It’s not for money, because I’ve got none.
I should have guessed immediately by the softness of the bed I’m laying on, that this is not my place. Nothing’s as bad as the thin mattress I sleep on when I can. Now that I’m not focused on hearing the heavy steps outside the door, or the loud knocking, threatening to break down the door and warning of unimaginable retaliation, I hear the clattering sound of someone cooking.
I’m one hundred percent sure it’s not Jeremy, because he’s worse than me in the kitchen, and we don’t have enough money to buy any groceries. So we scrap what we can at work. A few gropes and some flirting always works magic with Ed. If it weren’t for how broken my body is, I would really believe this was a dream, because only in my dreams am I lucky enough to have someone cooking for me.
Those days I call good days are the ones when I’ve made a bit more money than usual the previous night, and I can have asmall cinnamon latte at my favourite coffee shop. They’re few and far between, but it’s something I look forward to. They’re a small light in this darkness that is my life.
Is it cinnamon latte day? I close my eyes, wishing with my whole being that this is my new reality. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember why I’ve ended up here.
I scoff, and my body protests again, making me hiss, and I carefully touch my tender side wondering if my ribs are broken or just bruised. I close my eyes again, because if this is a dream I don’t want to wake up. If I’m dead, I’m happy. I would have chosen an eternal life with no pain, but if this pain is the price I have to pay to be free, I’ll welcome it.
I bury my face in the crook of my elbow, trying to make the most of my luck, but as soon as my face comes in contact with my arm, pain shoots directly to my head, moving the jammed wheels in my brain and bringing forward blurred memories of last night. Bile rises up and I try to swallow it down so as not to dirty this heaven I’m in, but my throat is made of broken glass shards.
I scramble, or more like inch out of bed in slow motion. My body still protests the rough treatment. I keep going, though, because my mind is telling me I’m not safe. Once I’m on my feet, after a long list of swearing, peppered by hissing and groaning, I’m finally able to look around the room from a standing position, and it looks even better than before. I dry the tears forming in my eyes with a gentle swipe of my long-sleeve T-shirt.
I glance down at myself, hoping to have my clothes on but noticing that what I’m wearing is not mine. As if I would spend money on pyjamas when I barely have money for the bare necessities. And ones as expensive as these look. None of my clothes are in the room. I’ll have to leave like this. It’ll be bloody cold.
“I put them in the washing machine,” a rough voice says, sending my heart into my throat and making me squeal.
I spin around, nearly falling onto my bony arse, while my heart still tries to come out of my mouth. My body nearly collapses under the agony, and my stomach revolts and nearly paints his floor with my stomach acid. The flee or fight response doesn’t work, and while my panic spreads, I remain in this limbo of pain.
He speaks again, and even if his tone is still harsh, there’s also something that someone as starved of kindness as I am might mistake for caring. But maybe it’s just pity.
I glance his way, finding the stranger from the bar in front of me. He’s leaning against the door frame looking as handsome as last night, but he doesn’t look much happier than when we were talking at his table. Tears blur my vision and relief fills me to the brim. I’m not sure why, but my body and mind implicitly believe he’s a safe space.
Have I lost my mind? Trusting someone I barely know, it’s not like me. But his touch… his touch was like water in the desert. I’ll blame the scare I had… yesterday? Earlier? Time doesn’t have any meaning for me at the moment.
Fragments of last night flash in front of me, some vivid and some unclear, creating a chaotic movie in my head. I thought I was going to die last night, suffocated by that nasty dick. That fucker wanted to do me and I couldn’t, not with this man’s touch still lingering on my skin, so I refused and I paid for that. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. The first slap to my face sent me flying and slamming against the wall, turning my world upside down.
Then he kicked me in the side while I was lying on the ground. The pain had been unbearable, and in that moment I’d believed some of my ribs broke under his assault.
I pass my hand down my side, as if to make sure everything is fine, and bite my lips to keep in a yelp.
“Are you okay?” His tone is brusque, but his face shows a hint of concern, and my brain is convinced that he cares.
It must be the lack of human kindness I’ve felt for so long, if even a hint of it makes me believe someone really cares about me.
I take a shallow breath to avoid engaging my ribs, and the pain settles into a dull ache. How am I going to work like this? How am I gonna pay Dick? My breath speeds up under the fearful thoughts.
The sound of a clearing throat disperses the looming terror, and my attention goes back to the other man in the room. Words stumble out of my mouth. “Why am I here?” I say, trying to getup.I need to go.Panic spreads, making me clumsy inside my bones, until a doubt enters my mind.Why can’t I remember?
The hot stranger’s lips twitch, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Do you really want to have this conversation before breakfast?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, instead he turns around and disappears into another room.
Probably the kitchen because the familiar sound of pans hitting the stove reaches my ears.
When I enter the room, he’s still cooking, something that smells like pancakes. I really hope that’s what he’s making because they’re my favourites. It’s more or less a thousand years since I’ve had one. I clear my throat to advise him, but he doesn’t turn around.
“You should stay off your feet,” he says without turning around while I stand there salivating like a kid in a candy shop. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”
My hungry stomach dictates my behaviour, and I move further inside the room and slowly make my way to the table. Sitting down will take some effort, and I’m sure by the time I have my arse on the chair my body will be covered in sweat and my teeth will be on the way to becoming dust from clenching them together too hard.
Instead, the chair is pulled out and then a well-formed and tattooed forearm appears in my line of sight as if inviting me totake it. I look up to find the stranger waiting impatiently for me to act on his invite.
“What’s your name?” My mouth runs away from me, while my hand lands on his arm, and then slowly, like we’re snails, he helps me sit.
“Haden,” he shares, and I concentrate on his voice as it’s a balm for the pain. “And this is my place.”
