Page 16 of Tyrant

My exhale is heavy, it makes my cheeks poof out as a chill in the air skates over my flesh. It’s officially fall in the South. Probably the most confusing weather we have, as it may be eighty and sunny and gorgeous, but the next day or two could end up being an overcast, brisk, and windy forty degrees where you freeze your tush off from the wind. I tug Tyrant’s ballcap lower, wishing I had warmer clothes tucked away somewhere to wear. If I don’t come up with a plan soon, it’s going to be rough trying to sleep outside with next to nothing. I never should’ve ditched my other bag. If I’d been thinking rationally, I’d havekept my meager belongings and continued looking for another ride, not tossing my bag and hopping on the back of a bike without a care for the repercussions.

I’m too busy glancing around, paranoid to the point I miss important details. I don’t notice the man on the motorcycle parked a ways down because I’m silently searching for faces from the community. I know each and every one, from having to be at the House of Worship every damn day from the time I married Josef to the moment I got out. As the Profit’s dutiful wife, it’d have been frowned upon for me not to sit obediently at his side whenever he desired. He used to do this thing where he’d pat his hand on his lap to tell me he wanted me to sit beside him, like I was a pet he was amusing himself with. He probably saw me that way in truth. It got to the point that every time I saw his hand move, I had to brace myself not to react and sneer like I wanted to. It probably would’ve gotten me locked away in their ‘reflection’ box, or worse, taken to the tombs where serpents have been known to hide out in the dark earth.

I shudder as a snake made of frost and spite slithers down my spine at the memory. Just thinking of him makes me want to sink into myself and wither away. I can’t allow it to happen, though, no matter how easy the choice seems.

“Hey, you,” is called from the alley, but I ignore it.

Picking up my pace to get the fuck out of the shady downtown area, I move quickly. I may be homeless, but I’m also female. Being a victim is far more common for me, versus a man. Others see me as easy prey. A small, weak woman, not able to fight back for herself, and trust me when I say they’ll take whatever they can. I could be bitter about it, but in the end, it’s simply reality. Women didn’t end up with men because they chose to. If it were the case, I have an inkling history would’ve been much different. No, us women were forced to be with a man because history tells tales of us forever being used as a tool of some sort. Whether itwas for money, food, or family position, we never stood a chance against men. Even with time evolving, we’re still required to have a man beside us, or face being taken advantage of.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some crazy person who hates men or anything like that. I’ve simply had my eyes open and have done a ton of reading. Not only that but my theory was proven when I was with Tyrant. Next to him, I had no need to worry about anything. No one approached us, looked at me funny, or made me feel uncomfortable. If he were here now, I have no doubt in my mind I wouldn’t have felt shaky leaving the bus station. Now, I have to walk through this tiny town and find somewhere I can sleep and hide my things where I won’t become another victim of the streets.

Life is beyond unfair at times and somehow, I always seem to end up on the losing side of it.

I keep my eyes peeled for a library, but don’t see one on my trek. I also don’t notice a shelter or anything either. Not good, I picked a place too small. I was hoping it’d be convenient in location but also big enough to have the basics like the library and shelter. At least then I know I can get a little bit of food in my stomach as well as a place to sleep if it gets too cold. With the library, I have access to a computer if I need it as well as the internet. The times and stuff are usually monitored but it’s better than nothing.

I miss Shannon and our silly discussions about cock sucking and terrible books. She was more than a librarian to me; she was the closest person to a friend I’ve had in years. I’d tried to make friends when I’d joined the community and everyone seemed beyond nice, but I soon learned they were completely brainwashed over whatever the Profit says. Anyone who can’t see Josef for who he is, along with who his father was, well, I don’t need them in my life.

After walking around the closest streets, I stumble on one of those donation boxes. It’s going to survivors of domestic abuse. They should have these everywhere, as there are too many victims of physical and mental abuse. I know first-hand from witnessing it for the past couple of years. It was never made obvious in the beginning, but over time, I saw it for exactly what it was.

I drop my bag and try to fit inside the donation door as much as possible. I don’t want to have to break open the back door of the rickety box, but I could seriously use a few things. I have a tiny bit of cash leftover and I’m trying to save it for an emergency, not a jacket or blanket.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

“Just great,” I murmur to myself, pulling my head out of the opening, expecting to see the cops there. I find an older woman instead. She surprises me when she offers a smile rather than appearing upset at catching me literally with my hand in the box. “Ma’am,” I nod in greeting, my cheeks burning from being caught. I never thought this would be me someday, homeless, poor, digging through donation boxes and showing up at any Goodwill I can find, hoping to grab a change of clothes and basic necessities. I’ve heard it all by this time, one of the things constantly repeated is,why don’t you get a job? Then you can buy what you need.The thing is, I’ve tried to get a job. I’d love to feel useful and help someone at the same time, but so far, no one has been willing to pay me under the table, and I can’t risk getting caught by being on someone’s payroll.

“You need somethin’ honey?”

“I was, uh, hoping there was something warmer inside. I only have clothes for the heat and a small throw.”

“Well, how about you come on around here and I’ll open the back up for you? I don’t wantcha’ getting hurt in that tiny door.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“No thanks needed, rather have you warm than freezing, is all.” She’s got one heck of a twang going for her, but I kind of like it. I have a feeling this older woman wouldn’t hesitate to give someone a piece of her mind, and I envy women with courage like hers. “Now you just go on and look in here and grab whatever you need. I’m going to put the rest in my Caddy’s trunk, ‘kay, hun?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nod and pull out the box at the bottom, beginning to dig through everything as she returns with a few empty crates. As I go through the items, she takes the stuff I don’t set to the side, filling each crate up and hefting them to her big car. It’s older, with long lights and reminds me of a faded banana with the light-yellow color from the weathered paint. I’d wager it’s probably as old as she is, if not close.

“What in tarnation? Some kind soul left a microwave right out front, oh, bless their little hearts. I suppose I can drop it off at the appliance garage on my way.” She talks to herself and it takes everything in me not to grin at her while she does it. I bet she mutters to herself all day long and doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

“Need some help?”

“Nah, sweetheart. You just worry about getting what you want before I take this down to the home. Would you like a ride out there? I’m headed that way in a short spell.”

She’s probably innocent, with her fluffed-up gray hair and expertly matched outfit, like she’d spent far too much of her day planning it out, only to pick up donations and deliver them. Most likely harmless towards me, but I can’t risk it. I’ve become too paranoid to lay down my guard and trust someone, especially a stranger I’ve barely spoken to. For all I know, she could have me load up, stab me with something to drug me, and boom, I wake up in the House of Worship being mutilated. No thanks, I’ll pass on the possibility of a front-row seat to the horror show again.

“Not this time. I appreciate your kindness.”

“Anytime, ya’ hear? You see me out and about, don’t hesitate to holler a hello. We’re kind folks around these parts, I swear it on my soul.”

“I won’t, I promise,” I say automatically because she strikes me as the type of woman who will demand a commitment with her kindness. “I’ve found a knitted blanket and a few clothing items I’m going to take, if it’s okay?”

“They’re yours.” She nods, offering me an easy smile. I bet she’s the best grandma to some little kids, if she has grandchildren yet.

“Do you have any grandkids?”

“Oh, Heavens to Betsy, yes, I sure do! My grandbabies are my whole wide world, I tell you what. Let me get some pictures to show you. Those little darlings are just so darn cute, I want to squeeze ‘em.” She continues as she goes to the car, leans in through the window and digs around in her purse. “Found them!” She comes back, lit up like a Christmas tree from all of her excitement, and I can’t help but smile.

“This here’s Bambi, she’s my oldest girl out of four. Stubborn every step of the way, but look at those gorgeous babies surrounding her.” I start to silently count. The woman had eight children. I rarely hear of anyone with that many.

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