Page 10 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

Duke must be out of his mind with rage, but I don’t want it confirmed. I know he’ll desperately be trying to find me. A man like him won’t let his property go lightly. But the image of him, tearing the hospital apart in an effort to find me, I try to wipe from my mind.He’ll be beyond furious.

My fear he’ll succeed taints my sense of victory, and the stress can’t be good for the baby. I try hard to chase all thoughts of my possible failure and his likely success out of my mind, putting my faith in the group of people who assure me, they’ve successfully liberated people like myself before.

Determined I’ll do nothing to rock the boat, I do everything they ask, follow every instruction to the letter just to make sure that I and my baby are safe.

Do I feel remorse it will never know its father? Hell no. I’ll make up some excuse, some fiction, whatever light it paints me in, having already decidedfather unknownwill be written on the birth certificate. I’d rather be thought a whore than leave a trail for anyone to follow.

I’m Sapphire Marshall no longer.

Saffie was the name I used to go by until I became a precocious teen and insisted on everyone using my full name. Even my parents never refer to me by my childhood nickname, and Duke’s never heard it. I suppose there’s some comfort when I hear it used after so many years, some sense of returning to a time when things were easy, and I’d felt safe. When my only worry was would I be forced to eat peas yet again, where I’d misplaced my favourite toy, or whether the teacher would yell at me for forgetting my homework. Everything was so much simpler before I became an adult.

Jones is my new surname, something so common it’s hard to be traced.

It takes two weeks for me to become fit enough to cope with what lies ahead. When I’m asked where I’d like to be located, I don’t much care, but if the choice was mine, I’d prefer California. Safe, warm and vibrant, or so my tortured mind paints it to be.

The Freedom Trail is a well-oiled machine and take pains with preparing me for my new life ahead. I’ve become well versed in the use and exchange of passwords to make sure anyone helping me on my way are who they say they are. I listen carefully, ultra-cautious—it isn’t just me in this now.

Finally, armed with only a small suitcase of donated clothes, I travel across country partly chauffeured by strangers in cars, and then left to my own devices to complete my journey by Greyhound, mysteriously finding tickets ready at every stage, and arrive at my final destination with my new ID and details in hand.

Somehow, miraculously, it had all gone to plan, and I successfully found my way to San Diego where I got into a cab and headed for my new address.

My apartment is small, clean and nice—a perfect place to stay and bring up my child. I’ve also been set up with a job, one suitable for skills I don’t possess. I’d gone from my parents to a marriage where I was a trophy wife, and from there, lived off my settlement until I’d met Duke. I’d never worked in my life. Although I think I must be capable of something better, stocking supermarket shelves is about all I’m qualified for.

It’s when I compare the amount on my paycheck to the rent that I need to pay, I realise I should have insisted on going to a cheaper state. How could I prepare for the birth of my baby while putting food on the table and a roof over my head? Skimping on food isn’t an option. I have to think of the new life inside me.

It isn’t long before I realise that if I’m to buy the vitamins and healthy food that’s recommended to nurture my child, I have to move to save money. In the back of my mind, I think having an address not even the Freedom Trail know of might add an extra layer of protection. I’m constantly terrified that Duke will find me, unable to shake the impending sense of doom.

Of course, cheap is never perfect and I know the place where I end up isn’t the ideal situation. It’s cheap, and that’s all that matters. Inside my apartment, I have all that I need. Outside? Well, I’d worried about that as soon as I moved in. But so far no one’s bothered me, seemingly uninterested in a pregnant woman, who drives the cheapest car she can afford. On my part, I ignore the drug deals which go on day and night, and the fights I have to evade when I pass.

It's not much, but it’s mine, and allows me to put part of my salary aside to cope with what lies ahead.

Days pass, weeks go by, and I can’t hide my pregnancy now. Despite its simplicity and monotony, I enjoy my job. I like the boss I work for. Shelly is understanding and spotted my condition early on, and now she’s set me to work on the tills which isn’t such physically demanding work.

Life without Duke is perfect, and not a day passes when I don’t thank the Freedom Trail and the anonymous people who helped me. At the back of my mind though, I can’t shake the worry, that somehow, some day, Duke will find me. I take every precaution, keeping to myself, using cash to pay for everything, friendly enough when coworkers chat to pass the time, but wary of getting close to anyone. When leaving the apartment, I disguise my appearance as much as I can.

Do I grow more confident as time goes on? Not really, though I try to put my fears aside. That’s not easy, when a loud male voice speaking too loudly can make me startle and kick off a panic attack.

Introspection does me no good, neither does revisiting the past and bemoaning how I got here. Instead of thinking of myself, I force every thought to be for the precious cargo I carry. Instead of looking back with regret, I look forward to when I will hold my child in my arms.

I sing to my baby at night, stroke my stomach as I go about my life, living only for him or her.

The thing I’m not is lonely. My years of being locked up and ignored serve me well, as I’m fully capable of amusing myself and not getting bored. How could I? I’ve access to a television and more books than I can ever hope to read downloaded on my Kindle. Reading becomes my escape. Where else can you find hours of pleasure for the price of a coffee?

Home from work, I cook and eat a healthy dinner, then settle down with a book. Finishing it, I purchase another by the same author.

Big mistake. To my horror, I’ve accidentally stumbled into a new-to-me genre, MC Romance. I read as much as I can before throwing the book down in horror.She’d gotten so much wrong. How can she write of respect for women when in a real MC there is none? And that clubhouse she was describing was nothing like my experience. I want to contact her and tell her how much she got wrong.

I don’t of course, I just put down the book and stop reading. I can’t afford to come out of hiding, even anonymously to someone on the internet.

But I read blurbs carefully from now on, watching out so I’m not lured in by such books again. MC Romance doesn’t exist, or not like the authors portray it.

But then, I rationalise, if fiction reflected real life, who’d want to buy it? Who’d fall for a cruel murderer, or want to redeem a man who makes his living abusing, buying and selling women?

Instead, I read books about mothers and babies, and lose myself in the fantasy of having a man in my life who’d accept me as a single mom. Then I realise I’m being stupid and would never be able to trust myself with a man again, and definitely not with my baby. I’ve made mistakes twice. How could I ever trust my judgement? As for sex, the thought makes me shudder. Duke had turned that act of pleasure into a nightmare, and I’ll be content to end my days never knowing a man’s touch again.

Moving my hand across my stomach, I promise my child that I’ll be everything he or she needs. It might be tough. I might not be able to provide a fraction of what I had growing up, but I’ll make up for it with love. That I have in abundance.

I don’t care who fathered it. My baby is mine, and nature be damned, my child will be shaped by his nurture, and I’m determined to do that right.

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