Page 57 of Four Times Saved

Shifting from foot to foot, I stood outside the room waiting for the nurse to be done with my mother. After I offered to heat up some of that soup Matt bought, I was informed by the nurse that my mother had already eaten before coming here, and that she had her bath, so it was just down to changing and combing her hair before her midday nap. Well, whoop de doo, guess I was just in the way then?

There was this weight in my chest, on my shoulders and feet, that wouldn't be lifted until I saw my mother. The closest I'd ever been to her had been through taking care of her. We hadn't had that parent-child bond, but I craved it so much right now.

There are moments when you need a mother, maternal love. Sometimes you have to be that for yourself. But well, my mother was in there, wasn't she? Even if she couldn't give me what I needed, I was all she had, and for five years, she was all I had. That's how we 'bonded', I guess. And with the nurse here, it was as if I was losing that. I didn't want to lose that. Not right now. Now, I needed my mother more than ever. It surprised me how much I did. I fought the urge to burst into the room and take care of all her needs by myself. I didn't, of course not. I had manners. Sometimes.

Imagining it was awkward enough as it was, spending her first day here with us, I didn't want the nurse to feel like I was stepping on her toes. So, I was hanging outside in the carpeted hallway, admiring the carvings on the white wall and fighting this lust I had, for the need to feel less like a victim who needed to be waited on, and taken care of, and more like who I was...am? That's the thing. I didn't know who I was anymore.

All my life, I've known that I was Lily Thornbread, the girl who grew up in her own personal hell with my assigned demons. Demons who lived on inside me when I left that hell and taught me that hell didn't have to be a physical place, but that it had infiltrated my body and mind. And that the demons trapped inside were growing larger and more angry through the years. I've known my demons in the drugs, in the conviction I had against men, in my resentment I held for Eric, in being my mother's caregiver and bearing that burden for what I thought would be the rest of my life. It was a reality I accepted and was comfortable with.

A few months ago, I had a pleasant awakening, with Eric's return and meeting his three best friends. It rocked my world, but I was taking my time with the changes, going at my own pace. Until I blinked and everything I knew slipped from my fingers.

Last week, I wasn't sure I was ready to give up the life I'd known, the life that had given me an identity, and this week, the choice to move at my own pace was taken away from me. Because I can't go back to that reality. I can't stay in Durham, or ever go back to that house.

That place holds too many bad memories, and it took years and courage for me to return there, and submit myself to the trauma that stained the walls, the echoes of past arguments that lived in the floorboards and creaked during inconvenient and spontaneous moments, the scent that didn't change no matter how much bleach and cleaning products I used to scrub the place down.

But I'd beaten the drugs, swallowed my resentments, returned and taken charge. I was in control of the decisions I made in that house for five years.

Now all of that resilience that I built has been washed away in the same storm I thought I'd lived through and wouldn't have to face again. Hurricane Terry Thornbread. The lightning of his entitlement, his anger, his greed, his...just 'him', struck twice in the same place. He did the impossible.

That man bulldozed his way back into my life and shattered my walls that I'd built up to protect me, showing me that I'd always been under his control. It's just been a matter of when he chose to strike. I can't rebuild my walls again. I can't go back to the life I had, so I'm forced to start over. And it's not as easy as I dreamed it would be. Because who am I without that life?

Sniffling and wiping away the tears, I let myself focus on the positive to keep standing. This private island that the men want to buy is perfect. If I need time to figure out who I am again, that is the place to do it. Knowing me, if I'd been left on my own to deal with this, I'd isolate myself until the noise became too loud to run from. And when I'd been pulled to the ground, unable to get back up again, and I was on the verge of an evasive death, then I'd see a therapist, desperate for the ache to stop. If it had been left up to me to handle, I'd push the guys away little by little, and lose the best parts of my life. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for that.

How do I know that's what I'd do? Because I'm still running. I thought that all I needed was to be reunited with my men and know I was safe in their arms. A part of that is true, but the noise is still there, and every second, I fight the need to get away from everything and everyone. But I choose to stay, because I know I'm safer with my men around.

The truth is that I trust them with me, more than I trust myself. And I'm tired of running, even if I can't seem to stop. Sure, it would be nice to find out who I am, on my own, but what's the harm in doing it with the men I love?

The voice of reason or in my case, doom creeps into my struggle to focus on the positive. The harm in surrendering everything to them is you'll lose your identity in them, or make your identity about them. Letting out a deep breath, I groan. Does everything have to be so drastic? Why can't they just be my support system?

That voice begins to force its way through my stronghold. No, I won't sabotage this for myself. I want this and I'm letting myself believe the opposite of my default thinking, which is to always expect the worst. I've been through the worst. Now I want to believe that good things can happen to me, and that I deserve to have a happy ending, and beginning, and middle. Yes, but...My mind echoes.

But what?! I yell on the inside. What if they're not who you think they are? Having short bursts of time with someone and living with them are two different things. What if they're not as perfect as you think? What will you do then? How will you get out?

I'm not doing this right now. My brain needs to get the memo. If my men couldn't be trusted, I'd know. They're nothing like Terry Thornbread, that's for damn sure. And that, my friend, is a brilliant start.

Didn't Eric dodge questions about his bruises? No, he said it was an accident with Matt. What kind of accident? It doesn't matter.

Humming to drown out my self-sabotaging thoughts, I took a peek into the room, tapping my foot. I didn't like to think that everything happened for a reason, but a silver lining annoyingly showed itself to me as I watched my mother, still sitting there in silence, her skin pulled down by her inner, unspoken torment. I got it now. My mother and I were more alike than I'd allowed myself to admit before. Instead of resentment, all I wanted to do now was hug her. She didn't have someone to save her from that man, but I did.

I was moving to that private island with them, and that was that. It was far enough away, hidden enough, that I could start over brand new and not have to worry about my father or his partner ever finding me again. My mother wouldn't have to worry about him finding her either. She also got her fresh start. Because those two criminals would roam the streets again, at some point, just as we began to get comfortable.

I wouldn't give them access to me again.

What was the most they were going to get for kidnapping? Fifteen years? He'd be out in his seventies or eighties. I doubted age would stop him from attempting something even worse the next time. He didn't self-reflect; he blamed and grew angrier. Fifteen years in a prison cell could let that demon in him fester and grow until it was a monster, destroying everything and everyone in its path.

Shuddering at the thought, I was relieved when the door opened. The nurse jumped at the sight of me, and in my distortion between my reality and the thoughts in my head, it took some time for my glazed-over eyes to focus on her.

"Sorry, I scared you." I found the words to speak and mustered up a smile to plaster on for her comfort.

"How are you doing?" She asked. "Are you okay with me staying here?"

I wondered if she asked the question because my presence outside the door was something out of a thriller. Imagine a scene in a movie where the killer lurked in jealousy, waiting to catch the new person, taking over their role, off guard before striking. Yeah, that was what I looked like right now, just standing here in silence, watching her every move. It was comical, but I was still horrified that I'd make her that uncomfortable, and I rushed to reassure her.

"Me? Are you okay with staying here? I doubt it's easy to move in with a bunch of strangers. I mean, we've known each other, but we don't know each other, do we? It's a bunch of men, and I know a lot of us at the Women's Shelter have had a problem trusting men after being hurt so often by them..." I said.

"No, no. I had a wonderful husband. We were married for over twenty years." Her cheeks still reddened as she spoke of him, and it was like a soothing balm to my earlier concerns, knowing that despite the years between them, she still blushed at the thought of him. The thought of having that with my men in twenty years was lulling.

"Were?" I asked.

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