long-lost friend stepping back into my life.

Twenty-eight years ago

“Emjay, let me help you,” Tina pleaded with genuine concern for the hundredth time while collecting her mail from the rusted metal boxes.

I was cleaning the front lobby window. The grime never seemed to disappear no matter how hard I scrubbed. The faint scent of bleach mixed with the musty odor of old carpet was a constant reminder of my life here.

Larry’s never been rough with me. He’s never gentle either, never bothering to prepare my body. The act always leaves a dry, burning sensation that lingers long after he’s gone. There was a mechanical coldness to our encounters, devoid of any tenderness or affection. It was a transactional routine, one that left me feeling more like an object than a person.

Last night, I heard the familiar jingle of keys outside my door, followed by the click of the lock. Larry stumbled in, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. He tripped over the pots and pans I’d scattered across the floor, my makeshift security system to alert me to his unwanted presence. I started placing items everywhere before bed because the thought of waking up and finding him on top of me in my sleep was too terrifying to bear.

My heart pounded in my chest when the sound of clattering pots and pans continued echoing through the small apartment. Grabbing my threadbare robe from the foot of the bed, I wrapped it tightly around myself and made my way toward the noise. Each step filled with fear and resignation.

I’ve never worried about burglars. There’s nothing of value here, just the essentials: a lumpy mattress on the floor, a secondhand table with mismatched chairs, and a few worn out blankets. My only possessions are necessities that keep me alive, and even those aren’t worth much.

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