by Nikki Sex
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK… I chant silently in my mind, trying to calm my panic.
Trembling, I tell myself I’m overreacting and force my body to remain perfectly still. Other than the twitch of a tiny muscle, jumping near my eye, I know my expression is utterly bland. I never, ever show any reaction to anything anyone says or does.
The dark-eyed Frenchman turns away from my uncle, looking at the third man in the room. “Gustave,” he says.
“Yes, sir?” the older man, who must be Gustave, replies. His French accent is even stronger. He speaks to the other man with great respect, as if the guy is much more than in charge. Like he’s a Big Important Boss.
“My friend, Renata’s uncle, Monsieur Porter is clearly overwrought,” he says.
Something in the younger French guy’s no-nonsense tone draws me out of my terror-induced paralysis.
I peer up, just for a second and get a clear snapshot of the scene before me—and more specifically of the guy in charge.
Blinking, I pull back in surprise.
He’s about six feet tall and very muscular, with broad shoulders and chest. He’s not huge like a body builder, but I can see he’s strong. Power radiates from him, both physically and mentally.
Intense and commanding, this man is used to getting his way.
Despite the Frenchman’s composed and confident appearance, I can tell he’s extremely angry. The rigid way he stands and the potent tension in his body make me realize he’s the one to fear. Young, fit and imposing—if there is a fight, this guy will win.
Swallowing nervously, I’m glad he isn’t directing all his mad toward me.
“Mon ami, if you please, take him away,” the dangerous man orders in a deceptively mild voice, one hand casually waving toward the open door. “Take him somewhere where he may compose himself. Perhaps he will benefit from a restorative glass of spirits, yes?”
The man I now know as ‘Gustave’ nods. “Oui, oui, but of course,” he replies softly.
Gustave has gray hair, and a quiet dignity about him. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt and a well-pressed brown suit, he looks like a kindly grandfather. With a politely encouraging gesture, he guides ‘Uncle Bob’ toward the door and escorts him from the room.
I’m relieved when my uncle goes. He’s mean and he argues and upsets everyone around him. I can’t stand it when people fight. It scares me to death.
I suddenly realize I’m alone in this incredibly elegant room with the dangerous Frenchman. Impassive and unmoving, I work to hide the ice-cold fear I feel inside.
The Frenchman doesn’t approach me, for which I’m grateful.
I keep my expression blank and my gaze downcast. Still, I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I’m used to observing everything and everyone this way. It’s what I do.
The leather of his chair squeaks as he sits down at his desk. He begins to study his computer, occasionally flicking through various papers. He acts as though he’s forgotten me.
I like that.
I don’t want to be noticed, especially by powerful and dangerous strangers.
I’m anxious, but I’m always anxious. I should be used to being afraid by now, but I’m not. I hate feeling exposed and unsafe. I go through my life in varying states of panic.
Because I’m afraid of so many things, I’m hyper alert and watchful. People in the background and ignored by others, are often more aware of their surroundings. No one looks at them, while they can safely notice and catalog everything.
Consequently, I already saw the file on the Frenchman’s desk as I came in. It was thick with paper and it had my name on it.
I risk another full glance at him across the room. He has a kind face, set with a concentrated frown line between his dark eyebrows.
The Frenchman says nothing for some time, which I know is intentional.
This dangerous man is incredibly observant, just like me. He’s pretending to be occupied, making ‘busy work’ for himself. In truth, I suspect he’s waiting… allowing me time to get myself together.
This unexpected consideration creates a pleasant yet also painful pressure in my chest. Being ignored is common for me—I’m used to it and I feel safer that way. Although I hate aggression or cruelty, I’m prepared for them. I can usually run or hide.
Consideration is so rare. I don’t know if I can deal with such thoughtful kindness directed my way.
This is something entirely new for me to be afraid of.
Chapter 2.
“A book is a dream that you hold in your hand.”
— Neil Gaiman
~~~
Renata Koreman
I try to think. In the endless stream of novels I’ve read, what would the hero or the heroine do?
I start to form a mental list of my favorite fictional characters, filling my thoughts with happy memories of their courage and inspiration. It takes my mind away from my fears.
I begin: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. Jean Louise ‘Scout’ Finch, her father, Atticus and her brother, Jem; Tom Robinson; Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre, Charlotte and Wilbur, Horatio Hornblower, Richard Sharpe, Waylander, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins…
The Frenchman remains sitting at his desk, absorbed in other things. He leaves me alone.
Good.
When I finish assembling my compilation, I concentrate on separating the list into male and female, also alphabetical order (by first name). I’m already down to Harry and Hermione. It’s nice that they both start with ‘H.’
I spend as much time as I can in libraries. Public libraries are free, warm and full of books and computers. What could be better? It’s paradise for me because I love to read. I can escape reality and go far, far away.
Churches are pretty good, too. They’re warm and often have food, clothes and kind people who talk to me about God.
I don’t know how many minutes have passed, but my heart has stopped pounding hard and loud against my ribs. I breathe normally.
“Ma belle,” the Frenchman says in a soft voice while continuing to move papers around his desk. “Forgive me. Je suis désolé, I am oh-so sorry, but I do not like your uncle. He is un imbécile.”
A torrent of incomprehensible French suddenly flows out of the Frenchman’s mouth. It’s a conclusive sort of punctuation, this stream of noise that ends his sentence.
While I don’t precisely understand the words he uses, the meaning is obvious.
The high-backed leather chair where he’s seated creaks once more as he stands. In a measured, slow pace, he moves around his desk, coming closer.
Instinctively, I shrink away.
The moment I do, he stops moving. Aware of my fear, he sits in a chair across the room, far from where I am. I’m grateful he respects my need for personal space.
I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone now that Jamie’s gone.
Dead—Jamie’s dead!
A flash of pain stabs me as I’m hit with a deluge of memories. I recall waking in our cardboard shelter, feeling him lying cold and unmoving beside me. His lifeless body was such a terrible shock.
“Don’t be stupid,” I hear Jamie admonish, as I fall into a well of grief. “Get out of your head, Renata. I taught you better than this!”
Older and wiser, an echo of my foster brother’s past guidance snaps me out of it. Oh, how I wish he were here. Obediently, my attention returns to the Frenchman and to now.
People can be cruel and unpredictable. So far, this man has been observant and respectful. He’s trying not to scare me. But why? What does he want?
Strangers always want something.
“Pardon,” the Frenchman says. “The words spoken by the fool that is your uncle,” he scoffs. “They waste our time. If you please, we shall forget them.” He snaps his fingers as if, like a magician, he’s somehow able to make recent events disappear.
My mouth is very dry. I say nothing.
He sits forward, just slightly. I see his movement but I’m incapabl
e of meeting his eyes. The interest he directs toward me is almost palpable.
“Ma belle,” he says once more with that calm, entrancing voice. “Renata. I have read what is written about you—these reports, like your uncle—they are very, very stupid. Listen to me now. This uncle of yours, he is prepared to pay a large amount of money for me to keep you. And I? I would take you with no payment, if only to free you from such a fool. Your uncle, he is very rich. Let us relieve him of his money, you and me. We will share it evenly together, yes?” He laughs.
My fear falls away for an instant, disappearing with his unexpected ring of laughter. His carefree mood compels me to look at him. I’m surprised into meeting his gaze, just for a moment.
The Frenchman likes this plan. He enjoys the idea of us both taking my uncle’s money, because my uncle is an angry idiot.
His smile is broad and genuine and his dark eyes dance with irreverent mischief. Radiating the irresistible charm of a rogue, he reminds me of a pirate.
Why would he make me this offer? Why would he share? He seems nice, but I can’t let my guard down.
I guess the Frenchman is maybe at the most thirty years old. He has a tan complexion. His eyebrows are thick and expressive, his dark eyes flash, bright and unusually penetrating.
He sees me.
Embarrassed, shy and shocked, I don’t even breathe; I stay so still.
This Frenchman is very, very smart, I realize. I have to be careful.
Still, I like his face. It’s a nice face, even with the subtle scarring on his cheeks. Those scars aren’t meth sores—I know what those look like. I’m pretty sure he must’ve have had acne as a teenager.
He’s not physically perfect and I like him better for it.
In my experience, beautiful people are meaner than average or ugly ones. For some reason or another, beautiful people only notice other beautiful people. We who live on the street are invisible to them.
I’ve thought a lot about why this seems to be the case. Some beautiful, well-dressed people are self-important and always in a hurry. Perhaps because they need to make some deadline or make more money. They aren’t aware of anything except their own personal interests and goals.
Others focus so much attention on looking good that being good doesn’t even cross their mind. Is it self-centeredness that makes them blind?
Rich people are also stingy. Maybe that’s why they’re rich, because they don’t share. They’re insulated from suffering. They have no connection to, or understanding of people who are different.
Those who have no job, no money, no family or home must seem like ghosts to their narrow vision. We’re non-people. It’s as if we don’t exist.
Old people and the very young are generous. A poorer, less well-dressed person is also more likely to help a homeless person. They know firsthand a dollar can go a long way.
Poor people and those with a modest or even moderate income can’t help but see us when walking by. Maybe at some level they realize how close they are to being in our position. Perhaps they’re thinking: That could be me.
Some people notice us. Some try hard not to notice. Beautiful, rich people don’t even try. They honestly can’t see us. To them we’re invisible.
I sound like I’m bitching, but I’m not. It’s just how it is.
Rich or poor, I’m afraid of everyone.
The Frenchman is different because he isn’t what I expect. While not perfect, something about him is quite beautiful. The way he moves and dresses is classy. He’s full of confidence. Obviously wealthy and physically striking, this man would be noticed by everyone.
Yet in his mind, the world doesn’t revolve around him. He really sees me for a start. Not many people do.
I don’t like it. I feel exposed.
“I am very good with people, oui, oui, it is true,” he says with immodest enthusiasm while waving both hands expressively. “People like me, but this is because I like them, do you see?”
I avert my eyes, but I keep a picture of his smiling face in my mind as I stare down at my fingers that are tightly folded together on my lap.
What does he want? I don’t trust him.
“D’accord,” he says happily and then adds with a tilt to his head, “It means OK. I tell you now; I vow I will be good for you, but this you must judge for yourself. Do you wish to stay with me? But of course, you can leave at any time. You can take care of yourself, no?”
I open my mouth, but then I shut it again.
I can’t speak.
Shit. I’m so familiar with this smothered feeling of restraint. I can never get past it, no matter how hard I try. It’s as if something heavy is caught in my throat.
“Please, ma cherie, nod ‘yes’ for me if you wish to stay. Then I will go and see to your most disagreeable uncle. We shall draw up guardianship papers for the next three months, until your eighteenth birthday. I shall finalize this matter and send him away.”
From the corner of my eyes I see him gesture toward me. “The two of us?” He gives a disparaging snort and throws up both hands. “We do not want him, this foolish uncle of yours. When I return, I will show you to your room. It is agreed?”
This guy is completely out of my experience. Different. Strange. I can’t explain his behavior. Is he a sick bastard like my foster father was? I glance nervously toward the open door.
Unfamiliar circumstances are risky.
I don’t want to go anywhere with ‘Uncle Bob,’ this new relative of mine who at least freed me from the psychiatric unit I was trapped in. The Frenchman is a complete unknown. Why is he doing this? What does he want? My uncle’s money?
I doubt it. Everything in this room screams of wealth already.
He must have tons of women at his beck and call. Why does he want me? My eyes move to the door again, as I recall what I first noticed as I came in. There are no locks on the doors—no locks anywhere.
I decide to lie. Once my uncle is gone, when it’s safe and no one’s looking, I’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to what I know.
The street is the safest place for me.
What did he tell me? I will be good for you.
To hell with that.
What people say and what people do are two different things.
Chapter 3.
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”
― Plato
~~~
Renata Koreman
I’ve spent all of my life being suspicious. Guarded, hyper-alert and constantly nervous, I observe everyone closely, always trying to discover if they might hurt me. I need to protect myself.
After all this time, I think I know things about people.
I don't understand why the Frenchman bothers to take me into his home or why he’s offering me money. I don't even know why he's being nice to me, or why he seems to respect my needs.
He wants me for some reason of his own.
This Frenchman is dangerous, but somehow I can’t believe he’s a bad man. I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Maybe it’s some sort of inborn sixth sense. Maybe I’m just more aware of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ vibes. I get feelings about people from deep in my gut.
My instincts are usually right.
In either case, he’s much better than this new uncle of mine, who suddenly and reluctantly entered my life. At least the Frenchman doesn't hate me. I know Uncle Bob does.
Eyes lowered, I nod my head. I agree to stay, for now. Until the first chance I get, when I can sneak away.
“Tres bien!” he says cheerfully. “Be comfortable. I will return very soon.”
With a purposeful stride, he walks out, softly closing the door behind him.
In an instant, I’m on my feet. I move to his desk, open the folder with my name on it and begin reading.
To: Dr. J. Johnson
From: Dr. D. Suresh
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for sending me this deeply disturbed, emotionally delayed and damaged young woman, Renata Korema
n.
After conducting exhaustive tests measuring the electrical function of her spinal cord, brain and the nerves in her limbs and muscles, I have found no evidence of lesion, abnormality or disorder.
Renata was first diagnosed with Autistic Spectrum Disorder (ASD) at the age of eight for qualitative impairment in social interaction:
(a) A marked impairment of non-verbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze and facial expressions.
(b) Failure to develop peer relationships.
(c) Lack of development of spoken language.
(d) Absence of spontaneous or shared enjoyment.
Her mother is deceased, her father incarcerated. She was placed with a foster family at the age of twelve. She ran away after one year. It is believed she was surviving on the streets, until recently when she was found in a semi-catatonic state by the police.
We have staff currently searching for familial relations.
This young woman appears to read but there is no evidence of comprehension. She is incapable of completing an IQ test or following basic instructions. Renata is sexually active yet does not appear to have the ability to understand the potential consequences of the act nor does she have enough intelligence to give consent.
For her safety, in her current condition, it is my opinion she should be kept in a supervised home or in a locked ward.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. D. Suresh, Department of Clinical Neurophysiology
I give a mental snort. Autism again.
I’ve been told that I’m autistic all of my life. What does it really mean? I’ve read and reread the definition countless times. To me it means I’m too afraid to look anyone in the eye. To me it means something stops me from being able to speak.
It’s not that I don’t “feel” normal emotions like the books and doctors say.
The way I see it, I feel far too much.
I feel everything.
Fear is my own personal brand of paralysis. It stops me from talking, from meeting anyone’s gaze, from fitting in, and from being like everyone else. Unfortunately, I’m always afraid.
Does that make me autistic?