The days are easier, the light chasing the shadows and hearing Damian move around the house gives me comfort.
I’m not alone.
For the first time since my parents died, I’m not alone.
These are the things I focus on instead of trying to process everything that happened in the container.
“You okay?” Damian asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.
I nod and then begin to prepare a cup of coffee for myself. I’ve learned Damian only drinks water, so I don’t bother asking if he’d like some.
When I take a sip of the coffee, Damian gestures to the kitchen table. “Take a seat.”
Slowly I’m becoming more comfortable being around him, and even though I’m still wary, I’m not terrified of him any longer. I don’t know when it happened, but it just crept up on me.
I pull out a chair and sit down, placing my cup on the table, then I meet Damian’s gaze that’s still as intense as when we first met.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and the sight of Damian grinning, robs me of my breath. It makes him look younger. He almost looks normal until I see the black ink snaking up from beneath the charcoal t-shirt he’s wearing. Instantly everything snaps back into place.
This man is far from normal.
His smile disappears as fast as it came when I don’t smile back at him. “It’s been two months. It’s time for you to go out.”
“Where to?” My eyes widen, not liking the sound of leaving the house one bit.
I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.
“Shopping for clothes while I take care of something,” he answers vaguely.
My curiosity makes me ask, “Take care of what?”
“A job,” Damian replies, his eyes sharpening on me. “I still have to work.”
Right.
I’m not sure I want to know what the job entails, so instead of asking, I pick up the cup and take a couple more sips.
Silence stretches between us until I muster up the courage to ask, “How… uhm… how did you get into this line of work?” Then, feeling awkward for asking, I begin to stammer, “It’s just… it’s not every day a person meets a…”
“A cleaner. I’m referred to as a cleaner.” Damian leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Someone close to me was taken while I was away on tour. When I came back, it was too late. I killed the person who took her, and since then, it became my job. Jeff is the only person I trust. He was the old man who stood guard outside the container you were held in.”
Container… Old man.
The memories I’ve been fighting to keep buried shudder through me like shockwaves. My eyes snap shut as the flimsy wall I’ve managed to erect between myself and the trauma begins to give way.
No, don’t think about it.
Just breathe.
Don’t think.
Just breathe.
“Sorry,” Damian whispers.
I shake my head, slowly opening my eyes and focusing my gaze on the almost empty cup of coffee.
How much does the old man know of what happened in that container, and did he tell Damian?
My cheeks grow hot with shame, and the scabs that have managed to form over the wounds inflicted on my soul crack open.
“Shit happens to the best of us, Cara,” Damian murmurs. “It’s how you deal with it that counts. You have to fight for what you want. Otherwise, this life will chew you the fuck up and spit you right out. You're either a fighter or a nobody, and I’m sure as hell, not some nobody. You don’t look like a nobody, either.”
I latch onto the sound of Damian’s voice, letting his words sink deep.
“I want to be a fighter,” I admit, my tone battle weary.
“Then fight, Cara,” he says. I lift my eyes to his, and seeing the strength in his pale blue irises makes me feel a little better. “I’ll be there every step of the way to help you.”
Why?
I can’t bring myself to ask the question, so instead, I just nod.
“Cara, we’re leaving,” Damian calls out.
I’m hiding in the hallway, trying to scrape the courage together to walk out by myself.
“Cara,” he calls again, and I have to force my feet to get moving. I take one step at a time, but halfway down the stairs, my chest closes up.
As the front door gets closer, I can hear my panicked breaths. They sound distorted and way too loud. I wrap my arms around my waist when a dizzying wave washes over me.
“You’re doing good,” Damian says as he comes to stand at the foot of the stairs. He lifts his arm, holding his hand out to me.
I stare at his strong fingers, and needing whatever strength he can spare me, I instinctively grab hold of his hand. His grip is firm, and I manage to take the last couple of steps down until I stop next to him.