Burning Ember (2 page)

I lock my eyes closed as my assailant rips at my underwear, and try to find my place. The place where no one and nothing can find me,
hurt me
.

But just as I’m pulling away from reality, he stops . . . stills. I gasp, and the sour stench of him fills my nose. Opening my eyes, I see his chest rise and fall heavily, but otherwise he’s a statue above me.

“Get the fuck off her, you animal, or I will slice you like a fucking cantaloupe,” a young female voice hisses.

The glint of a knife pressed against my attacker’s throat catches my eye. He turns his head, but then his eyes widen as he’s jerked back.

“Don’t,” the voice barks.

He hesitates as if calculating his odds. Or maybe he’s deciding which he’d prefer. To die. Or rape me. A second later, he cries out and scrambles off me. His hand goes instantly to his neck and a dark liquid leaks out from between his fingers. Stumbling away, he mumbles something unintelligible.

My heart’s thumping wildly inside my chest and I fight back the burn of tears building behind my eyes.

I will not cry
.

“Don’t you dare. You’re fine. Alive. Breathing. Free,” I hiss at myself under my breath. Then
I inhale gulps of air, rushing to fill my lungs as I right my shorts, and button them. I yank on the zipper, but it doesn’t zip because it’s broken.

Dammit.

I lift my gaze, and it centers on a small figure standing not two feet from me. Her black clothes blend her in with the dark room. She appears pixyish with short dark hair cut to her jawline, slender limbs, and small hands. Like Tinker Bell in human form. Only this one holds a knife.

It’s eerily silent all around us. When I speak again, my voice is louder than I intended. “I can’t believe that just . . . thank you.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I thought this room was only for women.”

Without saying a word, she spins and climbs onto the top bunk of the one next to mine. Staring after her, I wait for a reply. Only it never comes.

Pulling myself into a sitting position, my knees to my chest, I scan the sleeping area. I find eyes, lots of them, watching me, and ask myself . . . how is it a girl, even more petite than I am, was the only one with the guts to do something? Why didn’t anyone else help me?

As the minutes pass, my eyes darting to any movement or sound. Thirty-eight days on the street, and I’ve been reasonably safe. But I don’t feel safe here, not anymore.

If it weren’t for the promise of food and a shower, I’d grab my bag and leave. Also it’s still raining, which is what drove me to stay here in the first place, since the rainstorms in New Mexico are a lot like mini tsunamis. Honestly, had I known, I would’ve moved on straight through to Texas like I’d originally planned. But now, a bus ticket will set me back much more than I can afford to spend.

Hours pass. The sun gradually filters in through the windows causing the occupants to stir, wake, creating a bustle of movement and a steady hum of voices in the overly crowded room.

Closing my eyes, I clear my mind and mentally prepare to start my day by telling myself positive things I need to hear.
Things will get better. You’re stronger than you think. There’s a better life out there waiting for you.
But it’s my mother’s voice and not mine I hear
.

Standing, I turn side to side and stretch my aching back. I get the sense I’m being watched, and drop my arms.

“First time here?”

I glance to my right and see an older woman standing there. She peeks out at me through a bushel of salt and pepper hair.

“That noticeable?”

She shrugs. “Takes some time to get used to the helter-skelter of this place. Didn’t get much sleep?”

I look at my cot and for a moment relive last night all over again. A shudder rakes through me. When I gaze back to her, I say, “No, not much.”

“Give it some time. You’ll get used to it.”

Mmmm . . . I’d rather not.

She asks as she folds a blanket, “You gonna shower? The hot water doesn’t last long if ya are.”

Peering down at my hands, I see grit under my fingernails, which I’m sure consists of his skin, and blood. “Yeah . . . I could use one.”

She nods. “Do you mind watching my bag while I go? You can’t trust some people ‘round here.” Her gaze swings to a group of women in the far corner who are fixedly watching our exchange. “I’ve made a few enemies in my day,” she says, “and I’d rather not leave my stuff out in the open. I’ll do the same for you, if ya want.”

When I hesitate to answer, she adds, “You’ll learn fast you gotta earn trust first, before people will give it back to ya.”

“I get it.” And I do. If you want something from somebody then you need to give them something in return. It’s the reality I learned at a young age.

Also staying off the grid, moving from place to place, it’s a lonely and isolated existence. Having a friend, or even someone to give me advice, would be nice.

A heavy thud sounds to my right. Spinning around, my gaze lands on a pair of leaf-green eyes. They belong to a girl. The girl from last night. She stands about five-three, five-four. Her body’s almost childlike. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s no older than sixteen. But that can’t be right since she’d have to be eighteen to be admitted into the shelter. Although, I’m starting to think whoever is running this place isn’t a stickler for the rules. Considering men and women are supposed to be segregated and that wasn’t the case last night.

The girl has an oval face, high cheekbones, and big eyes lined with kohl under dark eyebrows. Her raven hair is short, shaggy, and sets off her ivory skin. She’s dressed a little gothic for my taste, in a black tank, shorts, high leather boots, and rubber bracelets cover half of her forearms.

Not so much Tinker Bell after all, more like a young Joan Jett.

Her rough exterior looks like an attempt to push away the world. But then why, out of the two hundred or so occupants of the shelter, was she the only one to come to my rescue?

“Whoa, settle it down, Red. It’s not like I’m gonna slit your throat or anything.”

Red.
I’d been called worse. Ginger, Carrot Top, and my ‘oh so’ not favorites, Fire Crotch and Freckle Monster. Though, I haven’t been called either of those in years.

Mini Joan Jett turns to the old woman and her features contort, her nose wrinkles. She makes a hissing sound while curling her fingers, further proving my theory she’s a young teen.

“Brat,” the old woman sneers at her and I’m taken aback by her sudden vehemence.

“Helga.”

“Slut.”

“Wicked Witch of the West.” Joan looks at the ceiling and circles around. “Now if only we could find a house to fall on you.”

The old woman rolls her eyes.

Joan crosses her arms over her chest and faces me. Curtly, she asks, “Who are you? What’s your story?”

“Uh . . .” I don’t give out my real name. Ever. “Red, works. Um . . . it’s my first night.” I stuff my hands in my back pockets. “Thank you for—”

She shakes her head. “Just watch your back next time, so I won’t have to. There’s more than one wolf in this forest. If you know what I mean.” Then, I’m yet again caught off guard as she fake lunges at the old woman who flinches. Joan gives an amused huff, turns and saunters off, kicking items on the floor that have the misfortune of being in her path, leaving me with the impression that she’s a little bit of a mini tornado.

The thought brings a small smile to my face. She’s got spunk, like someone else I know and miss.

Helga, as Mini Joan referred to her, is not impressed. In fact, she seems rattled as she grumbles something under her breath.

An awkward silence descends between us. Then she mutters, “Don’t pay attention to Ivy. That girl’s an ungrateful shit.”

Ivy.
Is that the girl’s name?

Not facing me, she says, “You know, you have the look of the Irish about ya. The red hair, freckles. But blue eyes instead of green.”

They’re actually blue-green, but I don’t correct her.

“I may have the look, but none of the luck.”

“Mhmmm.” She drops her bag by my foot. “Maybe you need to learn how to make your own luck. I’ll be right back. Don’t let this out of your sight.”

“Sure.” I nod and sit back down onto my cot as she walks away.

A few moments later, as I comb the rats out of my hair, a melancholy feeling hits me. It hits me about the same time every day. I pull my notebook slash scrapbook out and flip through the pages, running my eyes over a photo, then the drawings done by a five-year-old. They are the only things that cure the homesick feeling I get in the pit of my stomach.

Soon enough Helga returns with her hair wet and her skin clean, although, she’s put on the same tattered clothing.

“Your turn.”

I pull out my shampoo and conditioner from my bag. But she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t go wasting your own. They have that stuff in the shower room, and Uncle Sam can afford to help you out.”

“Oh . . . right . . . thanks.” I shove my shampoo, conditioner, and scrapbook in my bag then zip it closed.

After grabbing a change of clothes, I head toward the showers, disheartened because the highlight of my existence is now a decent meal and a shower.

Yeah . . . this is certainly not where I pictured my life going.

The water’s not ice cold, but not hot either. Bearable enough. At least it lets me clean away the visible and invisible filth I can feel covering my body. I quickly shave my goosebump covered legs and wash my hair, thankful the old woman spoke up about using the facility’s shampoo and conditioner. I can’t afford to waste the necessities I have left.

After towel drying my hair, I comb it straight and twist it into a braid. If I don’t want it to go frizzy, it’s my only option besides a bun. I slip into my other pair of jean shorts, a white tank top, a somewhat clean blue and white plaid shirt, and pull on my tennis shoes.

I pass the dining hall on my way back and watch as the volunteers stand behind tables dishing out food. Just the mere thought of food has saliva pooling in my mouth. But I need my bag before I can get in line, so I head into the room designated for women.

The cots have been folded up and put away. The bunks pushed against the walls. Most of the women are gone, leaving the middle of the room bare.

A sick feeling grips me when, I don’t see the old woman or my duffle anywhere.

My duffle, the one holding all my worldly possessions not currently on my body. Like my wallet. My extra clothes. My money . . .
my scrapbook
. The one I made that has my only pictures of Willow and the drawings she’s made me over the years. Things I’m quite certain I can’t survive without.

I scan every inch of the room twice, three times, hoping I’m wrong. That she’s here somewhere.

I whirl around in a panic and set off to search every inch of the shelter. People stare. And it only ratchets up my irritation more. Are they silently laughing at me? Did they know the entire time what the old woman was up to?

How could she do this to me?

Heat crawls up my neck and face. I grind my teeth and ball up my fists, ready to punch someone or something.

Why do I trust the wrong people? Why can’t I see them for who they really are? My mom. Sundown. Warner. How many people will I let take advantage of me before I wise up?

Falling back against the wall, I cover my face with my hands. Then push my fingers into my eyes lids as I physically and mentally fight the need to cry. I can’t let the pain tear me apart right now. I can’t afford to. I know this, and yet I slowly slide down the wall and bring my knees up so I can hide my face.

Steps thud on the linoleum. They stop right in front of me. “You all right, Red? You looked like you were trying to poke your own eyes out.”

In a droll, bitter voice, I respond, “That’s because I was.”

Ivy exhales a long breath. “I tried to warn you.” She sounds close, almost as if she’s standing over me.

She tried to warn me? How?
There’s more than one wolf in this forest?
Really? Could she have been more cryptic?

“Can you please just . . . let me fall apart in peace?” It comes out muffled. “Or is that too much to ask ‘
round here
?” I purposely mimic the old woman and put as much sarcasm behind my words as I can manage.

I’m not in a good place right now. At times like this, my temper tends to get the best of me. I try to bite my tongue. But it doesn’t last long, especially when the next thing I hear is her laugh.

I raise my head a little. Did she really just laugh? Like this is funny to her?

Black boots with blue snakes painted on the toes come into my line of vision. I’m shaking. No doubt, my cheeks are flaming red. I feel the words bubbling up and I know I’m about to snap and do what my mother always referred to as “spitting venom.” Fitting since this girl likes snakes.

“WHEN? When did you try to
warn
me? Did you come right out and say, ‘Hey, just a heads up, that old woman is going to steal your stuff.’? Or was I supposed to understand some vague Red Riding Hood reference?”

“Damn, Red, chill. No need to get all jazzy. The world’s not ending or anything. At least not today.”

I smack my head against the wall behind me. “Just go away.” My voice drops to a defeated whisper. “You don’t get it. She took
everything
.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Glaring up at her, I snap, “Seriously? Just go away.”

Instead of doing so, she slides down the wall to sit beside me. “Sheesh. Guess it’s true what they say about redheads then, huh?” After a minute, she adds, “At least with Helga you’ll eventually get some of it back.” She taps a finger over her lips. “Maybe . . . probably . . . most likely the clothes, but not the money. The money’s, well money, and that’s as good as gone.”

“Where can I find her?”

Ivy crosses her legs Indian style. “She won’t be back here for a few days. Knows you’ll be looking for her. And sadly, that woman has lived on these streets for longer than I’ve been alive, so she knows her way around this city. Best wait for another rainy day. You’ll be able to catch her here then.”