Chapter 1 – One Year Later #2
Seated at my desk, I scan the inventory on my laptop, then proceed to order more cases of shampoo and conditioner, among other things the women here desperately need. The amount of donors we have is miles long. It makes the women feel good, knowing there are people out there who care about them.
There’s a small knock at my door.
“Come in,” I say and the door slowly parts. I find seventeen-year-old Elena there.
“Ms. Jade, I—ahh—n-never mind.” She steps back out just as quickly as she came in.
“Elena, please, come in.” I rise to my feet, going to her, towering over her small frame. “You’re not bothering me. Whatever it is, I’m here to listen.”
She timidly glances up at me, flicking her light brown hair away from her face, the round black and blue around her blue eye no longer there. She came to us three months ago. At first, she wouldn’t stay.
She left twice before she came back again, beaten and bruised, after returning to her pimp.
The same man who sold her for thirty dollars a pop, allowing men to do whatever they wanted for thirty excruciating minutes.
There are marks on her that will never vanish.
Her thighs, her back, branded with scars.
But the scars on her soul, those are the ones she holds tightly to.
She barely ever talks at group therapy. It’s hard. Not everyone can speak about what they’ve been through.
Elena has no one. Her father abandoned her family when she was too little to remember him, while her mom preferred the company of drugs and men to her and her older brother.
Jason, her brother, has been in prison for years.
She has nothing to return to. So it’s no surprise she’d return to a man like that.
Her abuser has been arrested, and she’s supposed to testify against him, but I worry about her, having to relive her emotional trauma.
“Let’s go sit,” I tell her, leading the way to my bright yellow sofa.
The girls here tease me about it, but I love it.
Aida picked it out. She said it reminded her of the sun.
We all need a little sunshine in this place.
“Want some water or iced tea?” I ask, turning toward Elena as she settles on the furthest corner.
She shakes her head, glancing at her lap, picking at her nails.
“I’m okay.” She doesn’t say anything for long minutes and I let her be.
She’ll find her voice when she’s ready, and I’m here to listen.
I may not be an official counselor like the two I employ, but I talk to the women every chance I get—in group, in the lectures we host. I haven’t shied away from my story.
I gave them every raw detail, so they know that they’re not alone in this, and that if I can make it through it all, they can too.
It physically hurts when some of them leave.
I want to find them to tell them to come back.
That they’re worth more, but nothing I say will make a difference. They have to want this for themselves.
The abusers are gifted at dismantling the self-esteem of their victims. They know how to push at their inner turmoil and peel at the skin that already aches with their demons.
Many of them come from a life that’s been riddled with horridness, and once they find someone who promises them a better life, they cling to that.
Others were kidnapped like I was, taken in broad daylight or in the stark of night.
Some were found by law enforcement, others were arrested and came to us from prison, or referred to us from organizations that didn’t have all the resources we do.
In any case, I’m glad they’re here, all fifty of them.
“Does it . . .” She finally speaks, the words catching in her throat before she tries again. “Does it ever go away?”
“Does what go away?” I crouch my face down, hoping she makes eye contact.
“The hurting.” She looks up, her eyes drenched with tears. “Does it every stop hurting? Because it still hurts, Jade.” Her lower lip quivers.
My own tears come, unhurried waves of grief.
Taking her hand in mine, I tighten my grasp.
“It eases,” I say, softly and honestly. “Like a cut that heals with time. You may still see the scar, feel it against your fingertips, but it doesn’t hurt as badly anymore when you remember how you got it.
” My mouth tightens into a mournful smile, my brows knitting.
“That’s how it’s been for me. I used to cry all the time.
I cry less now.” She glances at our joined hands before meeting my eyes again.
“That anger, the rage you feel,” I continue.
“It’s normal, Elena. It’s cathartic even.
Don’t hide from it. Embrace it. But don’t let it consume you.
Because that’ll only let them win.” I take her other hand in mine. “And we can never let them win.”
She nods as she lets out a whimper. “Th-th-there’s no one,” she cries, tears leaking from the edges of her eyes as she pierces me with the shattering of her pain. “Not one person out there who gives a shit about me.”
“I give a shit about you,” I tell her with conviction in my tone.
“A lot of shits actually.” The room fills with my small laugh, and she gives me one of her own.
“I care very much about you, Elena. I always will. And I know Sasha cares about you too,” I add, speaking of her roommate.
“She’s told me so plenty of times. She said you’re a great friend, and that she doesn’t know what she’d do if she hadn’t met you here. ”
That gets a smile going on her face. “She really said that or are you busting my chops?”
“You wanna go ask her?” My smile pulls at my features.
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I believe you.”
“I’d never lie to you. We don’t do that here.”
She pauses with a stark look in her eyes, her mouth fluttering like she’s nervous to ask me something.
“What is it, Elena?”
She purses her lips. “They really took your kid from you?”
“Yeah.” I huff out. “They really did.”
“Shit, that’s so fucked up.” She roughly swats the tears from under her eyes.
She doesn’t show her pain so freely. It’s all bundled up inside her, ready to explode.
But my hope for Elena is that she learns how to slowly undo the ties that bind her heart.
I want to show her that it’s okay to let go, for people to see the real her.
Because she’s beautiful, and I don’t speak of her outer beauty, but the beauty she holds within her.
She’s learning how to be a cook here, and the chef who teaches the women sees a lot of potential in her. And if she wants this, I’ll pay for culinary school. But that’s something I can address down the line. She’s not quite ready for that conversation yet.
“Those people, they may have taken him away from me for a long time,” I go on.
“But I got him back. They stole our years, but they haven’t stolen all the ones we still have.
And you, Elena, you have so many beautiful memories waiting for you.
Seize them.” Her long lashes flutter as she continues to stare, taking in every word.
“And when we talk again ten years from now, I want you to remember this conversation. Because you have the world in the palm of your hand, and I won’t ever stop reminding you of that. ”
She bursts into tears and jumps into my arms, sobbing against me, while I let her. Because tears, they’re powerful, freeing, a release of every ugly thing we carry in silence.