[Askoga]: 89.Short Stories.Mature.Abuse

She comes to me late in the night, awakening me from a peaceful slumber, and the bruises on her soul show more clear, to me, than those on her flesh. Gently, I lead her into my home, wrapping myself tighter in my robe, and offer her a blanket. I disappear for a moment, to start some tea, and return to find her sobbing, curled into a ball.

I long to reach my arms around her, offer comfort, an alternative. But the kettle whistles, and I leave, her shivering shoulders gone untouched, her bare, bruised soul left uncomforted. I return with tea, set a cup for her, one for me, and the pot, to steep. I rub her shoulders, her arms, cover her with a blanket. Oh, how I yearn to lift this burden.

“Geni,” I whisper. I stroke her hair, and suddenly she is in my arms. My chest is damp with her tears, and gently I hold her close. “Shhhh, it's alright now. It's alright.”

She speaks, the words coming out in a jumble, tripping over themselves in their haste to be heard. I don't understand what she says, but I know already what must have happened. “Don't worry, you're safe now. It's done. Everything's gonna be okay. Shhhh, don't worry.” I am her rock, I keep her from drowning. But she is not, and never will be my love, and this chips away at my firm foundation, and I fear that one day I will crumble, become unable to support her again. I hope it is not soon.

Then, finally, she begins to drift off, her head in my lap, her hair fanned out like a mane around her. Gently I cover her with the blanket, smooth out her hair. Carefully, I extract myself from her embrace, replacing my lap with a pillow. I get some warm water and wash the few scratches I see. She flinches back, but does not awaken. Slowly, I brush her hair, un-knotting the tangles, allowing the silken waves to grace my fingers.

In only an hour, I hear the ringing of a bell. I am expecting it, sitting in my chair, watching over her, thinking. I open my door, and he enters, looking worried, almost frantic. “Is she here?” he asks, his eyes searching. I gesture for him to enter, close the door, show him into my living room. There she is, just awakened from her slumber by the sound of the doorbell. She looks up at him, fear melting into love as he says, “Geni, I'm so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She does, of course she does. He knows as well as I this pattern, and as she flies into his arms, he embraces her, stroking her hair, murmuring sweet words to her, kissing her gently. Again, and yet again, he repeats his apology, but she has already forgiven him. He looks up at me, “Thank you for taking care of her, Liz.”

And I am glad that he will never see me as a threat to him. Just another girl, and his pet's best friend.