Page 59 of Redemption

“Impatient, are you? Come here.”

I lift her and she molds into my embrace as I lower us together down on the bed. The night is just right. It’s absolutely quiet in our house, and slightly chilly, but we’re good under the blanket. My daughter lies beside me and sighs contentedly as she gulps down the lukewarm content. I listen to the sound of her swallowing and to the low cracking noises from the tree outside as one of its branches repeatedly hits the far side of the house. I need to cut that thing down one of these days, but at the same time it has almost come to be a friend. Something I recognize, that I can trust to always be there, and that won’t hurt me. It’s normalcy. One of many things surrounding me I consider normal, that I need to be normal.

I look at my beautiful daughter and caress her forehead.

Cecilia Erin Jackson.

Erin to commemorate her late granddad, Cecilia because it’s pretty, and Jackson… because she is one. She’s nothing else, just fully, completely a Jackson, stemming from a long tradition of proud, unyielding women.

Her eyes are drowsy. She’ll be sleeping any minute now. I hear a gurgling, sucking noise from the bottle and without looking at it I know it’s empty. It falls to the side as she drops it. Her eyelids flutter. I should have had her eat earlier so we could have brushed her six little teeth. Now I don’t want to bother her in her sleep.

But all in all that’s just a tiny issue, and I know which battles to fight and which to shrug at.

I dip my nose in the angle where her neck meets the shoulder and inhale deeply, relishing her wonderful powdery baby scent. Then I stroke her silky brown hair and smile. This is what keeps me going. This is what makes me want to live.

Cecilia stirs when I get up, but she doesn’t wake. She’ll sleep solidly until four in the morning when she’ll have her regular night fright, then she’ll sleep until eight when we both wake and our daily routine begins again. One day I know I’ll have to return to the world. When she’s a little older. When she needs to start socializing with other children. When it’s not fair of me to deprive her of her life.

I wash the bottle, scalding water and a little detergent, shake the drops out and place it upside down on the counter. Then I dry my hands on the kitchen towel as I stare at the pitch-black window, seeing nothing but my own reflection. Anything could be out there. Everythingisout there. Like so many times before, I see two gleaming brown eyes before me. Then I blink and they’re gone.

I hope that day is still very far away.

Turning off the light, I cross the living room, aiming for my armchair. I didn’t take much with me when we moved up here, but this was one of the few objects from my old life I kept. I have a fireplace. I have a huge pile of books, many of them read once already, or even twice, even more still unread. I have a small house and a huge SUV that’s very, very fast if needed.

I have my daughter.

I don’t have a TV, only a radio and a CD-player. I’ve made friends with some people who are good to know downtown. The hardware dealer, the grocery store owner, a carpenter and his wife, but they never come here, I’ve asked them not to, and they are still with me because they haven’t asked questions. They have no idea who I really am. To them we’re just Kerry and Cecilia Reed and we’re running from my abusive husband. It’s not a lie, not entirely, it’s just tweaking the truth a bit.

Hedoesn’t have the right to this child, does he?

He doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t.

And God knows heisabusive. I clench my teeth at the thought, and then shake it off. Water under the bridge.

My hand hovers over the book I’m currently reading, but then I look at my journal and pick it up instead. It’s heavy in my hands. Or, no, it’s not really heavy, it’s the content that’s heavy. Sad. Dark as the night outside the four walls that shield us from the cold. Opening the book, I take out the pen from between the pages of my last entry and begin to write.

October 22

He has no right. He has no right to see my baby. Am I afraid of what he’d do if he ever found us?

I feel guilt. I know I shouldn’t, but still I do. Cece will never know a father, she will never experience the close and loving relation I had with my own dad. But hers is a dangerous creature, not quite human, unreal in his hate and fury.Veryunsuitable. I glance at the shotgun that hangs next to the front door. Always ready, always loaded.

I shouldn’t feel any guilt. It’s for the better.

Probably, yeah.

I have replayed the events at the harbor so many times in my mind that I don’t even know anymore what really happened and what are the fruits of my imagination. Were my wounds real? The bleeding, the bruises and the scrapes. Did they really exist? He almost killed me, but at the same time I remember such a vivid knowledge deep inside that he wouldn’t, that he, in his own twisted way, wanted me. In a sickening, selfish, perverted way. Just not dead.

I remember a lot of pain. Alot. During… and after… I spit blood-tinged saliva, my eyes were bloodshot, I cried from the pain every time I swallowed.

I look at Cecilia. My daughter. She was conceived that one night we had together, when I still thought he was someone else. It’s a weird thing, that something so beautiful can come out of such a monster.

I can barely remember. It scares me.

It would be a disaster if he knew where we were, if he found us. I think I’d rather kill us both than let him lay his hands on me, on us, again. If I can’t kill him first, that is.

I haven’t cried a day since I found out I was carrying Cece. Before that, though, I cried my heart out in my isolation. I was so alone.