Saving Amy (9 page)

Julie inadvertently pulled me out of my self-pitying episode by flailing her arms in the air like a lunatic when she caught my eye across the floor.

“Amy!” she greeted vociferously as she bent down to my seated level to throw her arms around me. She looked different – more mature. She only graduated yesterday but she already seemed too old for high school. She exuded a confidence I’d never noticed before and suddenly looked
all intellectual
. Not that she looked dumb before or anything…

“How are you, Miss University of Florida Student?” I quipped. She giggled and was so obviously proud of herself. And so she should be.

“Oh, Amy, I’m just so happy. There’s so much to look forward to. A whole new world is waiting for me.” Her words panged in my heart and I wanted to cry. I mentally chastised myself for being so goddamn selfish when I should’ve just been happy for her.

“That’s fantastic, Jules. I’m so proud of you.” She smiled bashfully and then reached across the table to take hold of my hand.

“What about you?” she asked empathically. “Are things getting better at home? I know you’ve had a rough couple of months.”

I wish I could tell you the half of it.

“Yeah, things are picking up. I’m looking for a job and hoping to get my own place pretty soon.” I tried my utmost to sound upbeat. I didn’t want to send her away on a downer.

“That’s great!”

“Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve blown my chances of a decent career just now. But hopefully if I can find a job that pays me enough to get set up somewhere I can concentrate on re-taking my finals later or something. We’ll see…” I was trying desperately to sound hopeful about my future but I wasn’t sure how convincing I sounded.

“I’m sure you’ll do just great. I’m going to miss you so much.” My eyes fought with every breath against the urge to cry as she squeezed my hand.

“I’ll miss you too. We’ve had some fun together haven’t we?” The thought, and the memories, were heart-warming and mournful at the same time. It felt almost like I was grieving for her.

We spent the afternoon ordering coffees, laughing and reminiscing about our high school years together. We promised to keep in touch but I knew in reality that would eventually fade. She had a life bursting with new experiences and opportunities ahead of her and I knew I would soon become a distant memory.

Julie was my very best friend.
My
only
friend.
My only distraction from the fucked-up world in which I lived.
Now she was leaving and I’d have nobody.

I’d have nothing…

**********

Life was bleak. It was my birthday yesterday. I celebrated another year of this miserable existence tucked under my quilt, using the light from my cell to read The Only Way Is Up – a true story about a boy who was locked in his grandfather’s basement for the first fifteen years of his life – and listening to the arguments radiating up the stairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed staring myself up and down in the arched mirror on my dresser. I looked so old. So tired. Why was I here? What was my purpose? I could see no viable reason for my existence other than to suffer. Maybe I was a murderer in a previous life. Maybe I was being tested by some higher being.

Maybe I was just bad…

I remained completely unsuccessful in my search for work so decided to change direction. Instead of walking in and asking for vacancies I now had a tidy pile of written applications stacked up on my bedside table waiting to be mailed. I planned to post them today but first I needed money for postage. As usual, I waited for the sound of the power shower so I could head downstairs and find my dad’s wallet.

I didn’t have to wait long before I heard the jet of water and my dad’s morning coughing ritual so I knew it was
him
. I quickly threw on my baby-blue sweats and tiptoed over the loose floorboard and down the stairs. His wallet was resting in its customary spot on the kitchen counter and I slipped my fingers in and grabbed three notes without checking what they were.

“What the
fuck are
you doing? YOU THIEVING LITTLE BITCH!”

I screamed out as I was spun around and my back slammed into the stove behind me. I refused to feel afraid. Fear had been slowly killing me for eighteen years and I’d had enough.

“Get your hands off me,” I said firmly, sending waves of hot, rage-fuelled blood into his cheeks. His breathing accelerated and I watched his hand as he balled it into a fist. “Get it over with already,” I snapped, utterly emotionless, trying not to retch as the stench of Old Spice flooded my nose. I was pushing him and I didn’t care. In fact, I think I wanted him to lose it.

“Go on… DO IT!” I yelled and within half a second the first punch momentarily blinded me.

He lost all control and I took blow after blow to my face. He was usually so clever but he’d lost himself completely. I smelt a hint of whiskey coming from his sickening breath and I wondered if that was why he’d become so careless.

A couple of strikes later and I couldn’t feel it anymore. I threw my head back to steady my neck and prevent it jolting too far. My body felt lifeless and I didn’t know how I was managing to stay upright. I willingly accepted each blow and then it dawned on me that this could all be over so quickly. The one person I was so desperate to escape from could set me free with one hard, precise blow.

I needed to antagonise him.

“Surely you can do better than that?” I spluttered
,
my mouth filled with hot blood.

My eyes closed in preparation but were forced open immediately when I felt myself being dragged across the floor.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he slurred when he eventually let go of my sweater, sending me flying into the gravel on the front yard. I was hurt and disorientated and so had no choice but to lie in the dirt for a few long minutes while I gathered my bearings.

I looked around hoping to see someone – anyone. But there was nobody in sight. The street and all its houses seemed lifeless.
Figures.
The one time the lucky bastard lost it outside the confines of the house and there wasn’t a soul to witness it. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.

After a few minutes I managed to crawl into a kneeling position and pull myself up on the drainpipe. My battered face was starting to ache. I touched my lip and gasped when it stung, noticing blood on my fingers when I pulled them away. What in hell was I supposed to do now?

I had no money, no purse, no car keys,
no
cell… I didn’t even have any shoes. Tears scratched at the back of my eyes but they were too swollen to let them escape. Dazed, I began to walk down the path but had no idea where I was going. The coarse asphalt scraped at the soles of my bare feet when I reached the
sidewalk,
burning them the farther I went. In an effort to hide my face I pulled the hood of my sweater up over my head and walked gingerly past the house and down the street.

I’d managed only a few yards when a fancy black car screeched to a sudden halt beside me. I picked up my pace – the last thing I wanted was someone asking for directions when I looked like god knows what. When I heard the slam of a car door and footsteps hastening towards me from behind my body went rigid. Should I run? Ask what they wanted without turning around and showing my face? Collapse and beg for help?

I flinched when a hand landed on my shoulder. I didn’t notice that was sore until now. Every self-defence move I’d ever seen in a movie flashed through my head as I prepared to scream. I’d never believed in god but I found myself begging him for help in my head.

He answered.

“Amy?” Immediately I flung myself around.

“Richard!” I wailed, throwing myself onto him and clutching his open military-style grey jacket into my fists.

“Shh, shh,” he whispered into my hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay. What’s happened, Amy?” I couldn’t respond. My head was buried in his chest and my fingers were aching from clawing at him so hard but they refused to let go. The tears found their way out then, and began spilling rapidly onto his shirt.

“Amy, please. Look at me.” I raised my head slowly, peering out through the tight slits of my swollen eyes. “Jesus Christ! Is that bastard still in there? I’m calling the police…” he trailed off, easing away from me, and then started pounding towards the house while reaching into his pocket for his cell.

“Richard no! Please don’t leave me. Please!” I whimpered. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with exhaustion and I collapsed to my knees. He was by my side in seconds, supporting me with his body weight.

“He can’t be allowed to get away with this,” he said quietly but firmly. I could feel the frustration – the
anger
– writhing through his tense body but I just wanted to get away from here. I just wasn’t strong or courageous enough to take on my father again.

“Just get me out of here.
Please
…” I begged him.

“Okay,” he murmured, sighing heavily in defeat. “Okay.”

I clung to his arm to pull myself up but before I could even try I was scooped in his arms like a baby. Wrapping my weak arms around his neck I held on as tightly as I could, burying my face in his shoulder. The feeling was so alien to me – I had never felt so secure. He held me effortlessly with one arm as he used his other to open the passenger door of his car and then slowly, cautiously, he lowered me into the seat.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked as he slid in beside me and assisted my fumbling fingers on their mission to fasten my seatbelt. The thought of more time in hospital filled my veins with dread – more questions, more interrogations,
more
up-themselves nurses trying to help…

“I’m taking you back to my place while I examine your injuries,” he replied very matter of fact. Doctor Lewis was back but I didn’t mind. I was just relieved he was here… and that I was safe.

Richard had to use a small black key fob and punch three different sets of numbers into various keypads to gain us entry but finally we were in his apartment. It seemed bigger than the last time I was here. He gestured for me to sit on an ostentatiously large, black-leather corner suite in a vast open-plan living area – every wall painted a brilliant white. There was a
huge
kitchen at the far end which was glossy white and stainless steel and right in front of me, built into the wall, was a white, open coal fire – although I was pretty sure it was electric.

“Let me take a look,” Richard said softly as he settled down next to me on the couch. He gently raised my chin with his forefinger and set about assessing me. I studied his eyes intently as they wandered over my face. They were a vivid green – sparkling like emeralds under the ceiling halogens – and heavy with what looked like concern.

He was… beautiful.

“Son of a…” I gasped when the slight pressure of his tender finger brushed my lips.

“I’m sorry. I think this needs stitches.” His expression was painful, worried. I felt guilty that it was
me
making him feel like that.
Stitches.
I sighed heavily and dropped my head.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was just hoping I wouldn’t need the hospital again.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured, smiling softly. “I can do it here. Wait there.”

Phew…

Richard disappeared into another room and my eyes wandered my surroundings. They were drawn to a photograph in a silver, embellished frame sitting proudly in the centre of a set of three floating glass shelves. It was an old man – the image of Richard but with snow-white hair and deep lines framing his eyes – with his arm around a lady with a short, honey-blonde bob and Richard’s smile. It was his parents without a doubt.

Upon his return Richard set a steel tray down on the coffee table in front of our knees. Then he picked up a sterile blister pack and carefully peeled it open, exposing a pre-filled needle.

“This is just a local anaesthetic. It might sting a little.” Slowly, he brought the sharp point towards my lips.

Holy fuck that hurts…

“Good girl,” he said when it was over and I couldn’t help but giggle.

“What?” he asked curiously.

“You know, you can be a condescending son of a bitch at times,” I admitted playfully – and honestly. A small smirk crawled across his lips.

“Funnily enough you’re not the first person to say that,” he conceded with a mischievous expression.

The left side of my face felt like it had doubled in size and I could no longer feel my lips or my tongue – or my nose for that matter. Richard tested the area with the prod of a different kind of needle.

“Can you feel that?” I shook my head. I didn’t think I could speak with a numb tongue. “Good,” he said with a slight nod before getting to work on my busted face. He didn’t talk while he was patching me up. His eyebrows were set firmly down and I decided that must be his concentrating face.

“All done,” he said proudly, assessing his handiwork. Then he sat up straight and stretched his back.

“That was quick,” I noted, sounding like I had a mouth full of Jell-O. I must have lost all sense of time immersed in studying his perfect face.

“I’m a fast worker.” He winked at me, sending tickling ripples through my stomach, and then he left the room with the tray. He returned less than a minute later and handed me two pills and a glass of water.