Page 24 of Homebound
Only when Gemma reached the guards did she put away her weapon.
“Nice job, lady. I couldn't have handled them better myself,” one said with admiration. The other nodded his head in approval.
“No thanks to you,” she spat.
“You didn’t even need us! Are you sure you don’t want to apply to be a guard?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
She forcefully shoved the chair over the protruding threshold nearly sending Simon into a tumble. They got into the elevator, and as it began its shuddering crawl up, the tremors started. Gemma covered her face with her hands and took in a deep shuddering breath. It didn’t help, and by the time they arrived on the third floor she was shaking hard, her hands barely able to form grips around the wheelchair handles.
And in the background, she could perceive an undercurrent of energy trying to pass through. It was weak and intermittent like low voltage electrical spasms that surged and spread without focus.
“It’s alright, Simon. We’re almost there.”
Had he perceived anything of what had happened? He seemed agitated, if one could look agitated without moving or blinking.
She took him to his cell and carefully pushed him out of his chair onto the cot. From there, she helped him sit up straight, legs folded and back to the wall. Taking him out to the courtyard had proven a bad idea. The worst.
With shaking hands, she went to unbutton his coat to inspect his neck.
“Oh, Simon… I’m sorry.”
Deep bruises in the shape of the Tarai’s fingers marred the pure white column of his smooth throat. There were gouges where the sharp nails pierced the skin. Pale bluish blood had seeped out to smear the collar of his coat.
Gemma started crying.
“I’m so sorry, I should have never taken you out. They were awful. Vultures. Here, let me clean you up. Does it hurt? I hope only a little. Oh, I’m so sorry.”
The energy that was Simon flared, fluttered around her like a wounded bird wanting to take flight. Her distress seemed to be reaching him and plucking at his inner chords making them vibrate, all garbled up, inside his broken shell.
“What is it? Are you angry at me for taking you down? You should be. I’m angry at myself. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
She wiped her tears and cleaned his neck with the hem of the shirt she was wearing underneath her overcoat, her own shirt, the one she knew was clean because she washed it herself with good strong soap Aunt Herise sourced from God only knew where. She felt like using prison-issue anything to wipe his spilled blood would be a sign of detachment.
“Your cellmates are jerks, but that shouldn't stop us. We’ll figure out a way for you to go outside.”
She took one of his hands and rubbed the back of it, noting how his nail beds were empty of nails, the scars knotted and puckered. He’d suffered some awful treatment. He deserved nothing but compassion.
“While I’m here, you will never be alone.” She gently squeezed his hand.
His energy spiked again, and just before it subsided, his fingers curled around hers, and he slowly squeezed them back.
Chapter 8
Gemma arrived at OO’s office in time for the appointment she’d requested with him. An appointment was not considered time worked, and hers would be deducted from her pay, but she didn’t mind.
As she waited by the door, she wondered idly since when Simon’s well-being became important enough for her to willingly lose her precious money. But here she was, having worked up the nerve to push her agenda.
Sometime late last night, while helping Aunt Herise strain goat yogurt the family ate for breakfast, the solution to feed Simon had presented itself. The yogurt, with its excellent nutritional value, was easy to digest and even easier to swallow. It was just the food Simon needed. And she could go without breakfast now and then.
But how to deliver it to him? Any item brought in from the outside was considered contraband. Gemma had heard stories, of course, of how stuff got smuggled in. Busy minds knew no boundaries, and every body cavity held the potential to become a hiding place.
None of it seemed right nor safe to Gemma, and stashing contraband inside anus or vagina wouldn't work well for yogurt anyway. Not that she considered it, but still. Imagine tucking it in. Or taking it out.
She had pondered on her dilemma while mechanically helping Aunt Herise in the kitchen, and decided that if the yogurt couldn't come in, then Simon had to go out.
The door opened, and OO was standing there, polished glassed gleaming, looking at her. Assessing.
