Page 32 of The Ecstasy of Sin
I shampoo my hair next, my hands working through the tangles on autopilot. When I cough, my throat throbs so badly that I wince. I know I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow, a black and blue collar around my throat to remind me that I was almost murdered behind a church tonight.
When I’m finally done cleaning myself from head to toe, I stand under the shower head and let the heat wash over me. I soak in the warmth, letting it settle my rattled nerves and calm my still racing heart.
Images of Dominic cut through the fog in my mind, playing like a twisted movie. I imagine what he must have looked like when he saw me being strangled, and how he tore that man off of me and knocked him to the ground.
I see him in my mind, straddling the man’s chest, punching him relentlessly. I memorized the look of rage on his face, and how it morphed into something else when he finally dragged his eyes to mine.
I can recall the violence and the vengeance with perfect clarity, but my body remembers something, too. It remembers the feeling of safety that wrapped around me while I watched him beat a man to death for trying to kill me.
A sob tears through me as I feel the loss of the safety Dominic made me feel in that moment. Security isn’t a familiarpart of my life, which makes me cherish any instance of it even more.
I want him here. I want his arms around me, bloodied but solid, because he’s obviously the only person in the world that thinks my life is worth anything at all.
Someone tried to kill me tonight over a backpack. My life meant absolutely nothing to that stranger.
Which is nothing new. The world has been treating me like I’m worthless since I went into the foster system eight years ago. Even the staff here at the shelter, although kind and compassionate toward me, only make an effort to help me when I’m inside the building.
At least, that’s how it feels. I’ve been turned away from here so many times, the majority of employees simply shrug and tell me to try again tomorrow.
Dominic makes me feel seen, like it’s worth taking a risk to protect me.
If it weren’t for him, I would have died tonight. That beautiful monster wielding vengeance like it’s his birthright took a man’s life in exchange for mine.
I didn’t truly understand it at the time, but I do now. The fury etched into his face as he beat that man to death… it wasn’t just the kindness of a stranger that happened to be in the right place at the right time. When our eyes met, I saw it. I read his emotions like a book, as clear as day. He fought like he had something to lose, like he was protecting what belonged to him.
He was protecting me.
Why I mean anything at all to that man is a complete mystery to me, but he made it very clear tonight that I do. I know it with the same certainty I know he buried his knife in that stranger’s chest the moment I fled the scene.
I can’t remember the last time anyone truly gave a shit about me. Dominic’s actions have my heart breaking wide open, and I feel like I’m orienting towards him like a sunflower desperate for the sun’s life sustaining-kiss.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the confusing emotions bouncing around in my head. I barely know Dominic, and for all I know he’s a psychopathic serial killer, but that doesn’t stop my broken, scarred heart from aching for him.
He keeps showing up for me when I need him the most, even though he barely knows me. It’s crazy, but right now, I don’t care about right or wrong.
I just want to be safe. I’m desperate for it, and that’s a dangerous place to be in.
A knock on the door startles me out of my ludicrous thoughts, and I pull the curtain back to seek out the source.
Lorraine opens the door just enough to speak through it, and I find myself grateful for the privacy as I turn off the water and grab the towel.
“You’re all set, Wren. Cot number twelve, section E. Come to the front desk if you need us to call someone.”
She leaves me alone, quietly closing the door behind her, as I towel off.
Once I’m dry, I get dressed in the clean clothes she left for me. I’m grateful when I find that a hooded sweatshirt has beenadded to the pile of clothes. I pull it over my head, practically drowning in it. It’s about three sizes too big for me, which means it’ll be comfortable enough to sleep in.
I grab a blue bag from a nearby dispenser and put my wet clothes inside, picking up my soaked shoes and heading for the laundry room. I put my things to wash, then head for the dorm-style hall where the overflow beds are stationed.
I don’t have to worry about switching over my laundry in the middle of the night, because one of the volunteers will put it in the dryer for me when they do their nightly walk-through.
The women here are good about not touching things that don’t belong to them. The shelter has a strict policy about conduct and behaviour while staying here, and nobody wants to risk losing such a secure place to sleep.
I’m robotic as I sit on the side of the cot, trying my hardest to be quiet so I don’t disturb the exhausted women and children filling the beds around me.
Silent tears pour down my cheeks, and I let myself have this moment before I dry them away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
I climb onto the thin mattress and get beneath the single wool blanket, much like the one I lost tonight.
