Page 19 of Property of Camo

“Skyla?” comes a familiar voice and it breaks my heart.

“Aston, honey. Are you okay?”

My heart stops in my chest as he steps out from between the two large cans. I grip the strap of my purse tighter as I take in his face. He has a split lip, with a blood trail down his chin, and his eye is almost swollen shut.

“Oh, baby,” I cry, stepping closer and gently pulling him to me. “He did this? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My side hurts.” He sniffles.

No doubt he will have some awful bruising on his ribs.

“Why did he do this?” I crouch down so we are eye level.

“He was drunk, and they ran out. My mom had no more money to buy more beer. He got angry, then hit her. I stepped in to stop him and he started hitting me.” Tears flow down his cheeks and I cry with him, no longer able to hold back.

“You are coming home with me, and I am going to make some phone calls, okay?” His body tenses up.

“They will put me in foster care; I have heard kids like me get killed there.” He shakes in fear, making my heart crack open again.

With my hands on his shoulders, I try to soothe him the best I can because I know for a fact that what he is saying is true. Believe me, I saw it myself over the years before I escaped.

“We can go to my house and I will keep you safe, Aston, honey. Come on, I will explain once we get home.”

He nods after a few seconds of looking me in the eyes, seeing whether he can truly trust me. I like that he is still cautious, and not letting his guard down. For years to come, Aston will always have trust issues, and he will always need self-preservation for him to survive in life.

Eva, Rocky, Milo, and I know this all too well, but we will help Aston in every way we can.

I load him into my car, sitting him in the back seat and strapping him in. Thankfully, I only live twenty minutes from my gym, so we arrive at home in no time.

We climb out, both shivering from the sudden cold after being in a warm car. Salem in fall is beautiful but it can be damned cold. We quickly rush to the front door, and I unlock it, making sure that my car locks also, because more often than not, I forget to do that.

“Okay, make yourself comfortable. I am going to find something warmer for you to get changed into, okay? Would you like a shower?” He shakes his head, his sneakers already removed, and he sits on my sofa, his butt on the edge, and his head almost buried between his shoulders, like he is afraid to relax.

“Aston, baby.” He looks at me, tears filling his eyes, and I move to him. “You can relax here. I know that this is scary and you do not know me well enough, but I will never hurt you, okay?”

He slowly nods.

I kiss the top of his head, and he sits back, while I stand and go upstairs to my room to find something that he can change into because his clothes are damp, and he has some blood on his sweatshirt.

Finding a pair of sweats that belong to Eva, who is much shorter than me, and an old college T-shirt that I am sure will fithim okay for now, I make sure to make some noise as I enter the living room, so he knows I am coming.

I have been in his shoes, living with the fear of when the next slap and punch will come. Lying in bed at night in one of the foster homes that I had to stay in, listening to the footsteps or the creaks of the flooring, holding my breath to see if I was that night’s victim.

One home I stayed in for almost six months before the social worker caught on to what was happening and removed me. The couple had a son the same age as me and he would do the sly kick or pinch.

Then one night, I fought back, and the father of the family hit me so hard he knocked me out. They threatened to tell the social workers that I was stealing and I would be placed back into a group home, so I kept quiet.

The next time he touched me was his last. I was washing dishes, and he came in and trapped me against the sink, slipped his hand under my top and grabbed my breast. I flipped the fuck out so he went into full animal mode and told me that I owed him my body.

He tried to rape me, but I hit him with a saucepan and ran. I phoned the police, who called the social worker and thank fuck, they all believed me.

“Skyla?” My name being called pulls me back from my thoughts.

“Shit, sorry. Here, you can change into these.”

“Are you okay?” his soft voice asks me.

Smiling at him to reassure him, I nod. “I am good, just thinking of my childhood.”

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