by Lindsay Becs
It’s been twelve years since I dropped her off at that diner. She’d been so scared. So had I. But I couldn’t sit back any longer and watch him hurt her, or worse yet, take her beautiful soul from this earth. It was the best decision of my life. The scariest, too. I couldn’t help my smile when all the headlines broke about the kidnapped girl found after nine years. I did that. No one else.
I knew it didn’t cancel out all the bad or even the fact that I was the one who pushed her in the car that day, but I sure was happy to be the one to let her out, knowing that her family had peace. That she could finally learn to read more than what I managed to teach her at night. That she would be able to taste strawberries again; she’d asked me for them the first four weeks straight, then stopped. That she would be able to see the sun, touch the grass, and swim in the ocean. She deserved all of that and so very much more.
Pictures of her popped up everywhere in the days and weeks after. Most were of her at the age when I took her, and a few were from when she saw her family again. It was so different, seeing her like that. In real clothes, not the gowns I’d given her. Her blonde hair was shiny and looked like rays of the sun, not like pieces of straw I’d helped her braid. I kept one of the pictures from the paper in my wallet. I never wanted to have her far from me. It was a small comfort.
But on these long days driving my rig, my mind doesn’t always wander to the good. Sometimes it wanders to the bad and ugly things. The things that make up people’s nightmares or are so bad they won’t speak of them. The things that were my life for the first nineteen years before I left.
If I were a smart man, I would have gotten her out sooner than I did. I would have left with her twelve years ago. I would have done a lot of things. But I’m not smart.
I’m a coward, really. A monster for the things I’ve done and a frightened child down inside from the things I was forced to do and watch.
Looking at the clock on my dash, I see it’s nearing midnight and I’ve been on the road for the last fifteen hours straight. I pull off at the next exit and park at a rest area for the night, getting out to use the restroom and stretch my legs and body a bit. I do my usual jumping jacks, stretches, and pushups before climbing back into my rig and crawling into my bed for the night. I’m lucky enough to have an extended cab that has all I could ever need while on the road. A bed, fridge, books to read, and enough space to keep everything I own, which isn’t much, but enough for me.
I pop the top of a ginger ale and open my book to see what Harry Potter is gonna get himself into next. Before long, my stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten for a while. I grab a yogurt from the fridge and a banana to eat before I fall asleep for the night.
I try to balance the crap I eat on the road by keeping healthy food stocked, as well. I try not to stop at restaurants or diners too often, mostly because they remind me of that night, but every now and then I indulge my cravings for a cheeseburger or pancakes.
I wake up the next morning with the sun, like I always do, my body stiff, like it always is, and my mind filled with a night of dancing with the demons of my past. I scrub my hands down my face and get up for the day. Throwing on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I stuff my feet in my worn boots, not bothering to tie the laces, and walk to the bathroom.
Splashing water on my face, I try to wash away the image of the man I see when I look in the mirror. I hate that I look like him. I see it more and more every day. My face looks like the devil, so I cover it with a beard, but I still see him in the eyes looking back at me. It’s sad, really. I’m a thirty-one-year-old man afraid of his own reflection. I huff a laugh to myself, shaking my head and turning for the door.
Settling back into the driver’s seat of my rig, I turn on my tunes and hit the road. It doesn’t take long before I yawn, with a growl from my stomach to accompany it, and thankfully I see a sign for food coming up. Taking the next exit, I turn off the highway and into a sleepy town that probably only gets its money from passers-by like me. I see a little diner on the left called Pot Meet Kettle. The name alone makes me smirk a little.
The smell of coffee and bacon makes my mouth water when I walk in. The little bell on the door dings, letting the busy waitresses know they have a new customer. I almost feel bad adding to their load when I see how busy this little place is. The only open spot is at the counter. I’m not sure if I should seat myself of not; you never know with these little places.
“Take whatever seat you can find, stud,” a waitress with a sleeve of tattoos says behind a smile that I know too well. I nod in her direction as she carries a pot of coffee to a table, grinning at me all the while.
I take the empty seat at the counter and pull out the menu from the napkin and condiment stand to see what I’d like. I think I’m set on my order when a sweet voice hits me like syrup.
“Would you like some coffee, sir?”
“Yes, please,” I answer, turning over the cup that’s in front of me. “Thank you.”
Then I look up, and I’m met with eyes that I would know anywhere. My mouth goes dry, my heart stops, and my soul rejoices. “Moon,” I whisper, but I don’t think I’m loud enough for her to hear. She’s still pouring my coffee, and I don’t think she knows it’s me.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
I’m not sure what to do, but I know I can’t keep staring at her. I want to jump over the counter and hold her. I can’t believe I found her. “Y-Yes.” I stutter, then swallow down all my emotions. “I’ll take the high stack with bacon and scrambled eggs.” I swallow again like those were the hardest ten words I’ve ever said.
“I’ll get this right in for you. It’ll just be a minute.” She gives me a small smile before turning away, and I think I became a puddle on the floor from it.
She’s so beautiful.
Her hair is darker, and she’s gained weight in a healthy way. I’d know those gray eyes anywhere, the ones that resemble the moon. I looked into them for the first time when I was ten years old, and although they were filled with tears of fear, my heart skipped a beat. I knew I was there to protect her from that day forward; I was hers and she was mine. My Moon that shined bright in the darkness that surrounded us.
I watch her move with ease throughout the diner. Taking orders, talking with customers, giving small smiles, but nothing big enough to light up those eyes. I could sit here and watch her all day. I’m mad that I can’t. I only have about half an hour to spare for breakfast.
“Don’t even think about it, stud,” a voice says from in front of me, but I’m too busy watching Moon to notice my food has been set on the counter.
“What?” I ask, turning to the other waitress who delivered my food.
“She’s off limits. She doesn’t do quickies or randoms or one-night stands. She doesn’t date, and she won’t take your number. So, stop staring at her like she’s your next meal.”
I am taken aback by this girl’s blunt words. My brows knit together in confusion. “I wasn’t… I didn’t… What?”
“She’s not your girl. But if you want a little action before you leave, I am.” Her hardness morphs into a sly smirk.
“That’s not…” I keep stuttering and stumbling over my words, not knowing what to say. “I’m just here for pancakes, ma’am.”
“Do. Not. Call. Me. Ma’am. I am twenty-three, not fifty-eight.”
I put my hands up in surrender. I couldn’t win with this girl. “Sorry. Is it safe to eat my breakfast now?”
“I suppose. But if you change your mind, my name is Tara.” She winks at me and then spins on her heels to deliver other plates of food.
I let out a puff of air and then dig into my pancakes. But I can’t help but steal glances toward Moon still. I smile into my food when I see her cover her face with her hands as Tara talks with her. She nudges her shoulder and the pair of them giggle together. It makes me happy to see her happy and with a friend that seems to take care of her.
“Would you like more coffee?”
I lick my lips and stare at hers for a second before I take in the fact that she’s standing in front of me again. I nod because I still can’t form words.
I can’t believe she’s standing right in front of me. Are you real, Moon?
“I’m sorry about my friend. She comes across harsh, but she’s just protective of me,” she says shyly as she watches the coffee pour from her pot into my cup. “Can I get anything else for you?”
Is this where I ask her if she knows who I am? Do I shout, “How can you not know it’s me?!” Instead, I ask for the check and say thank you.
Is this going to be the last time I ever see her? Is this really where we end? I don’t want it to be, but I’m not sure what to do. She seems well and to have moved on. I don’t want to ruin what she’s built. I don’t want to pull her back into the darkness of night if she’s found the light of day. My heart is breaking that she doesn’t recognize me, that I can’t hold her again, that I have to walk away.
I climb back into my rig, my head hitting the back of my seat as I close my eyes and smile.
I found you.
I look back once more at the diner before pulling away, and I swear I see her watching me with a look of wonder in her eyes. I give a small smile and raise my hand in a wave. Her fingers go to her lips to conceal a smile behind them. I pull my horn, making her jump as her smile grows.
And this time it does reach her eyes, lighting them up like the night sky.
19 years old
I still see her tears falling whenever I close my eyes. I’m sitting on the stained mattress of the hotel I’ve slept in for the past three nights since I drove away from her at that diner, smoking my fifth cigarette. I can’t get her face out of my head. I miss her so much. I close my eyes again as the television plays on in the background, wanting to feel her around me.
“Breaking news! We’ve just got word that an anonymous tip was called in revealing the whereabouts of the kidnapper who held Selene George captive for nine years.” My eyes open wide as I sit up to hear what they would say next. I’ve been so scared to leave this room thinking that he’d track me down.
“When agents arrived at the home, they found five other minors that were also being held captive there. All are reported to have been reunited with their families at this time. Thomas St. James, the captor, was found dead on the scene from what investigators say was a self-inflicted wound. That’s all we have to report at this time. I’m sure the families of these six children are sleeping more soundly tonight knowing that their nightmare is over.”
Holy. Fuck.
He’s dead.
The fucking coward killed himself.
I slap a hand over my smiling mouth to hold in my laughter, my whole body relaxing at the thought of him gone forever. I feel torn between being happy he’s gone, not allowing him to hurt anyone ever again, and angry that he won’t have to pay for his sins. I still can’t believe he’s dead.
Lying back on the bed, I close my eyes once more and see her. “We did it, Moon. He can’t hurt us ever again,” I whisper to the image of her behind my closed eyes.
I release a breath that I’ve been holding for what feels like a hundred years. I feel lighter.
“Moon!” I yell then, sitting up straight again. What did I do? We could have stayed together. We could have gone together. We could have healed together.
Then I cry. For the first time in my life, I cry. Tears for me. Tears for her. Tears for all the others through the years. Tears for the anger. Tears for the freedom. Tears for the lives lost and the lives found. Tears for the hurt and the healing. Tears for every hit, punch, kick and slap. Tears for the sins of my father. Tears for the sins I was forced to commit. Tears for the darkness. Tears for the light of my Moon that I miss now. I cry for all of it and so much more. There are so many feelings and emotions coursing through me. I cry until there are no more tears left.
And then I feel sick.
I lived with a monster my whole life, never having a choice. That monster made me into one, too. I hated every second of my life. Every. Second. Until I looked into those stormy moonstone eyes that shown light into the night and into my dark soul.
Her name, Selene, means light, who was also the goddess of the crescent moon. It’s a name that fits her perfectly. She was my Moon, and she saved me more than she’ll ever know.
3
Selene
Another day to laugh and play
Another day to fly away
Am I ready to be me?
Am I ready to be free?
“I never thought I’d see the day a man could put that big a smile on your face,” Tara says from behind me with her hand on her hip. “He was a looker. Too bad he didn’t want to tap my ass before leaving.”
“Do you always have to talk like that about every man?” I roll my eyes at my friend.
“Yes,” she answers matter-of-factly. I shake my head and turn to get back to our full restaurant of patrons. “Seriously though, Sel, he was into you. Big time.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I shrug my shoulder, loading up a tray of plates filled with pancakes and eggs.
“It does when he left you a hundred-dollar tip and his number!” she yells at me.
“What?!” I screech, turning to see for myself.
“Look!”
I pick up the check and see his number and a drawing of dots and lines under it. My brows pinch together. I know this pattern, but I can’t place it.
“What’s wrong?” Tara asks, sounding more concerned now.
“Nothing. I just, I think I know this, but I can’t place it.”
“Looks like the Big Dipper. You know, the star constellation.” She is so blasé about it as she fills cups of coffee around us.
“Oh. Yeah.” I try to come across like I know what that means, but I don’t. I fold the paper, tuck it in my pocket and go about the rest of my shift.
By the time I climb the stairs to my little apartment above the bakery, I am exhausted from the day. The walk home is never long and today was no different than any other day, but I am glad to fall onto my thrift-store chair and put my feet up.
Then, I remember the paper I tucked in my pocket. Pulling it out, I feel like it’s Christmas morning with how excited it makes me. I have no idea why, but the whole exchange with the man from this morning and the drawing he left me felt like meeting an old friend. It created a zing down my spine and excitement in my belly. I couldn’t help the smile I had when he waved and honked his horn at me before driving away.
I look at my watch and see I have an hour before my weekly appointment with Dr. Greer. Instead of the shower I’m in need of, I quickly change and head toward the library. I find a book on star constellations and space. Looking up the Big Dipper, I see that it matches the drawing the man left me. My brows knit together because it feels so familiar, yet I can’t place why. I look through the book some more before deciding to check it out so I can study it further at home. I’m not a great reader, but I like to read nonetheless.
I carry my book with me into Dr. Greer’s office, and she greets me with a bright smile, much like she does every week.
“How has your week been, Selene?” she asks as we both settle into our usual spots in her office. Me on the leather couch and her sitting in a wing-backed chair with her notebook and my file underneath.
“Good. It’s been good. No nightmares for the last four days,” I answer, knowing what her second question would be.
“Wonderful. I see you brought a book with you. Are stars important to you?”
“No. Well, I don’t know. I just saw a drawing of the Big Dipper and wanted to learn more, I guess. I came here straight from the library.”
“It’s always nice to learn about new things and find new interests. That’s good.” She smiles at me. I return the gesture, feeling lighter today, even if I didn’t tell her the whole truth about why I am interested in the star constellation. “You seem well today. Are you still journaling?”
>
“Yes. For the most part.”
“Do you find it helps to clear your mind at the end of the day?”
“I guess so. My nightmares aren’t as bad on the days I do.”
“Have you noticed any patterns in your moods? Any links between parts of your days and your dreams at night?”
“Not really. I basically do the same things every day. Keeping to my routine like we set.” Since I moved here to be on my own five years ago, Dr. Greer has stressed the importance of keeping a routine.
“Any new triggers?”
“No.” I hate that word. Triggers. Everything in my life feels like one big trigger, yet I have no solid memory of what happened to me for nine years.
I remember waking up strapped to a hospital bed, terrified, and not knowing where I was. I couldn’t speak. I felt frozen. When I saw my family, they didn’t know how to react to me and I didn’t know them anymore either. I didn’t know or understand the simplest of life skills, and everything felt loud and bright. I hated everything. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and out of my life.
The doctors poked and prodded me everywhere. Everyone wanted to talk to me, but I had nothing to say. So, I stayed quiet. I couldn’t stand how everyone looked at me and spoke about me like I wasn’t right next to them. I wanted the noise to stop. I tried to hurt myself, to end it all, but a nurse found me, tearing the butter knife from my grip as I sawed at my arm. I was sedated and in and out of consciousness for months after that before they were sure I wouldn’t hurt myself.
Then by the time I came around to being fully awake again, my family decided I’d do better in the type of hospital setting where I could get the care I needed. After I’d tried to hurt myself, I was put into the psych ward where I was treated like a freak and wouldn’t talk to anyone. I was there for months, where I lived a new nightmare. Once I began to speak again, they decided I wasn’t mentally ill enough to stay there, and I was moved to a group home. My family came on occasion to visit but it seemed too difficult for them to see me there.
