Page 8 of Acts of Contrition

I want to die.

And then the beatings start. My ribs take the worst of it, and something snaps, sharp pain making me gasp as I lose air for a moment.

My nose shatters from a boot to the face, and things start to get hazy.

Laughter can barely be heard above the loud bass bumping from the speakers, but I can see the crazed joy on their faces, and it hits me.

I really am going to die.

None of these men would care if I died now; they’d keep fucking my body as long as it was still warm and pliant.

Four hours must pass, but I spend the last of it in a haze of pain. Nose, ribs, I think maybe my cheekbone: all broken. Asshole torn and bleeding. Maybe my pussy too, I don’t know.

The last thing I remember hearing is Mike saying, “Time’s almost up, finish up and we can dump the body.”

The darkness is fading. There’s a hazy gray light, and I feel like I’m floating.

“Mom? Dad?”

“Honey, don’t try to move or talk too soon.” It’s a woman’s voice, low with a soothing but stern tone.

My eyes open more, and I’m not dead. I’m in … an infirmary? The light hurts my head; my whole body aches somewhere beneath the floaty feeling.

Turning my head, I see a beautiful woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, with long black hair and equally dark eyes.

“Where… Who…”

She shushes me sharply this time, not mean but more like a sister.

“My name’s Vera. I run this blood bank. I happened to be taking a walk last night and found you. Do you remember anything?” the woman asks tentatively.

I do. Of course I do.

“Please…” My voice is raw from screaming last night. “He can't find me. He thinks I’m dead. If I’m alive he’ll finish the job.”

Vera nods as if she understands. “You’re not the first woman I’ve found like this. I am sure you sadly won’t be the last. But rest now. Your nose wasn’t broken, but you’re pretty bruised in the face. Your ribs will take time to finish setting, but we managed to snap them back into place.

“When you wake up, we will plan the rest of your life, your freedom.”

It turns out Vera is just basically a good Samaritan who has helped people for all reasons. I don’t really know. Once she took me to a women’s shelter and the older lady there praisedher, she vanished. I had so many questions, but no way to reach her.

“She’s like Batman,” the woman, Hattie, comments. “Saves men, women, children, animals, and then vanishes into the night as if she was never here.”

“She shouldn’t have saved me,” I admit quietly.

“Why not, honey?”

“I can’t survive this world. I’m too broken. I’ve been too broken for a long time.”

Hattie kneels down so she’s at eye-level with me. “Broken things can be fixed. We will fill those cracks with gold.”

I don’t think it’s gold, per se, but the shelter sets me up with a counselor who, after realizing I will not speak of anything in detail, switches her focus to me being well enough to live on my own, to not succumb to flashbacks.

Other women at the shelter teach me basic cooking skills, and how to work most appliances. Mom had taught me, but things have changed since she did so on our old, outdated things.

“Why the Hell does a fridge need to talk?” I ask, and the other women find me hilarious.

“Better than a man talking,” one of them comments, and the others all agree.

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