Page 8 of Rebels & Rejects
“I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up the phone, I stuff it in my pocket and pick up my pace. At the next block, rather than heading in the direction of my apartment building, I turn the opposite way down the street toward theNew Beginnings Women’s Shelter.
The shelter is in a repurposed community hall, and the place is quiet when I push open the door. Beatrice, a gray-haired woman in her sixties with balls of steel—making her tougher than any man I’ve ever met—is sitting behind the check-in desk. She looks up as I walk in, giving me a sad smile. Beatrice and I go way back. I’ve spent more than my fair share of nights here, under her watchful eye. She’s good people, and even most of the men in this town know not to mess with her. She’s got herself a reputation, although I guess that’s what happens when you bludgeon your deadbeat husband and cut off his cheating dick. At least, those are the rumors. No one knows for certain since his body was never found.
“Where is she?”
She jerks her head toward the back of the building. “I put her in one of our private rooms. Last door on the right.”
With a nod, I move to head down the hall, but as I’m walking past the counter, she leans across it and hisses in a low voice, “Don’t let her go back to him. If she can’t make the decision for herself, then make it for her.”
I press my lips together, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, before walking on and passing the doorway to a large, cafeteria-style dining hall that, during the day, is normally filled with residents and volunteers. However, at this late hour, it’s dimly lit, with only a few women sitting around, nursing hot drinks or consoling one another. Moving on, I pass another, smaller hall which has been set up as a communal sleeping area, with bunk beds filling up the room. No doubt every one of them is already occupied with women and children in need of a safe space for the night. Unfortunately, come morning, many of them will go back home to their abusive, cheating, scumbag partners, with apologies pouring from their lips, only to end up right back here in a week or month.
Every single one of their worthless partners should be shoved off the side of the dock and left to drown. It’s the only fitting fate for any asshole who uses his larger size and greater strength to beat on someone weaker than them. I just don’t have the time or resources to do it all myself. Getting rid of them all would be a full-time job, and most of these women can’t afford to retain my services—which is why I have to be so selective with the cases I take on.
As I pass by several more communal sleeping rooms, I can hear the faint sounds of women whispering, children crying, and the crinkle of plastic sleeping mats as someone rolls over in their bed. It brings back memories of my own time living in shelters like this. I was only a child, and thankfully, many of the volunteers took pity on me, but it still wasn’t an easy life. I had to fend for myself, scavenge my own food and clothing, and move from shelter to shelter when I’d stayed for as long as I could.
I preferred staying in a women’s shelter since being with just women and children was generally safer. I had a few incidents in homeless shelters, instances where men would try to corner me or sneak into my bed at night, which resulted in me sleeping with a stolen kitchen knife under my pillow and learning never to let myself be alone in a room with someone of the opposite sex. It’s one thing for men to proposition a thirteen-year-old girl, but to try and just take what doesn’t belong to them—that’s a whole different level of fucked up.
I push thoughts of the past aside as I reach the last door at the end of the corridor, where Beatrice said she’d put Sheryl, and knock on the door.
A weak sob comes in response. “Y-yeah?”
Opening the door, I slip into the room and take in the pitiful state of my oldest—and only—friend as she sits on the bottom bunk, sobbing. Her eyes widen as I close the door behind me, and she awkwardly gets to her feet, coming to hug me.
“Sheryl,” I sigh into her embrace, careful not to hold her too tightly. Beatrice said she thought she had broken ribs, and based on the way she’s favoring her right side and wincing with every deep inhale, I’d say she’s right.
I pull back, running my gaze over her face. She’s skinny—far too skinny—and her right eye is already swollen shut and turning a horrific shade of black. Her one good eye is red and puffy, glistening with fresh tears, and blood is crusted around her nose. There’s another red smear on her chin where blood has trickled from her split lip.
Once I’ve taken in all I can bear to look at of her face, I glance behind her to where there’s a small lump sleeping in the top bunk.
“How’s Grace?”
Sheryl’s shoulders drop, and a fresh set of tears build in her eyes before she dabs them away, “H-he hurt her.” She chokes on a sob, burying her face in her hands as I rub soothing circles along her back and usher her over to the bed. Once I’ve got her settled, I rifle through the duffle bag she most likely hastily packed before escaping, digging out some baby wipes and tucking my hand under her chin. I gently lift her face, dabbing around her nose and chin to clean her up.
This isn’t the first time Sheryl has turned up here with Grace. Hell, it isn’t even the third time this month. Sheryl and I grew up together. Black Creek is filled with street kids, but Sheryl was one of the first people I met when I first joined them. See, I wasn’t always homeless, though I barely remember that time of my life, and the only memories I do have are coated in violence and drenched in blood. Not ones I care to think about most days. When I was first trying to figure out this new life I’d been upended into, she showed me the ropes. She was the one who pointed out the best homeless shelters and taught me how to survive from one day to the next. I owe her my life.
As we grew older, our lives took very different paths. Sheryl fell into gang life, enticed by the adrenaline rush of booze, drugs, and partying. When we were fifteen, she started hanging around with the Crystal Takers—I’m sure you can guess how they made their money. They were nothing more than drug users who thought they should be more. Back then, Python—the leader of the Satan’s—was a runner for them, but he took a special interest in Sheryl and didn’t waste any time claiming her as his and knocking her up. And at first, I think things were going okay for them, but Python had bigger ambitions than simply working for some drug-taking idiot, and when The Feral Beasts left, he saw the opportunity to form his own little ruthless gang. Over the last couple of years, the power—or maybe it was the drugs—has gone to his head and he’s begun to unravel.
Sheryl was seven months pregnant with baby number two when she first showed up at the shelter down the road from me, so beaten and bloody I was worried she wouldn’t make it through the night.
Thankfully, she did, but the baby didn’t. That was nearly two years ago, and I still remember the unadulterated fury that pumped through me when I saw her. I wanted to murder Python there and then, but she begged and pleaded for me to leave it alone. Ever since then, she shows up here every few months with Grace clinging to her, covered in new bruises and injuries—although never as bad as that first time. She always stays a few nights, allowing the worst of the injuries to heal while she rests before going back to him, even when I’ve pleaded with her to let me deal with him.
“What happened?” I ask her softly.
She ducks her head, lowering her gaze. I sit and wait patiently as she fidgets, gathering her thoughts and building her courage.
“He... ” The emotion is thick in her voice, and she trails off, gathering herself before continuing, “Sometimes he makes me... perform for the others, and... d-do things.”
Her hands are shaking, and her eyes remain glued to her lap as she struggles to get the words out. I’m already close to blowing a fuse, picturing the asshole’s death, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t even heard the worst of it yet.
“Usually, I put Grace to bed before any of them get too drunk or rowdy, but she’s been having trouble sleeping recently. S-she’s been wetting the bed.” She shakes her head, her chin wobbling. “She got up when I was… ” Unable to put words to whatever he was making her do—based on what she has said already, I think I can work it out—she trails off as fresh tears stream down her face, and she sniffs, wiping at her nose. “I tried to explain to him I just needed to sort her out, but he’d had too much snow. There was no reasoning with him.” She shakes her head again. “He’s never hit me like that in front of her. And when she started crying, he screamed at her and shoved her backward. She... she crashed into the table behind her.”
She falls apart then, her voice breaking as she buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders quake as she cries, and I rub soothing circles along her back. We stay like that for a long time until she cries herself out, sagging against me as I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
As her sobs quieten, a hush falls over the room until she whispers in a small voice, “I’ve found bruises on her recently. Along her arms. When I asked her about it, she said she tripped.”
I sigh, pushing past my anger so I can provide the comfort Sheryl needs right now. But hearing that determines one thing for me—Python must die. Whether or not Sheryl agrees or wants me to act, Ihaveto. It’s no longer acceptable for me to just sit back and take her word for it, hoping she will come to her senses and leave him on her own. Sometimes we need someone to give us a push in life, to overcome the things we are afraid to face, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do for Sheryl.