Beautifully Broken

I glance over my shoulder and peer into the darkness.

Can I trust this man to not hurt me? Should I make a run for it?

For a moment, the urge to run is overwhelming, and I panic. I turn away from the front door and move as quickly as I can. I rush down the porch steps and almost miss the last one.

That’s about as far I make it. The quick movements and panic deplete my energy like starving leeches. I take a couple of deep breaths, and then a hopeless sound escapes over my lips. I have no choice but to stay. I’m in too much pain to be on the run.

Please don’t let him hurt me.

I glance back at the open door, and I’m startled when I see Damian leaning against the wall right at the foot of the stairs. His eyes are on me as if he’s patiently waiting for me to decide whether I’m staying or running.

He saved me.

He’s done nothing but take care of me the past week.

He doesn’t even touch me unless it’s necessary.

I’m torn between my need to find a safe place where I can piece myself back together and running.

I’m in no state to run, and I’ve lost the meager possessions I had. The motel I was staying at has probably thrown my belongings away.

My shoulders slump wearily, and I take the stairs slowly back up to the porch. I suck in another deep breath and then step into the house where I’ll either be able to lick my wounds or… where I’ll be killed.

My heart starts to race at the thought, and I keep my eyes cast down.

I’m so tired.

My chin begins to quiver with tears as the hopeless feeling suffocates me.

“Let me show you around, and then you can get some sleep,” Damian murmurs softly as if he’s being careful not to startle me, and it makes my gaze slowly lift to his.

The intensity from his ice-blue eyes hits hard, and I instinctively take a step backward.

For a moment, a slight frown flits over his forehead before something close to compassion softens his features a little.

“You’ve been through a lot, and I get that I’m a stranger. It’s going to take time before you trust anything I say, but I’ll say it anyway – I won’t hurt you, Cara. You’re safe in this house.”

Feeling anxious, I nod. I want to beg him to mean the words.

My eyes dart around us while my tongue slips out to wet my dry lips.

The tightness in my chest increases, reminding me of my broken ribs. I wrap an arm around myself and then lift my eyes to Damian’s again.

When I nod, he turns and begins to head up the stairs. He moves slowly so I can keep up with him, but halfway up, sweat starts to bead on my forehead from the effort it takes. When I reach the top of the stairs, my head starts to spin, and I feel nauseous.

Damian glances at me. “Need help?”

I shake my head and push through, not wanting him to touch me.

I just want to sleep and never wake up.

It looks like there are three bedrooms, and Damian opens the door to the middle one. Gesturing to a set of stairs leading up to what could be an attic, he says, “My office is up there. It’s the one room that’s off-limits.”

I nod as I step into the bedroom where I’ll be staying. It’s sparsely furnished, with only a bed, bedside table, and lamp. There’s a closet against the left wall.

Using the last of my energy, I walk to walk to the bed, and I sit down. I can cry from the relief of finally being off my feet.

“Cara.” I look at the faded blue bedspread. It reminds me of water. “Cara,” Damian says a little louder.

My eyes dart to his.

He looks at the bed and then at me. “There are other covers in the closet down the hall. Change it if you don’t like these. There are some clothes in that closet,” he points to it. “They might be a bit big, but it will do for the time being.”

Damian turns around but stops midstep, then, after a couple of seconds, he says, “I have a question.”

“Yeah?” I fold my hands together on my lap and interlace my fingers tightly.

“You said Tredoux worked with your father and uncle. I’m assuming your parents have passed away?”

The grief I never dealt with mixes with the fresh trauma, making my emotions spiral out of control. While it feels like I’m being suffocated, my voice is strained as I manage to answer, “They were killed… right before I left South Africa. Uncle Tom gave me a passport… and told me to run, and that’s what I’ve done for the past seven years.”