Chapter 22

Emjay

"The world contains too many selfish people, but among them are a few who put others first." ~ Emjay

I watch these people interact with one another and joy floods my heart. Bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, the clearing around us feels like a sanctuary. The scent of fear still lingers in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest floor, but it's no longer the sharp, acrid stench of terror. Instead, it's a faint residual presence, being slowly washed away by the fresh, clean scent of hope.

Many of the women hang back, observing the newcomers with wide and cautious expressions. They stand in small clusters, whispering softly among themselves. Their gazes dart between the men and the children playing nearby. Some clutch their hands tightly, their knuckles white with tension. Others cross their arms protectively over their chests. Each woman is a picture of wary curiosity. Their bodies are poised to flee, yet their faces show a glimmer of intrigue.

Basil and Poppa, along with the other men from our past, never cared that their women reeked of terror and hate. They moved through life with an air of entitlement, their expressions cold and unyielding. Maybe they convinced themselves that their actions were necessary—a twisted sense of duty that rendered the women's emotions irrelevant. I remember the way they dismissed our fear. Their vision glazes over with indifference whenever we flinched or recoiled. To them, our terror was just background noise, an inconvenient murmur in the grand symphony of their authority.

These men smell of nothing but love, compassion, and care. Their presence is a balm, a gentle reminder of what it means to be truly seen and valued. It takes me back to a rare moment in my life when I experienced genuine care from another. I recall the warmth of a kind touch, the soothing sound of a heart filled with concern, the simple but profound act of being listened to. As I stand here, surrounded by the mingling scents of compassion and optimism, I feel a flicker of that old cherished feeling returning, like a long-lost friend stepping back into my life.

Twenty-eight years ago

"Emjay, let me help you," Tina pleaded with genuine concern for the hundredth time while collecting her mail from the rusted metal boxes.

I was cleaning the front lobby window. The grime never seemed to disappear no matter how hard I scrubbed. The faint scent of bleach mixed with the musty odor of old carpet was a constant reminder of my life here.

Larry's never been rough with me. He's never gentle either, never bothering to prepare my body. The act always leaves a dry, burning sensation that lingers long after he's gone. There was a mechanical coldness to our encounters, devoid of any tenderness or affection. It was a transactional routine, one that left me feeling more like an object than a person.

Last night, I heard the familiar jingle of keys outside my door, followed by the click of the lock. Larry stumbled in, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. He tripped over the pots and pans I'd scattered across the floor, my makeshift security system to alert me to his unwanted presence. I started placing items everywhere before bed because the thought of waking up and finding him on top of me in my sleep was too terrifying to bear.

My heart pounded in my chest when the sound of clattering pots and pans continued echoing through the small apartment. Grabbing my threadbare robe from the foot of the bed, I wrapped it tightly around myself and made my way toward the noise. Each step filled with fear and resignation.

I've never worried about burglars. There's nothing of value here, just the essentials: a lumpy mattress on the floor, a secondhand table with mismatched chairs, and a few worn out blankets. My only possessions are necessities that keep me alive, and even those aren't worth much.

My arrangement with Larry was the only thing that kept a roof over my head. In exchange for his "needs," he let me stay in this rundown apartment and had even given me a job cleaning the common areas of the building he owned. It was a hollow existence, one that kept me constantly on edge, but it was better than the alternative of being homeless and completely alone.

Larry knew I didn't have the documentation needed to find legitimate work. He exploited this, paying me just enough to eat and buy a few necessities if I remained frugal. He was careful not to give me more than I needed, ensuring I couldn't ever save up enough to run from him. It was a calculated control, one that kept me tethered to this miserable existence.

I peered around the corner of my bedroom, my breath catching in my throat. Larry sat sprawled on the floor, struggling to get up, his hands flailing as he tossed my few belongings across the room in a drunken stupor. The sight of him, so pitiful and yet so dangerous, consumed me with pity and dread.

I didn't fear violence from him initially. I leaned down to help him off the floor, more concerned about getting him out of my space than the potential threat he posed. His presence was a dark cloud, one I wanted to pass as quickly as possible.

As soon as he stood again, his breath hit me in the face. A nauseating combination of whiskey and vomit. "You're drunk," I muttered, more to myself than to him. The words were a feeble attempt to make sense of the chaos he brought with him.

My words must have triggered something inside of him because the next thing I know, the back of his hand struck me across the face. The force sent me stumbling backward. Pain blossomed across my cheek, and my hand instinctively flew up to soothe the ache. I was certain he'd hit me hard enough to leave a mark—the sting a cruel reminder of my powerlessness.

"Cynthia, it's your fault," he slurred, his eyes glazed over with anger and confusion. I stood there, frozen, too afraid to tell him I wasn't Cynthia, whoever she was.

Moments later, he stumbled to the sofa and collapsed, his snores filling the room. I took the opportunity and snuck back to my bedroom with my heart still racing.

When I woke up, he was gone, and the apartment was eerily silent. The only evidence of his visit—the scattered pots and pans and my throbbing cheek. I glimpsed myself in the mirror. My swollen and discolored cheek confirmed that I hadn't dreamed the encounter.

Tina's expression fills with concern when she saw my face.

I'd never told her anything about my life, but it was clear that I was destitute. My frame was gaunt, thinner than it's ever been, my skin stretched over bones that protruded uncomfortably. The clothes I wore were threadbare, secondhand finds from Goodwill that had seen better days. Shoes were a luxury I couldn't afford, and I'd grown accustomed to the feel of the cold, hard floor beneath my bare feet.

I was tired, so tired. The weight of my circumstances pressed down on me, making every movement a struggle. "Tina, how can you possibly help me?" I asked, barely above a whisper, which was mixed with desire and despair.

She grabbed my hand, her grip firm and reassuring, and dragged me down the hall toward her apartment. The walls seemed to close in around us. I feared Larry catching me talking to her at any moment.

"Emjay, talk to me," Tina demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. She crossed her arms and fixed me with a determined stare.

"What do you want me to say?" I replied. Exhaustion seeping into my bones.

"Start with who hit you," she insisted, her face never leaving mine.

"Larry came over drunk and mistook me for someone else," I confessed, too tired to pretend or make up lies.

Tina's brows raised. "Larry? Landlord Larry?" she repeated, incredulously.

I shrugged and nodded; the weight of my situation pressed down on me. "We have an arrangement. My apartment for his…needs."

Tina gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. "Emjay, why?"

"I had nothing. No identification or birth certificate. Nothing. What else was I supposed to do?" I admitted, my voice breaking. The desperation in my words was clear.

"This ends now," Tina insisted.

"I have nowhere to go. No friends. No family," I said. The feeling of the walls closing in grew stronger with each confession.

"You have me," Tina countered, her look blazing with determination. "I'll take you to my mom's. I know a guy who can get you fake papers. My boss is hiring. With my recommendation, you'll have a job that pays more than enough. You'll be able to afford your own place and a pair of shoes in no time."

"What's in it for you?" I accused, suspicion coloring my tone.

Tina's expression softened. "Oh honey, I know that must be what you've experienced with others, but you'll see that I'm different." She took a deep breath, her stare reflecting a painful memory. "My mom ran away from an abusive husband and raised me all by herself. She taught me to never look the other way when someone needs help. Let's go. Do you need anything in your apartment?"

I shook my head, a sense of finality washing over me. "No." I wanted to forget everything about this place. About Larry. If Tina was true to her word, maybe I could finally start anew. My senses told me I could trust her although but my heart wasn't convinced.