2. TWENTY YEARS EARLIER. THE BEGINNING.
Here you are, sitting in this room, a room you've been in a million times. A room you actually shouldn't be sitting in, since you don't work here, and it most likely could be considered a felony if you ever were to get caught. Yet here you are, and it's not your first time. Actually, you've been in here so many times you already know the drill, you know how everything works and you know what to do and when to do it if anything happens. Thank God you have awesome friends, Mike and Mercedes, who let you be here because they know how important your job is to you, how much you care about these people, even if you don't know them.
You are a social worker, so what sense does it make for you to be sitting in a 911 Emergency Call Room with a pair of shitty headphones over your head, waiting for the next call? Let me explain it to you. You love your job, but you have learnt through the years that most of the action happens here. Most of the cases of child abuse, child abandonment, gender abuse, or any other kind of mistreatment that might need you involved, are reported here a good while before they actually get to your office's desk. So after a million times of seeing women getting killed, or children deported, just because the case came to you too late, you have decided to go right to the source.
Which takes us back to you being here, sitting on this uncomfortable chair, bored out of your mind, waiting for the next call. There have been a few during the evening, but nothing that should concern you. You have already sent a couple ambulances, the police and even the firemen to answer the calls you've gotten. I mean, you do worry about these people too, and you are sure that if you actually worked here, you couldn't stand it. You worry way too much about other people, most of the time more than you worry about yourself. But since you are considering this kind of a hobby, it's easier to live with it.
It's about 3 a.m and you are throwing paper balls to Mercedes' head when it happens. Your phone rings again and before you even answer, chills are running down your spine. You have a feeling about this, which is absurd, since it's probably a car accident, or some drunk fight, but you can't help it. You take a deep breath before you answer.
"911. What's your emergency?" You say in a monotonous voice, but all you can hear at the other end of the line is a very rapid, very shallow breathing. You know there's someone there, but since they haven't said anything, you try again. "Hello?".
"My husband is on a rampage." Says a female voice and it automatically makes your senses go into overdrive. She sounds small, and scared, and the way she just phrased that makes you believe he is abusing her. You sit straight on your chair, ready to take any action you need to take, and you are about to ask her to elaborate when she beats you to it. "He is drunk. He went out. I think he might hurt someone." She said. Short sentences, straight to the point. You think she's having trouble breathing.
"Miss, has he hurt you?" You ask, not getting any answer, but you know she's still there. You can still hear her breathing. "Can you talk?"
"Yes."
"Has he hurt you?" you ask again more hurriedly.
"Yes."
Automatically you press the buttons you need to alert the police of the case, sending them directly the address your computer has conveniently located out of her phone signal.
"Don't move, help is on it's way." You say before you hang up and get up from your chair in a hurry. Mike and Mercedes don't even bother to ask, they know you too well, they know too well why you ask them to come to work with them almost every single night.
You hop on your car and drive to said address. You get there just as the police is also arriving, and you couldn't be more relieved. Thank God Officer Puckerman is on duty, you have known him for years. He is a decent guy, a better cop, and he also lets you get away with some stuff that is borderline illegal.
"Officer." You greet him once you are at his level. "I reported the case. I believe there is a woman in there fearing for her life. She said her husband left on a rampage and might hurt someone, so we might as well get in there and find out who he is, so you can send out a search party." You explain, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
"It's good to see you, too." He replies with that signature smirk of his you have seen a million times. He thinks he's quite the lady-killer, but you know deep down he is just a big softie, and stands no chance with you. "Okay. But we do this my way. I can see the front door is open, I get in first, we have no idea what we will find inside and I am not about to let a civilian get hurt." He adds and you nod.
He enters first, his gun up and ready to shoot if needed. He is very serious about his job, and cases like this can get pretty messy, you know that very well. He does a quick surveillance from the inside and decides it's safe for you to go in too. The small foyer seems untouched, but the rest is a mess. There are clear signs of struggle in the house, with chairs knocked over, glass shattered on the floor, a few whiskey bottles laying here and there, and a strong smell of cigarettes and probably weed, and you believe you saw some remains of cocaine over one of the counter tops in the kitchen. There's the chill down your spine again.
You see her at the very moment you put your foot into the living room. She looks like a dear caught in headlights, like a pray cornered by it's hunter, just about to get pounced on without any chance of fleeing. She looks terrified. But she also looks beautiful. Even with her skin marked with dark bruises, a black eye, a swollen nose and a split and bleeding lower lip. Even with her fearful eyes, her slight trembling and her shallow breathing. Hands down she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. And you don't believe in love at first sight, but if it was to exist, that is probably what happened to you.
You swallow hard, looking at her in the eyes, as you extend your right hand towards her.
"We are here to help. You are safe now." You say softly, trying not to startle her more than she already is.
"Is this your husband?" Puckerman asks, holding a picture frame, foregoing all softness you were trying to establish and making her visibly flinch under his strong voice. She barely nods and he nods back, moving on to talk to his team.
"Don't worry, he is not going to hurt you." You tell her, and for a moment, you think she believes you, but she is too scared to even move.
You, again kind of illegally, make a decision right there. You are taking her home with you for tonight. You will deal with all the paperwork, and her, in the morning, but you just can't send her alone into an emergency room to get checked. You know they will release her right after they are done, and she can't come back to this house, neither it's fair for her to spend the night on the streets, not even in a shelter, especially not with her abusing husband running free around town. So you make a decision. You are going to tend her wounds yourself, they all seem to be superficial anyway, and she is going to sleep in your bed tonight. You will take the couch, she needs all the comfort and warmth you can offer her. And first thing in the morning, you will take her to your community center and you will make sure to find a safe house for her to stay and not to be found by the douche-bag she calls her husband.
Perfect plan, right?
You extend your arm towards her again and this time she hesitantly reaches for it.
"Come with me. I'll make sure you are safe tonight." You tell her and walk her out the house.
"Noah, please, I owe you like a million already, but please, state in your report that the house was empty when you got here? I'll take care of it tomorrow, I promise." You tell the officer as you pass by him, and he sighs slightly annoyed with you, but nods nonetheless. "And, please, arrest the dick-face." You add.
Once you are safe inside your car you sigh. You know what you are about to do is crazy. It might not be the first time you pull something like that either, but for some reason this feels different, and you can't pinpoint why. Your clouded mind isn't able to see the difference between this woman and all the other abused women you have seen before. But you know she is different. And your guts are telling you that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe you should trust your guts more.
As you start the engine of your car you turn towards her, all your movements slow and steady; you don't want to scare her. "I didn't catch your name." You say.
She is busy looking at her hands, playing with her own fingers on her lap, but you know she heard you, since her hands suddenly stilled, and then, after a few seconds, she looks up at you. She doesn't look scared anymore, just exhausted.
"My name is Santana Keating." she says with a grimace.
