Page 26 of Ruined

He issues a series of rapid fire questions at the very nice man, expecting him to have all the answers.

“I suppose we had some influence on this outcome, but no, Bobby. We didn’t do this. They did this. This is what they do, the government. They use people, and when those people are no longer useful, they are discarded. And when they are discarded, they fall from grace and leave society and are found grotesque by others.”

He speaks very prettily, and with intellect. I like smart people. I used to be smart, before thinking got too painful and my ears got loud.

“Come with me, Riley. I will give you a bath.”

He will give me a bath. But I don’t have anywhere to put a bath. I suppose if I turn it upside down it might provide some kind of shelter.

* * *

It turns out he does not mean he intends to give me a physical bath. He has filled a bath with water, and he gently helps me disrobe, peeling off layers of clothing until he reaches the parts that have begun to stick to me from being on me too long.

He shows no outward sign of disgust. I think this man is dangerous and probably cruel. I can see it in the lines of his face and in the depths of his eyes. But those qualities also seem to mean he is not sensitive to disgusting and depraved things.

He offers a hand, helping me to step into the warm water which immediately turns a yellowish brown as I sink down into it. He picks up the shower head from above the bath, pulls the plug, and lets the water drain away, rinsing me down while I sit curled up in the ceramic tub.

The water is warm and the steam rises around me, and I feel comforted even though I am naked and broken. He drizzles a sweet and floral wash over me and massages it into my hair and my shoulders and down my back.

“Open your legs,” he orders, his tone firm but gentle. I do as I am told, and his hand runs down the sunken plane of my body, taking a washcloth covered in a thick lather of soft soap down between my legs.

He washes every part of me with a tender care that I can feel even through the numbness that has wrapped me up in its arms for the past few months.

When the water runs clear, he returns the plug to its place and refills the tub around me, leaving me to soak, clean for the first time in weeks.

There are marks on my body that weren’t there before, sores and scabs, and one ugly scar above the line of dirty blonde hair that lies in a pelt between my thighs. I shut my eyes so I don’t have to look at it.

“We all have scars, Riley,” he says. “Don’t be ashamed of it.”

I’m not ashamed. It makes me feel terrible to look at it. It makes me feel deep loss. And it makes the ringing in my ears start all over again. I put my hands to my ears and shake my head. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to remember.

But I am starting to remember.

Angelo.

The name of the man bathing me is Angelo.

He gently takes my wrists and lowers them into the water where they feel warmer and better and I feel safer.

“I know you were hurt, Riley,” he says. “And I know the people you relied on to help you were the ones who hurt you. And I know you have been alone. I could not help you before. You were watched. At least, until you slid from society and became something they were ashamed to look at. You may feel broken, but I can assure you, you are truly free for the first time in your life.”

The ringing in my ears fades as he speaks. I look up into his uncommonly handsome face, and I see something I have not seen in the eyes of any person in a long time. I see acceptance. Full. Complete. Unconditional acceptance of me and who I am.

The numbness is fading, leaving me raw. I am one big wound, and I wail like one, turning into tears that run down my cheeks and join the bathwater which embraces them like old friends.

Angelo makes a soft tutting sound and helps me stand, lifting me under my arms. He pulls me into an embrace, though he is fully clothed, albeit with his shirt sleeves rolled up. I soak him with my wet nudity, but he does not care. He grabs me up entirely out of the bath. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist. I cling to him like a baby monkey clings to its mother and he carries me out of the bathroom and into a bedroom I remember.

It feels like home.

There is clothing. None of it fits, but I do not mind because all of it smells like him, and Bobby. I remember Bobby too. I remember everything I locked away and kept repressed to avoid the prying eyes of the agency who ruined and abandoned me.

Angelo dresses me in a thick, hooded sweatshirt that falls to my knees. It feels like something Bobby would want to wear, and Angelo would not tolerate. But he is letting me wear it, and it wraps around me all cozy.

“We are going to shop for you. But for the moment…” He crouches down and puts big, long socks on my feet, cozy fabric wrapping around my quickly cooling extremities and rising all the way to my knees. I am not wearing any underwear. I am barely clothed, but he has made me feel covered and comforted and safe.

“Now,” Angelo says when he is happy with me. “Let’s go get you fed again.”

11

---