Chapter Eight
Eliza
I flipped through the dog-eared pages of a book, losing myself in the gritty story. I’d been gifted several, but this had been my favorite so far. For a few blissful moments, I wasn’t in that shithole anymore. I was somewhere else, living a different life. Although, technically, I really had found my freedom thanks to the Underland MC. But as long as my father was out there, I knew there was a chance I’d end up right back in hell.
A gentle knock made me jump. Jo appeared in the doorway, a smile on her face. She was holding a tray with two steaming mugs. “Hey. Thought you could use some tea.” Jo set the tray on the table next to me and took a seat, her movements careful and slow like she was trying not to spook a wild animal.
I eyed the mug suspiciously. People didn’t do nice things for nothing. There was always a catch. But the tea smelled good, comforting.
“Thanks,” I muttered, picking up the mug and letting the warmth seep into my hands. I took a sip, the hot liquid soothing my raw throat. When was the last time someone made me tea? Probably when my mom had been alive. I knew she’d enjoyed one that smelled of cinnamon.
Jo sat there in silence, sipping her own mug. She wasn’t pushing, not prying. Just… being there. It was strange. But also kind of nice?
I glanced over at her, noticing the signs of someone who’d fought their own battles. She may not wear bruises anymore, but her posture, the way she seemed aware of her surroundings, told me she’d once feared someone or something. We’d talked a little, so I knew she didn’t have the most spectacular past, but I also didn’t know the details.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel the need to run her off or throw up my walls. Because in a messed-up way, I felt like she got it. Got me.
I went back to my book, the pages more battered than ever. Normally, I’d never fold down a page, but this one had already been damaged when I got it. No matter how long I stared at the page, I didn’t really see the words anymore. My mind churned, an unfamiliar feeling taking root in my gut.
Was this what safety felt like? Acceptance? I was almost afraid to trust it. After living in fear for so long, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel or how I should act. Everyone here had been nice to me, and genuinely seemed kind. But I knew my father showed one face to the world and another to me. It left me questioning everyone I met, wondering how much of what I saw was the real them and how much was them playing a part.
For now, I’d let myself breathe. Let myself just exist in this quiet moment, broken but not shattered. And for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
Jo’s voice broke the silence, her words hesitant. “That book you were reading… was it any good?”
I blinked, surprised she’d even asked. People usually didn’t care what I was into. Of course, I’d mostly been staring at it, attempting to read. This time, anyway. I had read the story before, so I already knew what happened. “It was good, probably my favorite of the ones I was given.” I ran my finger along the dog-eared pages. “Helped me escape, you know? My mind feels like it’s running non-stop, so reading lets me take a break from life.”
She nodded, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “I get that. Books were my lifeline growing up. Still are.” She took another sip of tea, lost in thought for a moment. “Who’s your favorite author?”
I chewed on my lip, not used to talking about this stuff. But something about Jo made me want to open up, just a little. “I don’t really have a favorite author, but I do love books about haunted houses. Not non-fiction, but the horror type, where unseen beings can wreak havoc, or even end lives.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’m more into romance and mystery myself. I guess I felt like I was living in a horror movie long enough I didn’t really get into the genre. But I do enjoy a good ghost story around Halloween.”
We fell into an easy conversation, swapping book recommendations and favorite quotes. It was surreal, connecting with someone like this. Like maybe we weren’t so different after all. The way she’d talked about her life made me think we were similar in many ways, but I wasn’t going to pry. If she wanted to tell me about her past, I’d wait for her to offer the story and not try to drag it out of her.
As the tea dwindled in our mugs, Jo shifted gears. “You know, art was a lifesaver for me. Painting, specifically.” She ran a finger over a faded scar on her wrist, lost in a memory. “It helped me process the darkness, turn it into something beautiful. Now I mostly sketch. The club loaded me up with art supplies. Rabbit likes to draw too.”
I swallowed hard, my own scars itching beneath my sleeves. “I used to sketch,” I admitted quietly, the words rusty from disuse. “Before everything went to hell. Sometimes even afterward I would. My dad hated it. Every time he found one of my sketch pads, he’d destroy it.”
Jo’s eyes met mine, a flicker of hope sparking in their depths. “You should try it again sometime. It’s never too late to reclaim that part of yourself.”
Her words hit me like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs. Could I really pick up a pencil again, after all this time? What if I wasn’t any good now?
The idea terrified me. But it also ignited a tiny ember in my chest, one I thought had long since burned out. It made me wonder if there was still a glimmer of light left in me after all.
“Want to try?” she asked.
“What if I suck at it now?”
She shrugged. “You won’t know if you don’t attempt to draw anything. And so what if it’s not the greatest? What matters is how it makes you feel.”
I nodded. “All right, but I don’t have anything.”
“Wait here.” She fled from the room and returned a few minutes later with a stack of sketchbooks and a box of pencils. “Mind if I draw too?”
“Sure.” I smiled. This could be fun, and perhaps it would make me reconnect with the part of myself I’d lost somewhere along the way.
She handed me a brand-new sketch pad and I took one of the pencils. Sitting at an angle where she couldn’t see the pad, I started drawing. I didn’t know how long we sat there, but by the time Jo said anything, I’d filled quite a few pages.
“May I?” Her voice was undemanding.
I hesitated, fear and doubt swirling inside me. But Jo’s gentle gaze steadied me. I nodded.
Carefully, she took the sketchbook, handling it like it was something precious. She settled beside me, the warmth of her body soaking into my skin, chasing away the chill that had seeped into my bones.
Slowly, reverently, she opened the cover. A small gasp escaped her lips as she took in the first drawing. It was a self-portrait, raw and unflinching. Every scar, every bruise laid bare on the page.
“Oh, Eliza,” she breathed. “This… this is incredible. The emotion, the honesty… it’s stunning.”
I ducked my head, unused to such praise. “It’s nothing special,” I mumbled. “Just some scribblings.”
Jo shook her head firmly. “No, it’s not nothing. It’s everything. This is your truth, your story. And it deserves to be seen, to be celebrated.”
She continued to flip through the pages, each one a window into my shattered soul. A landscape of jagged edges and bleeding skies. A portrait of a broken girl with haunted eyes. An abstract explosion of rage.
“You have such a gift,” Jo marveled. “The way you captured pain, resilience, hope… it’s breathtaking. You need to keep doing this, Eliza. Keep creating, keep expressing yourself. The world needs your art.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the pages. No one had ever believed in me like that before. Seen me, truly seen me, and thought I was worth something.
“You really think so?” I whispered, hardly daring to hope.
Jo reached out, took my hand in hers. Her skin was warm, her grip strong and sure. “I know so,” she said firmly. “You’re a survivor, Eliza. A fighter. And your art… it’s a testament to that. Never stop believing in yourself. Because I never will. And I know the men here will always believe in you too.”
Something inside me cracked open at her words. I felt raw, exposed, like she had peeled back my skin and glimpsed the fragile heart beneath.
I took a shuddering breath, then began to speak.
“This one,” I said, pointing to the sketch of a girl curled in on herself, “I drew this while thinking about the first time he broke my ribs. I thought I was going to die that night. Thought that was it, you know? But I survived. This is the first time I’ve been able to purge some of that pain, pouring it all out onto the page.”
Jo listened intently, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on my palm. It grounded me, anchored me, gave me the courage to keep going.
“And this,” I continued, flipping to the landscape, “I drew this while thinking about the day I left him. The day I finally broke free. It felt like… like I was being reborn, and at the same time I was terrified. Scared he’d catch me. Worried the Underland MC wouldn’t be as helpful as I’d been told.”
Jo nodded, her eyes shining with understanding. “I know that feeling,” she murmured. “That moment when you realize you’re stronger than you ever thought possible. That you survived the unsurvivable.”
“Is that a word?” I asked.
She smiled faintly. “Probably not, but I’m making it one.”
Her words wrapped around me like a blanket, warm and comforting. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel alone. I didn’t feel like a freak, a broken thing.
I felt seen. Understood. Accepted.
Jo’s hand tightened around mine, a lifeline in the darkness. “You are amazing, Eliza,” she said. “Your strength, your resilience… it’s inspiring. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still standing. Still fighting. And that’s incredible. Not everyone can break free.”
I leaned into her touch, soaking up her warmth, her steadiness. The hole in my chest, the one that had been aching for so long… it felt a little less empty now. A little less raw.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt the beginnings of something that might have been healing.
Jo glanced at the sketchbook again, a glimmer of an idea dancing in her eyes. “You know,” she said slowly, “I’ve been working on some poetry lately. Trying to put my own demons into words.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “What if… what if we combined your drawings with my poems? We could create something beautiful out of all this ugliness. And if we can come up with enough pages, maybe we could find a way to have it published? There have to be more women out there who can relate to what we’ve been through, who need to know it’s possible to break free.”
My heart skipped a beat, a thrill of excitement rushing through me. “You mean… like a collaboration?”
Jo grinned, her whole face lighting up. “Exactly. We could tell our stories, Eliza. Show the world that we’re more than just victims.”
The idea took root, blossoming into possibility. I imagined our pain, our healing, our hopes, all woven together. A tapestry of trauma and triumph.
“I love it,” I breathed, my fingers already itching for a pencil. “Let’s do it.”
While I sketched for another few hours, she sorted through her poems, and it looked like she might even be writing more of them. When I set the book and pencil down, she pulled it over.
“This one,” she murmured, tapping a charcoal sketch of a woman emerging from a cage. “I have a poem that fits it perfectly.”
She flipped through her notebook until she found the poem she sought. Her voice was soft as she read it to me.
Trapped in a cage,
Bars forged in fear and hatred.
Imprisoned.
Broken.
But I’m the key.
And today,
I choose to be free .
A lump rose in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. Jo’s words, my art… it was like they were made for each other. Like we were meant to become friends.
We lost ourselves in the creative process, Jo’s words danced across the pages as I brought them to life with bold strokes of my pencil. The outside world faded away until there was nothing but the two of us, our art, and the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with each passing minute.
Laughter bubbled up from some forgotten place inside me as Jo cracked a joke, her eyes sparkling with mischief. It felt strange, foreign, like my body didn’t quite remember how to make the sound. But it also felt right. Like I was remembering how to live again.
“I can’t believe I actually had fun,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I didn’t think I ever would again, after…”
I trailed off, the ghosts of my past rising up to choke me. But Jo just nodded, her gaze filled with understanding.
“I know,” she murmured, her hand finding mine. “But we are more than what they did to us, Eliza. We aren’t just survivors. We’re fighters. Artists. And we can show the world just how strong we are.”
Her words ignited a fire in my chest, a blaze of determination that consumed the lingering shadows. I squeezed her hand.
“Together,” I whispered, and it was a promise. A vow. “We can do it together.”
I never thought I’d find solace in another person again, not after the hell I had endured. Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, a weakness that could be exploited. But here, in this moment, with Jo by my side, I thought it might be okay to let people in. At least, the ones here at the clubhouse.
“I never knew words could be so powerful,” I whispered, my voice raw with emotion as I traced the lines of Jo’s poetry with a reverent finger. “The way you wove them together, it was like…”
“Magic?” Jo finished, her lips curving into a smile that was tinged with sadness. “Yeah, I used to think so too. Before… I mean, I guess I haven’t thought about it much since I picked it back up. It was just a way to process everything in my head.”
She didn’t need to say more. We both knew the horrors that haunted our pasts, the scars that marred our souls.
She cleared her throat. “As I said before, I draw too. Actually, I only started writing poems again recently. Like you, I worried I wouldn’t be good at it anymore.”
For so long, I’d believed I was worthless, that my existence held no value beyond what my abuser decided. But here, with Jo, I was beginning to see the truth: I was an artist. A creator. A survivor.
As I finished my last drawing, the final lines taking shape on the page, a sense of peace settled over me, a balm to the jagged edges of my shattered heart. Jo’s presence was a steady anchor, a reminder that I was not alone in this fight.
We were warriors. We were healers. We were artists. And together, we had risen from the ashes of our pasts, and we were going to paint the world anew.