Page 17 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

Wave after wave of guilt goes through me as I shamelessly let myself be held by a woman who I don’t know beyond the first names we’d exchanged on the way to my apartment. I’m crazy to be letting total strangers into my home, but right at this moment, that’s the last thing that worries me. If they turned out to be serial killers it might be a mercy.

Mary holds me tight, rocking me without asking anything, seeming to know if she did, I’d be incapable of speaking right now. I’m lost in my own head, asking one overarching question.

What had I done wrong?

Just about everything, I answer myself.

The seed had been planted and I’d been pregnant long before I’d found out. In pain and hurting, and yes, seeking oblivion, I’d been doing what I could to take my mind off my misery—drinking and smoking weed. When Duke thought numbing my agony would make me easier to twist to his will, I hadn’t protested when something else was injected into my veins.

Duke had hurt me. Who could blame me for taking whatever painkillers had been offered to me? Internally wailing, I recall how I’d even relished the dreamy sensation that had taken my agony from me.I should have known better than to placidly accept a cocktail of drugs.But the thought of being pregnant had never occurred to me. If I’d even suspected, I’d have taken better care of myself and my baby.

The damage, however, has already been done. If it wasn’t the drugs, it could have been the stress I was under. Living with the Crazy Wolves hadn’t exactly been easy, and my blood pressure must have been through the roof. Then I’d witnessed Jude’s killing, which led to the beating.Maybe it happened then?

Even after I got free, I lived daily on the edge, always looking behind and worried Duke might somehow find me. The fear hasn’t dissipated even after three months. I never rest easy.

While the Freedom Trail had been amazing, I was anxious as hell, worried something would go wrong. Even with new papers, a new identity, accommodations and a job, I’d been terrified every minute on my journey, and live with the legacy of terror every day.

My life hasn’t been easy, but it’s not me who’s suffering the consequences, it’s my reason to get up and keep breathing each morning. It’s my baby.

I’m not strong enough to bear the news I’ve just heard.

Hell, who is? What woman could cope with this under normal circumstances, let alone those I find myself in? I’m alone. I’ve no one to support me, no one to share the burden or the loss of my dream.

I cry and cry, totally unembarrassed or caring what these people think of me.Nothing matters now.If I could stop breathing, I’d welcome the release. When I think my tears will never stop, I must run out of energy, as my wails turn into sobs, and I become conscious of what’s happening around me.

I hear Mary asking her companion to get me a drink. When he comes back with just water, I have to suppress the scream that I’d prefer coffee, or whisky would be even better. To drink myself into oblivion sounds good right now. What further harm could it do? But I don’t make the request. There remains that innate urge to protect the baby inside me.

He, who I now register Mary had called Niran, is too big and scary, too reminiscent of the men who liked to torture me. If I were in a different frame of mind, having him in my space would terrify me. As it is, when he hands me the glass and stares at me intently, I don’t feel I’ve any option but to sip it to please him.If I didn’t, would he raise his hands to me?Duke has me programmed to suspect all men are like him. As he continues to focus on me, my fingers tremble as I raise the glass to my lips a second time.

As I drink, I hear Mary and he have a quiet conversation.

“What did Grumbler say?”

I hear a soft snort, then, “He told me to tell you to get your ass back home. He’s about half an hour away and wants you there before him.”

Mary softly snorts. “Presumably with his dinner on the table ready and waiting.”

“Hey, I’m only the messenger.” Having glanced up in shock, I see Niran grinning at her.

Fuck no. Not her as well.I open my mouth to tell her she shouldn’t stay in an abusive relationship, and that hers is one is what I’m hearing.

But she replies before I can open my mouth, “Grumbler’s a pussy, Niran. I can handle him.”

Niran grunts. “I know you can. I’m more worried about what he’s going to do tome, woman. I should have taken you home.”

Mary’s peal of laughter is so at odds with my circumstances, it makes me sob, unwittingly regaining their attention.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She looks at me in concern, and I know I look a mess—fresh and drying tears on my face, my eyes red and swollen. Heat burns my cheeks from my distress. She notices everything, making the suggestion now my crying has eased, “Why don’t you go and wash your face?”

It’s a sensible suggestion, but I immediately baulk at it. Why do I care how I look, or how I feel? Nothing could be an improvement.

Seriously, though, I do need the bathroom. That the baby is using my bladder as a trampoline hasn’t changed. So, I give her a small nod, and Niran offers his hand to pull me to my feet. Avoiding him, I stand, pause to get my strength, then walk off on my own.

As I sit to do my business, I can’t stop my hand running over my swollen belly. While I appreciate the strangers’ concern, I don’t want to talk to them, don’t want to give voice to the words that echo around my head. Putting what’s happened into words will make it real. If I don’t admit the problem, I can still run from it, bury my head and continue as usual. I can get up in the morning, go to work—if they haven’t sacked me for not turning up—and pretend everything’s normal. That’s a good plan, isn’t it? Blot it out, forget it, concentrate on growing my baby.

Even if I wanted to talk to someone, it wouldn’t be the kind and caring Mary. She’s pregnant, maybe not as far along as me, and from her lack of distress, presumably the clinic told her that her baby is healthy. She’d never understand my situation, nor the choice I’m being asked to make. It’s my problem, my decision, and I don’t want to be influenced by anyone else.

Niran? He’s a man. I wouldn’t dream of involving him. He wouldn’t want to hear about feminine weakness. I shudder.He scares me.

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