Edith Olson (skintightsecret) wrote in savingthegames, @ 2015-01-08 00:46:00 |
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It started with Brian on Christmas Eve. She didn’t know how he’d gotten her phone number, but it wasn’t as though she’d changed it since her days at the Coalition and the world was much smaller than it led on. She found him camped out on the streets in Haven, coked up and out of his damn mind. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there, let alone recognize her or remember that he’d called her, instead mistaking her for someone from his childhood. Eddie took him back to her apartment – such as it was, half of it in boxes by that point – and he experienced the last shreds of the drug’s euphoric pull in her bedroom, chattering and painting wild stories. Afterwards he rested on her bed, pale and clammy, but calm and still. He took her hand as she sat next to him and talked about the few weeks in between the collapse of the gang and how he ended up here in her apartment. Brian knew he had to quit, but hadn’t known where to go until he’d seen her post on the internet. “Do you miss it?” He asked. “Miss what?” “The…the high. When you feel…you feel powerful, invincible, you feel like you’re floating above it all. Nothing touches you. Nothing hurts.” He tilts his head. “You miss it?” Her smile was ages older than her and worlds more tired in moments like these. “Yeah.” Three days later, Brian’s attempted withdrawals sent him to the hospital. They wouldn’t let her see him. He died of a heart attack at 9:47 PM. Loss, the unfairness of death to those who fought to live, was a common theme in her life. Brian’s body was returned to a family which paid the bare minimum to have it buried. There were no thanks for trying to save him; only glances of soured milk and repressed blame. It had been her first serious loss since her mother died and she thought she had handled herself rather well, or that was what she told herself. Even at Christian’s funeral, she had maintained her composure, hand in Tristan’s, supporting loved ones. Children kept dying. Children needed to stop dying. So she compiled her resources. Though she quit her job at the doctor’s office as her CNA training came to a close and her job at Franklin Hospital was impending, she used the internet and her old contact list to track down her most immediate circle of friends from the gang. Most didn’t want to speak with her, but there were some who craved the gateway to freedom that she offered. And so she took them to the doctors using her own money, relied on a supportive Tristan to help navigate the medical arena. She found them rooms at the local shelters. For the underage kids, she started working with Julian to help them get into NKN or various other schools. Helped try to get them on some track to a life outside of violence and addiction and sex. It wasn’t easy; it wasn’t ever going to be. Not only did they have months and years of heartache and damage to undo, but the system was never so simple to maneuver. Some of them would be left in limbo and some wouldn’t receive immediate treatment. Some would go back to their habits. But for now, for the handful she could help, she’d done all she could and would continue to do so. Sarah and Megan Wu were sixteen year old twins. They’d run away from home at fourteen after they learned they were both able to conjure visions of the future and their parents reacted as most religious, authoritarian ones did. They joined the Coalition as “mice”, Genevieve used to call them. They ran errands, picked up the trade of the petty thief, and basically fed information of future events when and where most promising for the Coalition. By the time Eddie left, they’d turned sixteen, filled out, and had started prostituting themselves. Eddie got the call from a payphone on Thursday, sitting at home watching television while Tristan was out. “Edith speaking.” She answered the unknown number. For a moment there was no sound but billowing cackle of wind against the receiver. “Is this…the Edith who’s been helping Coalition members?” The voice was tiny, afraid, young. Eddie immediately turned the television off. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s your name, sweetie?” “I’m Megan Wu. My sister’s Sarah. I don’t know if you remember us, but –” “No, no, I do.” She affirmed, leaning forward in her seat. Images from months ago started replaying in her mind. She could see them so clearly. “I remember you girls. Tell me what’s going on. Where are you?” “We’re in Isle. Us and some of the other girls, we work for this guy, Nathan. But Sarah – Sarah’s really sick. I think she’s got a disease. And he won’t take her to a doctor.” Eddie exhaled into her hand. Doctors cost money. And pimps didn’t want to pay or get caught when they could just as easily purchase armfuls of over-the-counter drugs. Most curatives were passed along between the prostitutes themselves. The older ones could afford to make visits on their own time and pills were shared among them. Though Eddie herself had never dealt with disease (she did use her body for income, but not as frequently as she worked as a drug-pusher and a criminal), and she knew that the Coalition tended to look after its own far better than some do-it-yourself pimp, she had still seen the ravages of what some illnesses caused to both men and women. “Okay, sweetie.” She answered. “Do you know where in Isle you are? Is there anything else about Nathan you can tell me?” “I think we’re –” “Hey!” Eddie heard a male voice shouting from some distance, answered by Megan’s startled gasp, followed by a quick: “I’m sorry, I have to go!” The line went dead. The young woman sat still, listening to the long droning noise of a dead call. “Nathan” and “Isle” were and weren’t much to go off of. Eddie had gathered a relative destination, a tentative identity, and so the scope was narrowed. She had laid in bed all night thinking about what she might do to find the girls again. After Brian’s death, she explained the situation to her boyfriend and what she wanted to do to help people, but she had promised him she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way. There was nothing wrong with digging around in the underbelly of the city. And to be honest, nobody was more qualified to do it than she was. It meant that she’d have to return to some of her old haunts to get answers, and risk confronting equally haunting faces, but a teenage girl was sick and there was no way of telling if they’d be able to contact her again anytime soon. The thought of going to these places sickened and frightened her, but she woke up the next morning determined to find the twins. She started with somewhere she’d always known to be a hub of information. Carmen’s Bar and Grille was a popular center of activity for gang and gang-affiliated folks and smack in the heart of The Rails. It opened at ten, one of the few businesses in the area that had a lunch menu. As she pulled open the doors and crossed the threshold, it was like stepping back in time. Though quiet and empty, the sweeping sensation of nostalgia could almost pinpoint rips in time where she could see her old friends sitting at tables, drinking and joking and slipping off to the bathroom for quick fucks. She could smell alcohol in the air, could feel it seeping into the wood, infusing it with the trapped smoke of hot foods; recalled the dim orange lights that made for a warm atmosphere. Today the white winter sky was in season and she approached the server near the kitchen entrance with steady motions and a tight line for her lips. “I’m looking for Carmen.” The server seemed startled, unsure, but she repeated herself and he nodded, going back into the kitchen. A few moments later, a middle-aged, tubby man emerged. His expression was one of vexation until the moment his eyes fell upon her and his own memories were stirred. “Ellie…?” “Eddie.” She corrected with a tiny nod. “It’s been a while.” “At least a year.” He said, but there was no interest in reminiscing. “What do you want?” Straight to business. She appreciated that. “I need help finding someone in Isle and I was hoping you might have information.” “Oh?” The wheels were already turning, she could tell. Carmen was quietly assessing if it was worth sharing information; if she was still trustworthy. “An old friend?” ‘Friend’ was such a loaded term, filled with nuances and falsities. “Not quite.” Eddie admitted. “He’s a pimp named Nathan, but that’s all I know.” “A pimp, eh?” Carmen repeated, and this time his expression was far more scrutinizing. “You don’t look like you’re doing so badly for yourse –” “No! Ha! Wow, no.” Eddie was psyched out of the seriousness of the moment by that direction. “I’m not looking for employment, it’s just that…he’s got a few of my old friends working for him and I miss them. Thought I’d see how they were doing.” He didn’t seem to be buying it, as evidenced by the momentary silence which followed, during which that scrutinizing gaze hardly wavered. “You know, there’s rumor on the street says someone’s been trying to help get Coalition rats straight. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?” She felt her chest tighten as she forced the lie. “I’m afraid I don’t. Overall, it’s not really my scene anymore.” A pause, and then a light, almost conversational: “Yeah, I can see you’re doing better for yourself. Sorry, missy, but I can’t help you. If there’s a Nathan in Isle, then he’s new blood. You won’t get much from this part of the city.” Eddie mouth twisted. “Alright, any recommendations on where I can get more answers?” “Go to West Waverly.” Carmen said. “There’s a bar in Haven called Perra Sucia. They might be able to help. And Ellie –” Eddie stopped, having turned on her heel the moment he said the name of the bar, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yeah?” “Things aren’t the way they used to be. Be careful what you’re getting yourself into.” Perra Sucia didn’t open until four, and the filthy name was appropriate. Haven itself was the prime example of wasteland in a city and Perra Sucia was little more than a shack with neon lights and dirty windows. Men and women alike sat outside, facing the cold air and wind for a smoke. Tacky Latin music played out of outdated speakers over the doorway, dosing her with a healthy amount of trumpet. Her presence garnered attention and looks, both of which were discomforting. But she had her powers and her knives and her willfulness. She was too tired of feeling like some kind of victim. Once inside, cigar smoke filled her lungs and stung her eyes. The smell of liquor was much the same as it was in Carmen’s, but it was mixed and spiced. As she crossed to find the bartender, a man at a table mimed the act of jacking off in her direction, hissing “Conchaaa, conchaaa. Voy a soñar contigo, concha.” It’d be scary and disturbing if she hadn’t been the object of such perverse behavior in the past. So she continued onward, heckled by the laughter of the man and his friends. The bartender was an older woman who threw a kitchen towel at the direction of Eddie’s creepy pal, telling him to shut the hell up and be respectful before kinder eyes shifted towards the young woman. “Hello there. I’m Marisol. What can I get you?” It was bizarre as anything that this lovely older woman was running a bar in a place called Dirty Bitch, but stranger things had happened, she figured. “Nice to meet you, Marisol. I’m actually not interested in a drink; I wanted to know if you could help me find someone?” “Oh now.” Marisol’s expressive mouth and eyes shaped into a visage of overstated, mother-like disapproval. “No drink for you? We have the very finest selection of rums in the city, you would be so surprised!” Eddie’s laugh was a bit nervous and self-conscious. “No, I really can’t. I don’t drink, I’m sorry.” “Well.” The woman patted her arm. “A lemonade, then?” “That would be – yeah, that’d be great, thank you.” “So tell me, dear. Who are you looking for?” Marisol asked as she reached for a glass. Eddie peered around a bit, hoping she wasn’t still drawing too much attention. There were folks perched on stools all across the bar, but they for the most part seemed to be minding their own. She caught a glance of one man staring at her from a few seats away. She had to be cautious. Marching into any unknown without a modicum of awareness led to pretty ugly events. “I’m looking for a pimp who goes by the name of Nathan. He’s supposedly in Isle. I was told you might know where I could find him.” “A…pimp?” “Ah, uh…un…un chulo?” “Oh, nooooo, señorita, this is not such an establishment.” Marisol tsk’d, fixing Eddie’s drink behind the counter. “We are very honest business. Why do you ask for this Nathan?” “An old friend of mine works for him. I thought I’d stop by and see her.” The lemonade was served. “Gracias.” “You, ah…you want the services of the girls?” Marisol asked and it was just about as embarrassing as Carmen assuming she wanted back in that market. “Nope, just to pay a visit.” “Well, I am very sorry, but we don’t know this chulo. Who told you to come here?” Eddie took a drink. “Carmen. He suggested this might be the next best place to ask. You think you might know anyone in Isle itself who’d have an idea?” Marisol’s lips were pursed tight, a thin, maroon line on a backdrop of rich parchment skin, aged and lined and sun-kissed even in the awning of January. “They say there is someone asking after Coalition people.” She glanced down and up, her brow furrowing. “He told me you would come.” Eddie made a face, the cheer of lemonade and a halfway decent conversation fading into ice cold daggers in her gut. Something was wrong. It was wrong, it was perilous, and it was already inside of her. Her vision began to blur and she blinked hard, trying to force her eyes to focus, but the man a few stools down was moving towards her. “You drugged me.” She tried to push off the counter, thinking that she needed to reach for her blade or try to morph into her shadowed form to escape, but her mind couldn’t – everything was weakening. Fuck, her friends were going to be pissed. “I’m sorry, señorita.” Marisol said as the man fitted in behind the young woman, taking her by the waist. “But we do not like interlopers.” Eddie’s head felt heavy and it fell back onto his shoulder. The last thing she saw were the ceiling lights as they faded into shooting stars. The first thing she became aware of was her own breath, followed by the uncomfortable position of her arms and the feeling of metal against her wrists. It didn’t seem to click yet that something was wrong, but she shifted her horizontal body. “Hey, Tris –” The heaviness of her tongue, the sudden stench of heroin, the unfamiliar voices all collided with her drugged mind like a train and her eyes flew open. Metal. Handcuffs. She was handcuffed to a bed post. The room was dilapidated, filtering in the dying light of the day, with peeled wallpaper and two rusted beds with filthy, stained mattresses. She looked down the length of the bed and saw herself removed of her coat, the air cool where it slipped through her long blouse and leggings. She tried to feel for her weapons, but concluded at their lack of weight that they’d stripped her of them. Eddie contemplated shadowing through the cuffs, but her head lulled back onto her forearm, dead with its own weight, and she felt the slow climb of panic. One of the voices stopped, noticing that she was awake, and she tried to drag heavy limbs away from him. He was the concha man. With grimy fingers he touched her calf, traced the lining of muscle, and she knew that look of lust clear as day. A part of her, the part of her that was seventeen again, was terrified. For a moment she recalled vividly the feeling of absolute helplessness when she’d been cornered and raped by those men. But she wasn’t that child anymore. She was stronger, livid, and not afraid to fight back, even with what meager potential she had in this state. As his hand moved further up her legs, she clamped her thighs shut and hissed, “Get off.” “With pleasure, mamacita.” He grinned, moving atop her, and she was prepared to do anything possible that her body would allow to fighting him off, but a second man came over and gripped him by the shoulder, removing his weight. They argued for a bit, and though she only understood bits and pieces (especially the part where he mimicked her in a feminine tone going “get off”), it didn’t take much comprehension to know that he argued to have her and the other man certainly wasn’t going to let him. Lucky stars. It could’ve been worse. “Why am I here?” She hissed through a solid jaw. “Let me go.” A gurgle of noise from around the corner of the wall indicated a third person. It was then she noticed the shadow rocking back and forth on the wall. Damnit. Someone was fucking doped up. So that was where the smell was coming from. The man who had pried Concha from her, as it turned out, was the one she’d seen at the bar itself. He looked haggard, drawn in, like he’d been a creature of addiction for decades. In one of his hands was a syringe. At first she thought it might be for her, but she understood he’d have been shooting up if she hadn’t woken up. “You don’t know why you’re here?” He asked, his voice low and rumbling. “I think it would be obvious.” “How ‘bout you enlighten me.” He did as she asked, whipping out her switchblade from his pocket. He twirled it in his fingers as Concha moved aside. “Things have gone to shit in this city over the past year.” He explained, and his tone was soft and almost friendly in comparison to the sharp edge of her blade. “Our way of life is threatened.” “You’re not a fucking dodo bird, get over yourselves.” She hissed, and as per usual, it was the wrong thing to say. Though Concha chuckled, Bar Man moved in and pressed the blade to her mouth, slipping it between her lips. There was no threat to accompany the action and they were locked in a standstill for several moments before he moved away again and she released her breath. “Message received.” “So you understand, do you?” He asked. “Yeah. Gangs are falling, 54th is tailing all of your prospective lowlifes, the empire's losing real estate, and here I am trying to take your buyers and bitches out from under you. Sure, I get it. Do you know where chulo Nathan is or not?” This garnered a hand across her face. The lash of pain, accompanied by the numbness from the drug, caused her entire head to tingle and ache. Prickles of fear when she thought about the box and about her abuse at the hands of many men in her life seemed to be ever-present in her chest, but she wasn’t going to die by her own blade. Her legs still felt weak – everything felt raw – but she could feel the muscles twitching and reacquainting themselves. The drug was wearing off. “You going to kill me? Fuck me? Mutilate me and dangle me off a billboard? Or are we all just going to join Dopey over there and kick it for the rest of the evening?” Bar turned flaming red. “You – you are such a –” “A what, for fuck’s sakes. Everybody’s always telling me to watch out for the baddies of the city, but you know what? You guys ain’t even icing on a birthday cake!” It was Concha’s turn to strike her, and he shoved her onto her back. A frenzy of brutal movements as he established physical dominance over her. But she wrapped her legs around his waist with a cheerful little smile. “Hello there, big guy.” It was disarming for the split second it took to jerk his body forward with her knees, slamming his head straight into the horizontal metal bar of the bedframe. He yelped, rolled onto the floor between the beds, cursing at Bar’s feet. Yeah. She had this. Red-faced and livid, Bar tried to climb over Concha to get to Eddie, but she’d already pivoted her lower body to kick him square in the chest. It was hard enough to push him back, but Concha’s attempts to stand forced him to lose his equilibrium and he fell onto the other bed. A laugh resounded from the drugged-up third party, but damn if he didn’t move. Concha stood up again, swore all the foulest words and called her all the loveliest names that no one had ever called her before, but she kicked him on top of Bar. He fell on the blade. His cry of surprise morphed into a shout of pain and Bar rolled him off. By then, Eddie had mounted up every ounce of strength and concentration she could pry from her wilted body and focused her arms into shades, ghosting them through the cuffs. She lifted off the bed on shaking legs as Bar plowed towards her, but he knees gave out, oddly in her favor, and the fell to the ground, her atop him. Bar tried to recover after his head thunked against the wooden floor, and as he did, she yanked the switchblade out of Concha’s side. Concha cried out, gripped his side, and continued writhing on the bed. Victory wasn’t to be a flawless streak, unfortunately, and Bar head-butted her – she was going to have such a very ugly face tonight – and flipped them so that she was under him. It came down to a battle of strength, which she was still not much of a competitor for, and he managed to very easily pin her arms over her head, blade and all. But her fingers held tight to the knife, disallowing him from prying it free. “So really,” she breathed through struggling lungs, “what were you going to do with me?” His breath was hot and ripe against her face. “Drug you, remove your tongue, keep one of your lovely tattoos as a memento, and deliver you back to your people as an example.” “Huh. At least you’re honest.” And then she leaned up her head the small distance between them and bit down on his nose. Bar hollered and she felt his spittle at her throat. It had distracted from his grip on her and her hands were set free. But Eddie wasn’t a murderer, not at heart. Killing another man was the last thing she could ever conceive doing and she pushed herself away as fast as she could manage. Bar gripped her leg, trying to pull her back to him, and she spat out the taste and particles of his skin in her mouth, satisfied by the view of blood running down his face. She jabbed the blade into the hand at her thigh and he cried out again – more foul words, now accompanied with threats of a most horrendous death. The only thing she could do was scramble to her feet, and as she stood, she saw her other blade on the dresser to her left. She grabbed it – And Bar rushed into her. Two knives pierced his chest, and they both gasped as they felt the penetration of metal into flesh. Her wide eyes looked in his as the light died. His body slumped and fell to the floor. With her hands on her knives and her knives in him, she fell down on top of him. Through heavy breaths and mountainous thoughts, her mind was too focused on getting out of here that the impact of what she had just done would strike her down like a vengeful god later. Once more she struggled to her feet, just as Concha tried to move off the bed. “Ah-ah-ah.” She held up the weapons, hot blood running down them and soaking her hands. “You know better, I know you do.” So he slumped on his face on the mattress, gasping in pain but relenting. “I thought so. Where’s Nathan.” “137 West Harbor Street.” He groaned. “Just get the fuck out of here, you fucking puta.” Eddie moved to gather her coat, but winced at an odd pain in her left leg. She looked down to the source and stopped cold. The syringe was in her calf. Delicately, so delicately, she reached down and pulled it out. To her small, almost inconsequential benefit, Bar never had the opportunity to inject it. But Eddie wasn’t stupid. A needle from an unknown source had just stabbed her leg. Looking to the still high man at his desk by the window, seeing how ill he was from addiction and disease, god only knew how dirty these things still were. Her hand covered her mouth. Her friends really were going to be so mad at her. She should have been mad at herself – she was, she was freshly petrified – but right now everything felt so…old, rehashed, repeated. Living was fear. And she had two girls to rescue. Eddie slipped on her coat, nearly fell down the stairs as she tried to get her way out of the building, and crashed into the exit door. Her pulse pounding, she opened it, finding herself in a building just down the street from Perra Sucia. Limping and dragging herself all the way there, she pressed against her Accord to catch her breath before whipping out her keys and falling into the driver’s seat. As she sat down, she took a deep breath and pulled out her cell phone. In the compact, still space of the vehicle, she fought the urge to cry. “Hello, hi.” She sniffed as she tried to sound entirely not fallen apart over the phone, fingers shaking, stomach twisting. “This is Edith Olson, I wanted to know if I could schedule an appointment with Dr. Bowman? Earliest possible convenience.” She had to wait an hour until she felt right enough to drive, a bruise fresh against her eye. By then she’d called Tristan, told him in the plainest of terms that she was alright, but that she needed to talk to him when she got home. It was a silly fear, but she felt like he could sense her blood pulsing through her body, lying and distorted and flooding her ears. She hung up perhaps too quickly. But she drove into Isle, the early sunset having gone, leaving everything in this deep teal. She felt tired, but the dredges of strength she had were reserved for finding Nathan. Parking down the street, she pulled her knives out of her pockets, wiping down with more venom than they deserved, hating what they’d done. What she’d done. One tucked into the high-waist belt over her blouse. The other into her boot. She exited and charged towards the address, hands in her pockets. She knocked. She waited. A young woman answered, half-naked and cigarette pinched between her teeth. She looked pleasantly taken aback. Not many women – good looking, healthy young women – stopped by for an illicit rendezvous. Her otherwise uncaring façade switched into something more lewd in nature, tapping her cigarette against the doorframe. “Hi, honey. Come on in.” Well if Eddie had any doubts as to whether she’d found the brothel, that quashed it real quick. Once the door was closed, the prostitute led her into the living area. “What’s your flavor tonight, honey? See anything you like?” She crossed in front of Eddie, running a finger along her open skin down to her cleavage, but she swatted it away. “I’m looking for Nathan.” The prostitute looked thoroughly put off by the announcement. “Honey, you’re in a house full of women who’d love to see your pretty little O face and you want to talk to Nathan?” “I know, silly me, what can you do.” It was aloof, sardonic, and certainly not in the mood to be trifled with. So the prostitute nodded that Eddie should follow her. As they passed the kitchen, she saw the familiar face of Megan Wu sitting on the lap of some middle-aged asshat who reminded her of every other disgusting man she ever had to touch in order to get a wage. The girl’s eyes went wide at the sight of her marching through the brothel – blazingly afraid and hopeful and stunned – but Eddie winked at her and pressed forward. The woman who’d answered the door knocked on what Eddie could only assume was some back study, and when a man’s voice answered, she sliced in front of her. “I’ve got this, thanks.” Nathan clamored to his feet as Eddie slammed the door behind him. Fat, slimy, balding, he was just as she pictured he’d be. Save for the gun already in his hand. “Marisol called me twenty minutes ago. I’ve been waiting for you. You think taking out some shitfaced assholes like them makes you invincible? This little baby –” he held up the pistol admiringly “– begs to differ.” “For the love of – listen, Nate.” She sighed. “Normally I don’t go around boasting, but I’m not a superhuman you want to fuck with. Trust me, I’m faster than a bullet and you don’t want to die over a pair of girls. You try to shoot me, and everything you’ve built – this really bitching empire – will be eradicated from the face of this planet before you know what hits you. Give me Megan and Sarah Wu. I’ll leave and you won’t have to deal with my really pretty face ever again. Deal?” Nathan seemed to be smarter than most of the other people she’d encountered today, pausing and openly mulling over what she’d just said. She’d given him a choice – an assbag like him didn’t deserve a choice – and either decision he made, she’d be the one victorious. Enough had happened tonight. For now she just wanted to get the twins out of here as quickly as possible. Shifting on the balls of his feet, Nathan tried to read her, but she stood there entirely still, firm in her conviction. He must have been going over the variables, every possibility, every possibility for failure. “Fine.” He grunted, lowering his gun. His free hand rose. “Deal.” Eddie knew his move, because he was actually as big of a moron as everyone else had been. She took it back. But she held out her hand in return, gripping it for a handshake, and found the muzzle of his gun pressed against her temple. “You dumb slut.” He chortled, whiskery and peppered. “You faster than this?” “Dunno!” She shrugged. “Wagering about as fast as the knife at your gut. You should lower your gun, Nate, you’re going to need both hands to hold onto your intestines if you don’t step off. PS, safety’s on.” He looked down to see her blade pressed against his belly, a testament to just how quick she was, even without her powers, and as he raised his puffy face to remark in shock, she knocked his gun hand away from her head, holding his wrist tight. “We have a deal?” She asked, this time making sure everything was settled. “Y-yes. It’s a deal. Take them. Get out of here.” He shook in fear and rage. He’d lost. Five minutes later, Eddie carried Sarah Wu to her car while Megan shouldered the last of their belongings. She drove them straight to the St. Sinjin Homeless Shelter. Forty-five minutes after that, Eddie knocked on the door to the twins’ room, interrupting the teenage girls in the middle of an exhausted, but happy conversation. Sarah was in bed resting, her sister perched at her side and holding her hand. For a moment Eddie thought of Brian. “Sorry to interrupt. I just got off the phone with Dr. Palermo. You’ve got an appointment first thing in the morning with him, Sarah. Your parents are going to take you.” The small, eager smiles of the girls slipped away at the mention of their parents. An immediate ripple of anxiety coursed between them and Eddie couldn’t help but laugh, sitting herself down on Megan’s bed. “They’re coming?” Sarah asked in hushed tones. “But – we can’t – what about what we’ve done? They’re going to know what happened when they take me.” Eddie folded her hands in her lap. She understood this concern. Though Rabah had been a horridly inattentive parent, there had been times when Eddie had skirted the issue of many of the things she’d done and had done to her for the sake of her own fear at the potential rupture of their relationship. Rabah knew her daughter was lost. She just never knew the map of the road which had misled her. “I know it’s not my place to tell you both what you have to do.” She said. “But when I talked to your parents, they were scared to death and the first thing they asked was how soon they could see you. Girls, your mom and dad love you with their whole hearts. No matter what happens, I promise you, you’re always going to be their little girls. Whatever you decide to do from here on out, remember that. Hold onto that. You have a future again – and with the future comes choice – and it’s all thanks to your bravery.” By that time, for as little as Eddie had said, Megan and Sarah were both crying silent tears and tiny sniffles. Their nightmare was over. Megan stood up and embraced Eddie, who had been unsure of how to react for a moment before her own arms folded across the girl’s back. They said thank you to her so many times that night that she’d lost count. They thanked her as they curled up for bed, thanked her as they fell asleep. She remained with them a little while longer, knowing that the moment she removed herself from this dome of peace and finality that she would be subject to her own demons once more. It felt like there was nowhere safe to cry anymore. She parked her car outside one of the parks and sobbed into her hands for a good twenty minutes. What had she done today? Who had she become? She’d fought for her life, but another’s had been taken. What sort of game was this, this trade-off that in order to live others must perish? The struggle was worth it to save the girls – of course it had been worth it – but she swallowed the nightmares of others and carried them inside of her. On Saturday she had an appointment to run tests. Hepatitis, HIV, the whole gamut. She’d have to tell Siobhan, tell Tristan. They were the only ones, she decided, who needed to know. Hell, Siobhan might have to hear everything, which would be its own can of worms. And despite the fact that she had no way of being certain, she felt relatively confident no one from Perra Sucia would come after her. They were smalltime compared to the rest of the city. These things happened. They would lick their wounded paw and carry on. After crying, she sat in her car for another twenty minutes before her phone rang. It was Julian calling to ask if everything had gone well. She put the phone on silent and drove home. She told her boyfriend everything that happened, and while it left a rollercoaster in her stomach, she curled up against him in bed that night thinking that it hadn’t really broken her. Boxes and prisons and all forms of torture, she’d become a lion, and whatever happened next, she would face it with resolve and faith that she would still make a better future for others. If the whole of her existence thus far had taught her anything, it was that hope was by far the strongest of all these forces. She was no longer afraid. |