Then, without hesitating I carefully turned the page to find a fresh white sheet of paper just begging to be brought to life.
“You’re very talented,” said Mercy as she sat down on the couch before me, curling her feet under herself, her small hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. She looked so childlike and innocent I found myself wanting to sketch her again just as she looked right now.
“Thank you.”
“How are you doing today Ella?” Her smile was warm, welcome. She was one of those women who just drew you in, her soul so warm and bright you just wanted to be near it to feel some of that heat.
"I'm okay. I've got a job, and soon I'll have enough money for an apartment, I'm pretty lucky. Many of the women here have no work and still carry bruises, they’re the ones that need your kindness.” My honesty seemed to surprise her.
“That’s very noble of you to put the problems of others before your own. Just because you can see one person’s pain doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist on people who don’t show the physical abuse.”
“True, but really, I’m doing alright.” I was drawing a portrait of Jax and Mercy leaned forward to check it out.
“You seem to be comfortable with Jax, you’re not afraid of him.” It wasn’t a question.
“No, he doesn’t scare me. He may be the size of a giant which was very intimidating at first, but I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. I could see that in his eyes.”
"He is tall," Mercy laughed. "You can read people so easily, just by looking at their eyes?" I nodded.
“My dad always encouraged me to watch people closely, especially their eyes. People can’t easily hide the truth from their eyes. It was supposed to help me with my art, but I found myself learning to read people and their intentions. I knew the man who hurt me was going to hurt me from the moment I saw him. That was perhaps in some ways scarier than him actually hurting me. Just watching, waiting. His eyes were pure evil.” I shivered with the memory. Mercy sat and watched me thoughtfully.
“It has helped you to stay safe though, your ability to see people for who they really are.” I nodded.
“Mercy, can I ask you something about Jax?”
“Of course, but I might not be able to answer. Sometimes our stories are our own to tell.” I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye.
“While Jax is busy trying to help everyone else, who helps him?” I wondered out loud. Mercy’s smile faltered and she stared at me with some confusion. I held up my sketch.
“Don’t you see what’s in his eyes?” I asked her. My picture wasn’t finished, but I had captured his eyes perfectly. It was an image in my mind from when he had sat quietly in this very chair the prior night. He obviously thought I was asleep, but I was awake long enough to see his eyes slip into a familiar place. Pain, hatred, guilt. I had seen them all at one time or another in the eyes of one person or another. I had seen the look in my own eyes too many times to recount. Mercy’s smile was completely gone now as she reached out for my sketch.
“This is how you see Jax?” She asked surprised.
“Not all the time, but it’s there.” Jax was good at hiding his own hurt and suffering. “Like I said, I watch people closely and sometimes it means I catch a glimpse of something that nobody else sees. I don’t know Jax’s story, but he kind of looks like he needs saving too." Mercy nodded thoughtfully, handing the sketchbook back. I could tell my picture had upset her.
"Jax has demons, like all of us. He’s talked to someone about them and is doing much better, perhaps not as well as I thought, but definitely better. Your very astute Ella, you have an extraordinary gift, and I don't just mean the art. Perhaps it was something other than sheer luck that brought you to us the night of the storm."
“Like fate?” I wondered. Mercy smiled.
“Maybe… maybe you will be as good for him as he is for you,” she murmured leaving me alone in the big living area.
Jax
Somehow I had managed to keep Ella from my thoughts most of the day, keeping myself completely immersed in work, but now I was home, alone and quiet, and she was all I could think about. Her grateful, shaken expression when she had seen the sketchbook and charcoal I had bought for her the day before was playing back through my mind like an endless loop. I squeezed my eyes shut willing my mind to find darkness, and yet she was all I saw. That fall of waist long hair as smooth as silk, those dark eyes so dark they were almost black, her full lips, soft milky skin. I groaned. I couldn't stop thinking about her, and the thoughts were making my jeans rather uncomfortable. A cold shower was what I needed, a cold shower and a lobotomy.
One cold shower and an inevitable jerk-off later, I still felt like a wound up, irritable and very horny adolescent. Resorting to a glass of whiskey and some ACDC I lay back in the recliner and studiously took in my surroundings. I loved my house, built with my own two hands. It was a two bedroom loft style home, with a high roof, thick exposed beams, and polished timber floor boards. An enormous shag pile rug that Mercy had convinced me I needed for winter sat in front of a large open fireplace. My T.V sat virtually unused on the wall, my pride and joy, my stereo was housed in a large timber cabinet under it. My guitar lay on the couch like an abandoned old friend following a lonely jam session from a few nights ago, and my bookshelf was now full of CD's, the books I had donated to the shelter. The living area opened out into a combined dining room and kitchen, and a large study-come-guest room, as well as a laundry, and a bathroom occupied the other end of the house. The main bedroom took up the upstairs loft, along with an impressive bathroom with a huge double shower stall big enough for me to spend hours of heated bliss under. My king sized bed sat against the wall with matching bedside tables and my walk in robe was full of jeans and t-shirts. One brand new Hugo Boss suit that I had spent far too much money on sat in a garment bag at the back of the robe, along with my military formal wear. I was lucky, I had a good life, considering the shit I had seen and done. I had all this, a nice home, a good job, family. Things could have gone differently for me if Mercy hadn't of had the guts to leave my dad. If she had of stayed with the abusive alcoholic bastard, Ella's life could have been mine. It never ceased to astound me the people who found themselves on the streets, homeless, abused. A fucked up life was not discriminatory. Young, old, rich, poor, plain or beautiful, bad shit could happen to anyone. I hated that my world was full of women who had been harmed by men. For those spineless fucks who took a fist to someone smaller than them, it was all about power, most of those men would never pick on someone equal. What I would give for time alone with the assholes who hit these women. Mercy told me to let go of that attitude. The women didn't need a violent man to deal with their violent men. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep my shit together sometimes, the urge to lash out at the fuckers who hurt these women was almost debilitating. But I couldn't help them by scaring the shit out of them. Mercy was right. One act of violence does not fix another. Finally, the whiskey began to work its way into my body and mind, and I somehow stumbled my way to the bed where I sank into blissful darkness.
The air is thick with smoke and hot, so hot I can barely breathe. Glancing down I notice I’m in my military fatigues, rifle cocked and steady at my shoulder. I know I’m dreaming, but I can’t wake and I can’t stop the infernal nightmare from playing out before me. We had good Intel, the terrorist extremists were supposed to have been living here in this hell hole for two weeks now. We were doing a sweep of the dilapidated building, bricks and fixtures falling apart around us, suffering the explosive power of war. The door at the end of the hallway is closed and I move silently to it. With a hard shove, the door swings open and the stench of burnt flesh and blood makes my stomach roll. My teeth are clenched shut to try and stop the rising bile. With my gun held high I allow my eyes to sweep the room. Blood, so much blood. You can barely make out the bodies, they are blown to bits. Just random chunks of human remains scatter the room. I slip on the grizzly remains under my
feet, and as I scramble up off the ground, the room suddenly changes and I know right away where I am. The bright white tiles and smell of bleach fill my senses. It should comfort me after the blood and death of the desert I just left, but it doesn't. I know what awaits me here. My eyes are squeezed shut, and I turn, open them. There she lies like a broken doll, her small body slumped against the wall, a pool of blood a stark contrast to the white tiles. "Sarah," I whisper. Her eyes are closed and she could be sleeping if it weren't for the deathly pale look on her face and the blood. Fuck I'm sick of the sight of blood. Falling to my knees in despair I lurch forward and throw up.
I woke with a strangled roar, sweat drenching my naked body, the sheets thrown to the floor. The fear, the horror consumed me for a moment until I realize I’m home, in my room, in my big ass comfortable bed. My heart eventually slows, but I still tremble. This nightmare is like an old enemy, familiar and unwanted. It soaked its way into my darkened dreams, staining my memories with thoughts of Sarah. Therapy had helped and the nightmares were few and far between now. Every now and again one would swoop in and take me by surprise, like tonight. Fuck, I wished I could scrub the bloodied images from my mind. Glancing at my digital clock the red numbers screamed four a.m. Not a chance in hell that I was going back to sleep after that. Pulling myself from bed I dragged on a fresh pair of jeans and grabbed a long sleeve shirt from the cupboard.
Frost crunched under my boots as I made my way across the back yard and into the large shed that sat nestled amongst the pine trees. The work shed was immaculate and made simply for building furniture. Here is where I found my solitude, where I could allow myself to be absorbed by my work, and leave the vicious memories for a short while. This is how I understand Ella's need to sketch, the need for her mind to simply stop and escape. Thinking of Ella I wondered how she slept last night. I’d left her my phone number nearly two days ago now and she hadn't used it, but that didn’t surprise me. I wanted her to, hoped she would, but it was too soon. Women like Ella are strong and resilient and fiercely independent. She’d spent perhaps years on her own, relying on nobody else, reaching out was a big step. I also knew that women like Ella wanted to be loved and desired as much as any other woman, they wanted to feel safe. I wanted that for Ella, I wanted to be all that for her even though I knew it was wrong. Shit, she didn't need my nightmares on top of her own. But right now I couldn't think of a way to stop myself from pulling her in. It wasn’t simply a want, it was a need.
Chapter 11
Jax
When I strolled into the shelter early Sunday morning, the place was quiet. Mercy met me at the foyer, far more subdued than normal, and I knew it wasn’t just exhaustion from the nightshift. Something was up. She moved towards me and wrapped her arms around my waist hugging me close. "What's wrong?' I asked, hugging her back. She scoffed and pushed me away.
“It’s called a hug you big oaf, deal with it.” Okay, she was snappy. Perhaps some of her mood was attributed to the night shift after-all.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, I'm cool with the hug, just tell me what’s up, you have that look."
“What look?” she said snippily. I arched a brow and just stared at her until she finally sighed and tried her best to plaster on a big bright smile.
"I'm just tired honey, Dave is taking me to The Pit Stop for a greasy breakfast and then home to sleep the day away like a lazy sloth." At the thought of a Pit Stop breakfast my stomach growled. Damn it, I’d be thinking about greasy bacon and hash browns all day now. Maybe I could sneak out for lunch. Benny's special breakfast was an all-day affair, and the thought had me almost drooling all over myself. David came up and pulled Mercy into his arms, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead.
“Come on woman, Benny’s is calling you and bed is calling me.” He pulled my mom towards the front door.
“Jax," I turned back to face her before entering the rec room. "Maybe you were right, Ella is special, she's different. Take good care of her." Okay, now I felt like I had stepped into a cheesy chick flick. Mercy smiled at the apparent look of shock on my face.
“Don’t be afraid to be what she needs. You could both be good for each other.” I tilted my head considering her words.
“Okay Yoda, did Beth bring in some of her ‘special’ cookies this morning?” I asked, my hands putting ‘special’ in the appropriate air quotations.
Mercy laughed and shook her head, leaving me standing there with no doubt a dumbfounded expression on my face. Yep, I was looking for Beth's cookies the moment I had a chance. I moved through the shelter with a little too much excitement, I was dying to see Ella and make sure she was alright. When I discovered she had already left my mood quickly dropped to below freezing and Beth, of course, was quick to take note.
“What, didn’t you get lucky last night?” She snapped throwing another fuse at me. The damned thermostat was playing up again.
“Where are your cookies and I mean the good ones, not the plain ol' boring ones sitting in that container on the kitchen bench?" I demanded. Beth snickered as she leaned against the door frame.
"They're the only cookies I brought in, and because you seem not to have noticed, I haven't brought the good kind in for over a year now. All my baking is clean as a whistle these days."
“Mercy was acting weird this morning, I assumed you snuck her one,” I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the fuse. “I’ll fix this, might work the bag for a bit too.”
“Good idea,” Beth murmured as I stalked past her.
I was punching all of my frustration into that damned bag, and it still didn't help my mood. With every hit I imagined it was one of the men who had hit the women who came to Mercy's. I wished I knew what Ella's abuser looked like, it would have made the whole exercise more worthwhile. My fists connecting with the bag were the only sound in the damp basement and I soon shed my shirt and worked up a sweat. A gentle cough behind me had me snap around, surprised. No one ever came down here, especially not Beth, she was too damn scared of the ghost that she was convinced lived amongst the boxes and crates and no one ever snuck up on me. I was shocked to see Ella sitting half way down the staircase. Her eyes were glued to my chest, her cheeks flushed.
"You have a tattoo," she noted a little breathlessly. I nodded. I had a tattoo. Selena was the only person other than the tattooist who knew about it. But I was the only person who knew what it meant. It was personal, not something I wanted to share. But I found myself wanting Ella to know about it and sharing something personal like this would help with the trust we were developing. It wasn't a small tattoo and how I had managed to keep it a secret was beyond me. It took up almost my entire back, and I endured many hours of mind numbing pain just to cover it and keep it a secret. I knew Ella would appreciate it from an artistic perspective. The entire tattoo was in shades of gray; a large crucifix drawn in such a way to give it a worn timber look sat between my shoulder blades and below it, in an elegant scroll was a quote. Ella stood and carefully descended the few remaining steps, walking cautiously towards me. I stood perfectly still as she moved to my back.
"He will wipe every tear from their eyes and there will be no more death, or sorrow, or crying, or pain." The silence grew almost uncomfortable before she circled to stand back before me once more. Her head was tilted in thought, and she watched me carefully. Then, like turning off a switch her eyes brightened and she looked at the punching bag.
"Would you teach me?" She asked. I was thrown for a moment. I was positive she would ask about my tattoo, about what it meant and represented. I was prepared for her question and ready to tell her, a little of I'll show you mine if you show me yours. At the same time I was also relieved at not having to explain, I guess I wasn't as ready as I thought I was, and perhaps Ella realized that. Or perhaps, like everyone else in this shelter, we would tell our own stories once we were ready without pressure or expectation.
“There’s not much to teach about punching a bag of sand,” I grinned.
“I want to kno
w how to punch a man, properly.” She explained.
"You live on the streets and never took a self-defense class? Many shelters hold them for free you know." She stiffened at my words, her lips pursed and ready to argue. It kinda was a dick thing to say, rubbing her homelessness in her face. "The first time I saw you, I walked you through the doors of this shelter and you stood with your fists clenched ready to sock me one if I so much as breathed wrong. I assumed you already knew how to throw a punch." I said, hoping it would erase the thoughtless comment.
Reaching out slowly, I took her wrist, feeling the ridges of her scars under my fingers. She flinched, and I ignored it. "Clench your fist, like you did that night." She was tense and as nervous as a rabbit, but she obeyed, clenching her fists. I positioned them appropriately in front of her, one hand a little lower, protecting her torso the other higher protecting her face. She looked so damn cute and mad as hell. “I’m sorry about the homeless dig, that was thoughtless and uncalled for. I’m going to show you how to throw a punch so you can kick my ass, okay?” A twitch at the corner of her lips told me she was fighting a smile. “Now, let’s get one thing straight. You’re not weak.” I looked her right in the eye so she could see that I believed that was the god honest truth. “But,” I went on, “you’re tiny, like a doll. Hell, I have no doubt I could wrap you up and put you in my pocket.” Her brow furrowed.
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