Her hand is shaking so violently that the small bandaid between her fingers is twisted into a sticky wad. This is the third bandage that didn't make it to the two inch gash that stings across her forehead. Blood drips from it, down the contour of her orbital socket, and into her eye.
"Damn it" She whispers, blinking rapidly. Aid didn't need to come first. It was a futile waste of her precious time. She shoves the remaining two bandages into the pocket of the gray cardigan she wore, grabbed a wad of tissue from the wall holder, and closed the glass door of the mirror cabinet.
Now she did all this slowly, so slowly, for fear of making any loud noises. If she did, he would hear. And he would wake up. She didn't need to imagine what would happen after that.
The reflection in the mirror told that story all too well.
Her black eye made her stomach churn. She knew that underneath the blackened skin, the bones of her orbital socket had been rearranged. Scrambled. There were rings of purple around her neck. Her lip was split, fat and red, but only on one side of her face. He was right handed. and slaps tended to land on her left.
She sighed, raking strings of curly black hair forward in a futile attempt to cover the damage.
It didn't work, but it didn't matter, she reassured herself, because this was the last time.
Carefully, she turned out the light in the small bathroom and stepped into the darkness of the apartment's living room. She winced at the hulking form on the couch. She'd hoped he'd make it to the bed before passing out. She took a deep breath and mentally ran through the plan. She knew it, she'd prepared for it. And her life depended on it.
It took ten steps to make it across the tiny room while averting the creaky floorboards she had memorized. As her eyes adjusted she was able to make out the trimming of a wooden door, and in slow motion, she turned the handle, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.
There wasn't much in the room. Moonlight from a small window shed light on a dresser, a sitting chair, and some shadowy objects strewn across the floor. But in its center sat a small bed, made of wood and low to the ground. In it was a little form, It rose and fell with the signs of a sweet sleep. Unlike the sight in the living room, this one evoked a sense of love so deep that she had to choke back a sob.
She came to her knees beside the bed and stuck her hand beneath it, pulling out a cotton duffle bag. She unzipped it, and the air in her chest escaped in relief when she saw that everything was still there. There was one hundred dollars in cash, two changes of clothes, a blanket, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. In the side pocket were a few toys and the mementos that alluded to the happier times in her life.
She unzipped the duffel and reached under the bed again, this time pulling out two thick winter jackets and two pairs of boots. One of each item sized to fit the small child lying in the bed.
Softly she placed her hand on the bed, shaking it back and forth. Just a little. Too much andhewould hear.
"Wake up baby, it's time to go." She whispered.
The face of her son blinked awake, his hazel eyes catching in the moonlight. They stared back at hers with wide-eyed understanding. "Mommy?'
She placed a finger on her lip, the contact making it sting with pain. "You've got to be as quiet as a mouse. Just like we practiced, okay?"
He nodded
She silently put on his jacket and made sure to tie his boots tight. They couldn't afford the mishap of a fall. She stood, slinging the bag over her shoulder and taking her son by the hand. He was only four, and not so tall, but she was a petite woman so she could reach him without bending her knees.
They paused in front of the bedroom door. "Remember" She reminded me, "You have to step exactly where I do, or else the floor will creak. Do you understand?" She knew the state of her face terrified him, but she looked straight at him, hoping to convey the seriousness of her words.
"Yes" He whispered, his little voice thin.
She pulled open the door, eyeing the ominous figure on the couch for a moment. Only moving forward when she was reassured he was still deep in an influenced stupor.
The pair's steps were careful, like mountaineers climbing the final precarious steps of Everest's summit. It seemed to take forever to take the ten steps to the front door. But when they made it, she gave her son's hand a relieved squeeze. Almost there.
The final obstacles glimmered in the moonlight. A brass chain, a lock, and a latch.
Her mind flickered back to the bandaids twisted by her tremors. This task wouldn't be as forgiving as bandages in a bin. Not with him laying right there. Not with the alcohol and the drugs and wherever else he'd taken scheduled to wear off in minutes.
"Mommy," Her son's whisper cut through the silence. "You can do it." Both his tiny hands enveloped hers, squeezing with as much power as he could muster. Then he let go.
Warm tears escaped her eyes, making her wince as the rolled over the exposed cuts with the sting of salt. She squinted her good eye, focusing on the chain. It's cold metal sent a shiver down her fingertips. She lifted its end from its track, pulled it back and hung it on the side without so much as a tinkle.
She moved on to the latch, exhaling when it opened without any noise.
Now the lock. She feels it resoist as she turns the knob, but she continues until it releases with an audible clank.
Something rustles behind her.
In one swift movement, she wrenched open the door, picked up her son, and ran,
The run was a blur, and would remain so for years. No matter how many times she'd lay in her bed, sleepless and desperate to retrieve it from the recess of memory.
Maybe that was for the best. Maybe if she ever got hold of it, the pure terror she had run from that night would catch hold of her again and cripple her. Ripping all air from her lungs and sanity from her mind. She couldn't function like that. Not in this new life she had carved out for herself in Washington, amongst dignitaries, and President's and world crises.
Best to let it be.
The run was long blocked from her mind, However, the one thing she could remember was the destination.
It was a small building, unassuming in the way it almost looked like an abandoned storefront. There was no sign, no lights, no way to know it was occupied unless you'd been told, as she had been, by a skeptical ER nurse that there was a place to go if that broken arm wasn't from a 'fall.'
Freezing and with waning strength she and her son stumbled through the door. A bell above their head chimed and a middle-aged woman appeared from some back way with a cupboard in her hand.
'Hello. The woman gave a warm smile. "Are you in need of shelter?"
"Yes." Her face was soaked with tears and her nose freely ran. She knew she looked atrocious but she didn't care.
The woman led them down a hallway and through a door that required a key code to open. The sound of laughter and pleasant chatter hit her ears with the door stretched a large, warmly lit room buzzing with women and children and staff in aprons. There were couches and bookshelves and a rug filled with toys. Everyone was gathering around a large wooden table for a meal. It was everything good and nothing like the suffocating silence she'd been living in.
"What is your name?" The woman asked
"Nadine, Nadine Tolliver."
The woman wrote it down then fixed her blue eyes on Nadine. They burned with compassion. "Welcome Nadine. You made it. You're safe."
Nadine nodded, bending down to her son. She pulled him into her arms, her sobs muffled by his jacket. "We made it." She repeated, whispering into his ear. "Were safe."
I have just discovered Madam Secretary and I love Nadine. I really enjoyed creating this backstory for her. This may just be a one shot or it could continue... we will see. Please review!