Page 5 of Hearts Held
“No, a handful with my size hands is not as much as a fistful, which is measured within a man’s hands.” She hobbles close to me with an outstretched hand that holds a slight tremor. “Here, to keepyou safe, my heart.”
I open my hand as she drops a thin golden chain, with a petite golden oval amulet etched with symbols. “It’s a protection amulet I had made for you. The gold comes straight from Jotunheim mountains and is blessed by the waters of the gods.”
I rub the amulet between my thumb and forefinger, feelings the etched ruins. “Baba, did you give my other siblings one of these?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t be daft. I only have one favorite and that’s you. Everyone knows. None of them have your heart and wit, Everett.” She turns around to begin making a pot of tea within her relic of a kettle.
There is no arguing with her; though it pisses off some of my other siblings I can’t control her thoughts and decisions, I can influence the stubborn woman to listen—at times.
“Everett.” Her voice goes soft and apprehensive. “I know you don’t believe in my antics, but they are quite true. You know this. It predicted the war, it predicted your…”
I cut her off as she motions to my arms and body. “Baba, please don’t go there. I already relive those experiences nearly every night.”
Her eyes fall upon me, softening with such admiration. “I know, my heart. This is something different and I need you to listen.” She waits for me to set my tea down and lock eyes with her. “My heart. Someone is coming. They will change everything for the best. It will seem like the worst, but it will be for the best.”
I narrow my eyes at her sweet face. “Is this person going to hurt anyone?”
“Yes,” she states with such a dramatic pause it begins to slightly irritate my soul.
“Who?”I ask, raising an eyebrow and taking another small sip of tea.
“You, and in the best of ways.” She nods in my direction with a wicked smile upon her face.
Chapter 3: Brielle
The Fighter, In This Moment
The golden horizon appears as I leave the hospital. My new life has been ever hectic but I have been trying to collect as much money as possible to embark on my dream—a dream that seems so far away from the present: leave the United Kingdom and be rid of my past, to live in America and own a small ranch.
I shudder as each demon lurking in the recesses of my mind creeps its tendrils around my present thoughts. Bracing my arms across my chest, I trudge down the cobblestone roads.
There will be no thinking of that time. There will be no thinking of the deaths, the fire or of him.
I urge myself to focus on the busy schedule ahead by pulling out my journal from my small leather bag.
—Hospital, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday: 1900 to 0700.
—Funeral parlor, every Tuesday and Thursday: 0800 to 1400
—Flour factory, Mondays and Wednesdays: 0800 to 1400
—Note: If I pick up an extra hospital shift, will help toward goal: 18,000 Pounds
—Pay monthly to family: 90 pounds
—Ticket to America: 105 pounds
—Ticket New York to Montana: 97 Pounds
—House/land: 12,800 pounds
If I keep picking up extra shifts, I will become closer and closer to my goal. As I place my weathered journal back into the sack, my apartment complex appears before me. It isn’t much but it is mine. The bricks are worn and cobblestones have not been laid; only gravel rests in front of the building. The walk is a mere ten to fifteen minutes from each of my jobs and the rent is cheap, for it is in a rougher portion of town, but it’smanageable: scurry home, stay smart, stay safe, have multiple locks and keep aware, and anyone could live here.
Well, unless they’re dense; then they’d have no hope of survival.
In addition, the landlord is a bloody schmuck. Carlton is a fifty-year-old man who can’t take a hint, apparently. His drunken self will often approach me with flowers or ask me out on a date. Luckily, he hasn’t cared enough to observe my work schedule, and my work schedule is the best excuse to not sit with his rotund, combed-over person for a painstaking meal. He spits after every third word, oversteps boundaries and talks over everyone and anything. Goodness, I would bet he speaks over the birds singing in the morning. My colleagues retort that I should use him for the free meals, but I can’t fathom leading someone on; in addition, they wouldn’t be pleasant meals. Besides him speaking over every living thing, it would be hard to avoid his spit coming from the jutted, gaped front teeth, or ignore his third chin and overly cocked eyebrow.
No thanks.
