Chapter 6: The Hand in the Dark
The coffee pot felt like lead in my hand, a heavy thing that resonated with the terror pinning me to the greasy diner floor. Derek sat across from me in his corner booth, his eyes on me with the ferocity of a hawk pondering snatching up an injured sparrow. My wrist, the one he'd twisted a week ago, throbbed in dull frustration.
"Refill, Derek?" My voice was dead, toneless, even to me.
He extended his mug silently, his eyes never leaving my face. When I tilted the pot, his hand darted out, not to the mug, but to my arm. A shock of a push. Scalding coffee tipped over the rim, wetting the front of my frayed blue uniform. The heat seared through the thin fabric at once, with a few drops falling on his shirt.
"Clumsy, beautiful," he slurred, poison gleaming on his lips. "Always so clumsy." His voice carried, drawing glances from a nearby couple. Shame seared hotter than the coffee on my arm.
Instinct asserted itself. I grabbed a rag from my apron, fumbling to blot the dark stain spreading across my chest. Behind the cover of the table, his hand slammed down like a clamp on my other wrist, the bruised one. His thumb sank deep into the tender flesh, scraping against bone. I gasped, agony and terror stripping away my breath.
"You'll be paying for the dry cleaning,"* he spat, low and threatening, his hand squeezing impossibly. "Every. Single. Cent. Out of your pathetic tips."
The diner sounds, Sal shouting orders, plates banging, people speaking swelled into a dull hum. Then it was gone. It was replaced by the ghost crack of my father's belt, the echo of his drunken rage. "Worthless! Clumsy bitch!”
Derek’s face blurred, merging with my father’s contorted features. The pain in my wrist became the sting of the belt. The coffee stain became blood on the kitchen floor. I’m not here. I’m nowhere. Just let it be over.
"Break time," Derek announced, standing up. His grip on my wrist didn't relax; it turned into a shackle. He dragged me to the back door, disregarding Sal's yell of "Hey, Amara's tables—"
The alleyway air was cold and smelled of dumpsters and despair. He slammed me into the cold brick wall before the door was even shut. The impact knocked the wind out of me. Before I could inhale, his hand was clamped over my throat, not quite cutting off my breathing, but promising he could. His eyes, an inch away from mine, were feral. Empty of anything except possessiveness and rage.
"You belong to me," he spat, his breath hot and sour against my mouth. "Act like it. Stop embarrassing me. Stop being so fucking useless!" His fingers squeezed fractionally tighter. Stars danced at the periphery of my vision.
The fight seeped out of me, to be overwhelmed with a paralyzing fear. My body slumped against the cold brick. Just make it end, I pleaded silently, setting my eyes against the horror face before me. Please. Just make it stop.
"Release her."
The voice cut into the blackness of the alleyway, smooth, authoritative, but ancient. It wasn't loud, but it pulsed with an irrepressible power that made Derek recoil.
I tore my eyes open. Outside the alley, silhouetted against the pale streetlight, stood an elderly woman. Silvery hair hung around a face etched with years but bristling with furious intelligence. Her eyes were bright and improbably sharp as they fixed on Derek. Her plain, sturdy dress and her unsettling immobility seemed to occupy the space.
Derek recovered quickly, his sneer returning, though it looked forced. "Beat it, grandma. This ain't your business."
She didn't flinch. She took one step forward. The atmosphere around her seemed to arc, like prior to lightning. The hair on my arms stood on end. Derek made a low, involuntary noise, a whimper. The sneer on his face disappeared, replaced by waking, fundamental fear. His hand dropped from my neck as if he'd been burned. He took a step back, his eyes wide with terror fixed on the woman.
“Run along, pup," she told him, her tone too soft. "Before I lose my patience."
He didn't need to be told twice. Derek spun around and ran down the alley, disappearing into the shadows without a backward glance, his pounding footsteps ringing.
I slumped against the wall, gasping, my legs trembling too violently to hold me. The silver-haired woman closed the distance swiftly but calmly. Her hand, warm and surprisingly strong, closed gently around my upper arm, steadying me.
"Easy, child," she said, her voice now laced with a deep kindness that resonated in my bruised soul. “Easy. You’re safe now."
Safe? The word felt like a stranger's language. Unthinkable. I stared at her, trembling, my lips locked in position.
"My name is Eleanor," she continued, her sharp-eyed stare scanning my face, the coffee stain, the lingering bruises on my throat. "But everyone calls me Nana Elle. And you, child, are coming with me."
Frantic panic set in again. Another stranger. Another suggestion. "I… I can't…" I struggled, attempting to push her away weakly. "He… he'll find me…"
"He won't," Nana Elle declared steadfastly. "Not where I am taking you. Deep in the mountains. A remote place. Concealed. Safe. My grandson has a lodge there. He needs a gardener, quiet work, decent wages. A room for yourself. Meals. Safety. I promise you." It sounded like a fairy tale. Too good to be true. My eyes popped back down the alley way that Derek had vanished into. He'd be back. Angrier. Meaner. He'd kill me then. The resignation that had settled in the alley reasserted itself, cold and heavy. No money. No options. No destination. What was there to lose? If this was a setup, maybe it would be quick.
Better than what Derek would do.
"Okay," I whispered, the word as dry as dust. "I'll do it."
Nana Elle didn't move immediately. She regarded me, her eyes stern but gentle. "No," she said firmly. "Not like this. Not from sheer desperation." She reached into the coat pocket that was as deep as it was wide and pulled out a thick envelope. She thrust it into my trembling hands. It was heavy. Heavily packed with money.
"This is for you," she said. "Enough for a good hotel tonight. The Willow Creek Inn, three blocks down, turn left. Tell them Nana Elle sent you. They’ll take care of you. A hot bath. A proper meal. A locked door." She pointed down the street. “Go there. Rest. Think. Truly think. If, by morning, you decide this path isn’t for you, you walk away. No questions. No blame. This money is yours, regardless." Her expression softened, but her eyes were grave. “But child, if you stay here, that man will find you. And he will kill you. Slowly. Cruelly. That is the only certainty left in this city for you.”
She hugged my arm with a final, reassuring squeeze and headed off. "The choice is yours, Amara. Yours alone. Sleep on it. If you do decide to head for the mountains, meet me here at dawn, at the entrance of this alley. I'll be waiting." And with that, she was away, vanishing into the city night as silently as she appeared.
I stood frozen, cradling the envelope, her words and its weight crushing me. A choice. A real one? Or just the facsimile of one prior to another cage opening? But the hotel, a locked door, a fearless night? An unthinkable indulgence. And her counsel regarding Derek rang horribly true.
I ran. Not down to the alley entrance, but straight to the Willow Creek Inn. The words 'Nana Elle' were magic. The stern faced woman behind the front desk nodded, her scowl easing a little as she looked at my dirty uniform and spotted neck. She gave me a key without saying a word about payment. The room was tidy, quiet, and wonderfully warm. I locked the door, sliding the heavy bolt home. The envelope contained more money than I had ever seen, enough for months, maybe. I ordered room service for soup and bread, the first hot, unearned meal that came to mind. The bath was an initiation, washing away the grime and the last memory of Derek's touch.
I slept in the middle of the gigantic bed, curled up, the silence an infinite blessing. Morning broke, grey and light. I hadn't slept much, but I'd held on to the little hope I had. Derek's rage. His hands around my throat. The threat of death if I stayed.. Nana Elle's stern voice. The tension in the air. The threat of mountains and safety. It wasn't hope that drove me from bed, filled my few belongings, and fled the hotel at dawn. It was the harsh, bitter calculation of survival. Better the devil one does not know than the devil one does.
Better a potential trap than a certain grave.
Nana Elle stood waiting, resting against the brick wall by the alley door, as she had vowed. She smiled not, but in her sharp eyes there was a subdued pleasure in seeing me emerge to meet her. "Ready?" she asked shortly. I nodded, unable to speak. Her car was an old boxy sedan, but spotless within. We drove in silence for a few hours, the grimy city unfolding into suburbs, then fields, then the dark looming of mountains. The air grew cooler, cleaner. The hard knot of fear in my chest began to unclench. I breathed slowly, feeling the scent of pine and damp earth fill my lungs from the open window. Nana Elle herself emitted that scent of the forest after a storm, pine needles and ozone.
Peculiar, but comforting.
The further we turned into dense, ancient forest, something peculiar happened. The aching in my ribs, the vibration of Derek's kick and all the others preceding him, simply vanished. It no longer ached. I moved my body, checking it, amazed. Then I breathed again.
Beneath the stifling scent of pine and earth, there was something else that teased my senses. Faint, but unmistakable. Woodsmoke. The harsh flavor of savage, uncultivated country. And something else, something ancient and deep, like stone and forest wisdom. It froze my heart just so, a racing I didn't know. A feeling of recognition? Yearning? I glanced at Nana Elle. She was gazing down the road, but a soft, knowing smile flitted around her mouth.
"We're almost home," she said.
The trees had thinned at that moment. We topped a curve, and Nana Elle let the car come to a creeping pace. Ahead of us was a massive, intricate gate of wrought metal, half-hidden beneath a tumble of dark, green ivy. It swung open, softly, as we approached. Beyond it was…..
I gasped.