Chapter 5: Rusted Bars
Two months.
The words echoed in my skull, in cadence to the clatter of grimy plates into the dirty grey plastic bus tub. Two months now since the freedom bus ride spat me out straight into hell.
Derek's hell.
The Sunny Side Up Diner's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching the color from everything, the way the bus depot had done that first evening. My feet ached in the gaudy, sticky shoes. My uniform, a worn blue sundress that hugged where it shouldn't hug, felt like a rough second skin stinging me. But the worst ache was the all-too-familiar, gnawing fear forming in my stomach when at last the lunch rush died down.
Mr. Victor, whose smile was as warm as the gravy stain on his tie that appeared daily, slipped a five-dollar bill under his coffee mug as he departed. My hand closed over it automatically, the paper thin and worthless. Not mine. Never mine. Derek's dictum was sacrosanct: All my earning went straight into his hand the moment I entered the apartment building. He'd decide what I "needed," just enough for the cheapest lunch special here, eaten in his presence if he wished to "stop by" to see me at work. Like today.
I saw him slide into the corner booth, the one where the window framed the register and the staff door. He didn't wave, just regarded me. A shiver traveled down my spine, having nothing to do with the diner's over-the-top AC. I smiled at Mrs. Gable, scraping her plate clean, recalling that first morning after the bus station, biting and bitter as the coffee I was pouring.
He’d brought me coffee in bed. The gesture had felt impossibly tender then. "You look better already, beautiful," he’d murmured, brushing hair from my forehead. "Just rest today. The city can wait." His concern had felt like a warm blanket after years of cold neglect. When he’d gently suggested staying in, "The neighborhood gets rough this time of day, sweetheart. We’ll figure things out tomorrow, rested", I’d swallowed it whole. Concern. He’s just concerned.
How desperately gullible. The cage door had clicked shut for the first time that morning, and I had not even noticed.
Someone called for a coffee to be refilled. I poured more into his cup, the steaming brew sloshing quietly in the heavy pot, and remembered the second bar tacked on: the money.
“A thousand dollars? Amara, that's not safe!" Derek's eyes had widened to melodramatic proportions a few days in. "You can't carry this much money around in this city. Thieves, muggers, they steal from people like you who are vulnerable."
His hand had rested above mine, supposedly to comfort. "Let me take you to the bank tomorrow and get you an account. Keep it safe."
Safe. That word again. My lifeline, my secret years of scraping by, had suddenly become dangerous and cumbersome in my pocketbook. His logic had seemed so sound, so reasonable. I'd given it to him begrudgingly, pounding heart with some nameless terror. He'd tucked it neatly in his jacket pocket. "I'll just carry it with me until the bank. Safer that way." His smile failed to warm his cold eyes. The bank trip never happened. The money vanished into the void of Derek's authority. The icy terror that struck me at the time was the first real awareness of the trap, but fear of judgment, fear of being wrong, fear of being on the streets silenced my words.
"Order up! Table seven!" Sal, the cook, bellowed.
I ladled the heavy plates, a greasy burger and mushy fries. As I threaded my way through the mostly empty tables to the lone businessman at seven, Derek's eye rested like a weight on my shoulder blades. That same eye that followed me wherever I went now. To the corner convenience store where he'd say, "That brand? cheap crap. Get this one," over my choice of cereal. On the rare "walks" he granted me, his grip remained firm on my elbow, leading, possessing. "You don't want to go down there, pretty. Trust me."
Trust. Poisoned.
And the questions. The questions. Hovering close over tasteless diner food, his voice pretended soft. "Your father hit you? What did you do to anger him?" He'd nod, pretending a sympathy that curdled into blame. "You must have pushed him. People don't just hit for no reason, Amara." The seeds of doubt he had planted flowered in the fertile ground of my father's years of accusations. Had I done it? Had I brought this on myself? The guilt, a perennial visitor, squirmed again in Derek's skilled hands.
Handing over the food with a grunted "Enjoy," I returned to the coffee region, pausing. I remembered calling upon the strength, maybe three weeks in, bruised ribs finally less sore, to talk about work. Real work, so I could get out.
"Oh, sure thing, beautiful!" Derek had beamed, the very definition of encouragement. "Let me place a couple of calls. I know people." He'd disappear into the bedroom with his phone. He’d return, face etched with false disappointment. “Bad timing, sweetheart. That diner downtown? Hiring, but they need two years' experience. The bookstore? Requires references. Don’t worry," he’d pull me close, his arm around my shoulders feeling like a steel band, "I’ve got my eye on something better. A friend’s opening a place. He just needs to finalize things. Focus on healing. Trust me." The slick advice was quicksand, pulling me further into dependence.
His caress, which at first had seemed accidental, was now a determined assertion. A hand placed too low on the center of my back while I washed dishes in his tiny kitchen. Fingers clamping too hard around my elbow if I moved too quickly out of a room. His gaze ever assessing, critiquing. "That blouse is too loose, beautiful. It doesn't show off your figure." Or, with disapproval, "You should smile more often. Makes you prettier." I was handled like a doll, an object, not a person.
The businessman dropped another two dollars. I retrieved it, adding it to Mr. Victor’s five. Seven dollars. Derek's portion.
The next memory to strike me was the one that kept my breath from returning. I had mentioned the bus station, a foolish, desperate lie about possibly having left my hairbrush there, a wretched probe for a sliver of freedom. His expression had altered. The lovely mask had cracked, allowing something hard and unyielding to peek through. He'd crept up close, too close, his voice descending to a threatening whisper. "Why on earth would you ever have to go there, Amara? You have everything here. Everything with me." The unspoken threat hung thick and heavy in the air: Try to leave, I dare you.
And then the explosion. Last week. I had cooked an omelet for dinner, using the very last of that awful bargain-basement cheese. He had bitten into it, grimaced, and pushed the plate away. "Tastes like crap. Can't you ever do anything right?"
Tired, bruised in spirit if not newly in body, a spark of defiance, fueled by weeks of suppressed rage and fear, flickered. "You bought the cheese," I’d mumbled, staring at the yellow sludge on his plate.
The reaction was instantaneous. Violent. His fist slammed down on the cheap laminate table, making the plates jump, making me jump back with a gasp. He leaned over me, his face contorted in a pain of rage that was chillingly familiar, but worse because it was the man who'd vowed to protect me. His voice was a venomous hiss. "After everything I've done for you? I sheltered you? I fed you? I protected you?" Spittle struck my cheek. "And this is the thank you I get? You're just as your father said, ungrateful. A stupid little bitch who can't do anything right!"
Before I could react, his hand shot out, around my wrist in cruel force, yanking me towards him. The pain was blazing, shocking. His eyes, inches from mine, were lacking in warmth, in softness, only cold, calculating possession. "You're mine now, Amara. You don't choose. You don't question. Do you understand?"
I’d frozen, pure terror turning my blood to ice. The kind Derek was obliterated. Only the predator remained. He’d shoved me back then, releasing my throbbing wrist. “Clean this mess up. And don’t ever speak to me like that again." He’d stormed out, slamming the apartment door so hard the windows rattled.
"Shift's over, Amara." Sal's voice brought me back, back to the diner's stench of grease and brittle lights. My wrist, where he'd clamped it, throbbed dolorously in recollection. I looked at the seven dollars crumpled in my damp fist. Not bruised that day, no, but the round of his hand, the circle of his words, 'Ungrateful.' 'Stupid bitch.' 'Belong to me.' were burned deeper than any bruise. The sanctuary room, the sweet smiles, the promises of help, they hadn't been heaven. They were the golden bars of a cage creatively constructed for me. I hadn't escaped hell. I'd merely exchanged a raging inferno for a gilded prison with a wolf enchantingly dressed up as guardian. A wolf who held my plundered money, my plundered freedom, and the only key.
I pulled my aching feet towards Derek's booth. He didn't look up from his phone as I approached. I placed the seven dollars on the table beside his half-eaten pie silently. He shoved it into his pocket without a glance, still reading. The silence loomed heavier than any order.
"Let's go," he said finally, standing and already moving toward the door. No "good job." No "how was your day?" Just possession.
I walked behind him, shoulders slumped over, the vacant fear now a heavy burden in my chest. The walk back was short, still. He did not touch me, but the pressure of his presence weighed heavily upon me. We walked up to the slightly tacky building. He opened the door to the apartment that was never a home.
I stepped over the threshold. The smell of cheap air freshener couldn’t mask the underlying tension, the lingering scent of his anger. The quiet room where I’d once naively sighed with relief now felt like the antechamber to a torture cell.
I was back home with Derek.
Back to hell.