Promises
"No, no, shh," Mama squeezed me so hard I cried out. She loosened her grip, but did not let go of me. I was crying, and I mean big time, into her sweater. "Shh, honey, cry it out," Mama said. I could tell by the tone of her voice that I needed to quiet down, and I tried, but I was no good silently crying.
After a long time, I seemed as dried up as a desert. Mama looked into my wet face, her gray eyes serious. "Are you ready to go? We have to-"
"Mama," I whispered, "I'm not safe here." She squeezed me again.
"Honey, you aren't safe unless you are in England. And--and you need to go now." Mama was getting choked up, and this scared me, because I had rarely seen her cry.
"Mama... I don't want to get onto the train," I murmured. "Some Jews get on trains and never-" I could hear my own voice starting to wobble. "And never come back."
"This is different," Mama told me. "I'll be coming to find you as soon as the war is over. I promise. You'll be fine, my love. Your foster family will take good care of you."
"I don't want a foster family to take care of me!" My voice was stronger now, and rising with anger. "I want you to take care of me!"
"I can't!" Mama seemed to be more urgent with her words. "You get on that train now! I don't want you to die!"
"I don't want you to die either!"
Mama pushed me forward. A salty tear dropped down on my cheek as I made my way into the train. I leaned out the window, and held my hand out to Mama. She took it, and said, "Whatever happens, my dear, I promise that I will come and find you. And we'll be together again."
"Are you sure?" My voice was so quiet I was sure Mama could not hear me over the loudness of the train station. But she did.
"Of course I'm sure," she said. "I love you. Some non-Jewish friends of ours say they can hide me behind a wall. In a hidden room. The Nazis won't find me there."
The train started to slowly move, and Mama tried to let go of my hand, but I gripped into hers so tight it became red. "Don't leave me!" I shouted. The train was starting to go faster, and Mama had to walk quite fast to keep up. She gave my hand one last kiss, her eyes welling up with tears. "I love you," she said again, pulled her hand from mine, and disappeared into the crowd of weeping parents.
I got down from the window and leaned into my seat, hoping that Mama was right, hoping that she would come for me after the war was over, and that I would be alright, and that my father, who could not come, would be safe, too.
But, despite Mama's promises, I never saw them again.
A beginning
Instinct can be a bitch. All the characters in my books are constantly gibbering about how great it is, but the truth? It’s a real drag. Oh, sure, it’ll be happy to tell you something might be wrong. Especially when it’s dark outside and you’re walking home alone, or when you’re sitting in your stingy one bedroom apartment and the lights go out. All those highly developed glands will start pumping chemicals into you and suddenly you’re seeing a rapist down every alley and Casper around every corner. You might not BE in danger, but you sure as hell THINK you are.
Let’s go to the other side of things. Let’s say your instinct really is telling you something important. Your spidey senses are on red alert and the hairs on the back of your neck are hailing a taxi. Are these internal warnings telling you what the danger is? Where it is? Why, no! Of course not! Heaven forbid it might actually be useful! All you get is that vague sense of “I’m not safe here,” and from there on out, sweet cheeks, you’re on your own.
That’s where I am right now. I have no idea if my instincts are falling into paragraph one or two. I just know that I’m jittery and that every cell in my body is telling me I either need to get ready to kick ass or hit the road, fast.
The night is obscenely quiet. Even the wind isn’t blowing, which is freaky when you’re walking over flat land through a park. It’s spring and the bite hasn’t quite left yet. I’m bundled up more than is probably necessary because of it, and I’m hustling, telling myself it’s because I want to stay warm. I take this route daily after my last class. Tonight I’m wound tight and I have no idea why. Usually I’m still half-conscious from Mrs. Padlink’s lectures. It’s a miracle how boring that woman can make something like Ebola sound.
I move hastily over a crosswalk, coming out of the park and rounding the corner towards my apartment complex. For the first time I think I finally hear what my instinct has been hinting at: footsteps. Of course there are my own, but there’s another set, falling just after them. A dull thump thump on pavement.
I whirl. My heart is racing, my eyes are probably saucers, and I search around in my purse for the trusty pepper spray. I can’t actually see anyone, and the moment passes, but once it does I work myself into a steady jog and keep heading for the building.
The door is in my sights. The number 428, with the 8 dangling at an awkward angle, looms before me. Safety from my overactive imagination. I hold my hand out. Behind me, the porch light on the house across the street flicks on. My shadow climbs the wall.
And beside it, so does another one.
I panic. I’m not too proud to admit it. I grab the door handle and fly inside. The old thing usually squeaks shut behind me, but I don’t hear it. I don’t hear it shut at all, actually.
In fact, I’m pretty sure it swings back open.
At this point all logic fails. Somewhere in the back of my head something is telling me to actually bother to turn and look. I mean, it’s probably just some undergrad who happened to come in at the same time, some guy who got suckered into a 7 o’clock class. He’s probably thinking, ‘damn, what’s up with this crazy dame?’ He’ll tell his buddies about this at the bar later.
I fumble with my key. I can hear someone’s footsteps, but I still don’t turn my head. The carpet in the hallway doesn’t do much to muffle the sound of them coming closer.
The key slips on home. I jerk the knob and twist my way inside, slamming the door behind me.
Or at least I try to. Someone’s shoe, a fucking steel-toed boot, jams its way past before I can do it.
“Miss Alice Craymore?” A man’s voice. Deep.
Oh shit.
“We need to talk.”
My words comes out in a squeak. “…Who is it?”
There’s a pause. Then, “May I come inside?”
Dodging the answer? Double shit.
“No. No you may not. Please go away now. I’ll call the police.”
“That wouldn’t be advisable, Miss Craymore. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Isn’t that what the bad guy says to someone right before he offs them? I pull back from the door and ram against it with all of my strength, which, unfortunately to say, is not much. The steel in his toe must have taken most of it, though he grunts.
“Go away! Go away or I’ll scream!”
“Miss Craymore,” he replies, sounding exasperated. “You’re really being very uncooperative right now.”
I’d show him uncooperative. I reach into my purse and tug out the pepper spray. I’ve never used the stuff before, but it can’t be too difficult. Grabbing the can, I shove my hand out far enough to not wind up getting myself with it and estimate where his face might be, preparing to give him an eyeful of chemical pain.
He grabs my wrist and twists. Nothing breaks, but I’m something of a pansy, and to me it hurts like hell. I yelp, and the canister drops to the ground with a clunk.
He yanks and I fall back out into the hallway, my door swinging open behind me. I barely even take a second to get a look at him before I start thrashing like a crazy person, screaming bloody murder.
“HELP!”
A sigh. “Miss Cray…”
“SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
I hear rustling in one of the other apartment buildings and my heart swells with hope. But before it can get quite to bursting, the guy mutters, “I really am sorry about this, ma’am.”
Something smacks into the side of my head, and the lights blink out.
The Forgotten Ones
Bruises line my body. Bones broken left to heal on their own. Beaten for the things they say I have done wrong.
Skin and bones. Malnourished. Eyes hollow with the need to eat. Starved as punishment for loss of control of my body.
Cigarette burns singe my flesh. Blades peel away imperfections. Mutilated as a form of entertainment.
Locked in a darkened cage. Bound and whipped. Left for days. Abandoned because I am unwanted.
I am not safe here. Yet no one comes to my rescue. Silent screams because no one is listening.
Confinement
"I'm not safe here," she whispered to him.
"Of course you are," he replied, in a tone softer than a whisper. He squeezed her thin shoulders tight, and she nestled her face between his bicep and chest. She could feel his heart begin to race.
She felt serene in his arms, his warmth calming her nerves and easing her pain. She couldn't explain it, but she felt at home yet so far from it by his side. His hugs spoke to her reassuringly, like a mother did to her child when the child was sad. His deep breathes were like a soothing melody to her, yet she felt like she didn't know him. His words seemed empty. His eyes looked shallow.
She looked at his face. "What do we do now?" she asked. "We can't stay like this forever."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Maybe we can...Maybe this is where we're suppose to be. Maybe fate has brought us here, knowing this is where we belong. Just you and me."
She closed her eyes and laid her head on top of his chest. "But I don't feel safe here. I feel as if by being here I'm in trouble."
"Nonsense." He then ran his hand through her hair. "I need you. I couldn't live without you, and this is where we're meant to be. Forever and ever."
She didn't feel he was being sincere, but she decided to be naive enough to believe his words, hoping he was telling the truth. Then they laid there in silence, not saying anything nor feeling anything needed to be said. She eventually fell asleep in his arms. He then fell asleep with her in his arms.
Overnight she disappeared into him. She became lost and beyond any point of return. The darkness consumed her, and she blocked herself off from the world, only to have him fill her every need. She became numb and painless. At that point, she realized that she shouldn't have believed his words and that he was full of lies. She didn't belong there, but now there was no escaping him. So she confided in him, convincing herself to believe his false promises.
Escape
I'm not safe here. This place I call my mind, is this not supposed to be my sanctuary? My solace? Why can I not escape what plagues my psyche?
No focus, no defense, no iron walls to hide behind like the rest of the world.
What is supposed to be a fortress has been torn down to nothing but rubble; a grave site for any comfort that used to be, any control I've managed to collect.
Where shall I go if I cannot sink into the recesses of my self?
For I am not safe here, nor will I ever be there.
