by C. L. Riley
Boone and his family shielded her and kept her safe from any additional harm, and eventually, her father and non-club friends joined her support team, helping her achieve the success she currently enjoys.
The only thing similar about our assaults is the lack of concrete memories. She, too, was drugged.
In her case, forced to use heroin to the point of oblivion, but despite everything, she is now running Wings, her non-profit, and helping other women.
If only I had someone to lean on.
I can’t open up to Cheryl. I’m too afraid I’ll endanger her. She’s not the pitying type, but she will insist I go to the police, not grasping the danger that decision would generate.
As for family support, there is none. My mother and father are gone, dead. And my remaining family betrayed me, in the worst of ways, when I was barely thirteen.
Before I can block them, the memories from that turbulent time slip from their cell, reminding me how my trust was violated.
I had just taken a huge risk and revealed my most shameful secret to a friend at school. She was blindsided by my confession, and I’ll never forget her expression of pity. It was unbearable. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she doubted my revelation. She thought my uncle was hot and that I wanted to get him in trouble because he was so strict.
To make matters worse, she didn’t keep my secret secret.
It wasn’t a week before I was the subject of ridicule and speculation at school and around our neighborhood, thanks to the little bitch’s big mouth.
The aftershocks didn’t stop there either.
Not long after my big disclosure, a state worker showed up to investigate my aunt and uncle, sniffing around in their personal business and asking questions no one wanted to answer. Unlike some survivors, I wasn’t afraid of what my uncle might do if I told the truth. I was far more terrified of being pitied and labeled weak.
So instead of telling them my uncle groped me every chance he got, while pretending I was Pocahontas and calling me his Indian princess, I took the blame. I even went so far to say I had a crush on him, and my friend must have misunderstood my confession.
The investigation had one unexpected benefit. The next time my uncle snuck into my room, Aunt Jessie followed, seeking the truth.
She found it.
Witnessing her beloved husband, his flannel pajama bottoms pooled around his ankles and me cowered against my bed’s headboard, as he loomed over my huddled form, was evidently proof enough to convince her I wasn’t lying. His creepy cowboy hat, along with the rope he was preparing to tie me up with, didn’t help matters.
After much deliberation, crying, wailing, and berating him, she ended up not pressing charges, but she did kick him out. As grateful as I was to be free from his nightly visits, it became almost unbearable with him gone.
She hardly spoke to me and blamed me for destroying her marriage. The only reason she let me stay through graduation was a promise she had made to my mother when I was a baby.
She’d sworn on anything and everything―should something happen to my mom and dad, she would make sure I graduated from high school, giving me a home while I finished my education.
My parents also left a considerable sum of money to provide for my care. The only way Aunt Jessie could maintain access to her portion of my trust was by keeping her promise.
My parents’ will didn’t stipulate she had to be kind to me, and she wasn’t.
I was no longer my uncle’s personal version of Pocahontas but instead became my aunt’s Cinderella, forced to earn my keep while she freely spent my money on her own extravagant purchases. I’m pretty sure I funded her boob job, Botox, and her BMW.
The minute I accepted my diploma and turned eighteen, what was left of my money reverted to me so I could attend college. I left her house and didn’t look back. She never bothered saying goodbye either. And because of the princess parallel my uncle used to pollute my innocence, I will never watch a princess movie.
For a long time, even related advertisements triggered my gag reflex. I think I was nineteen before I could finally sit through a princess-themed commercial without changing the channel.
Sometime later, not long after graduation, I heard through the gossip grapevine that the minute I was out of the house, my pitiful aunt took my pathetic uncle back.
I never talked about their abuse again to anyone.
As far as I am concerned, my aunt and uncle are dead. And who knows? They might actually be six feet under by now, supplying nourishment for worms and crawly things. I have no intention of finding out.
To this day, besides not knowing the status of my aunt and uncle dear-ests, I don’t know if I have cousins or distant relatives floating around in the world somewhere. Quite frankly, I don’t care. It’s too late to create connections. I had twelve awesome years with my mom and dad before their Christmas car accident. That’s way more than some kids get.
It could have been worse.
I could have been forced to accommodate multiple abusers, in a long line of foster families. Instead, I only had to satisfy one. He was never overly rough or cruel, and outside the bedroom he treated me with subdued politeness. It definitely could have been worse, at least in the physical sense. I learned that from my experience with Dr. Martin.
Things can always be worse.
But even after walking through life’s fiery trials and getting scorched, I survived. I am no longer ashamed of my Native American lineage, despite my uncle’s peculiar fetish and racist beliefs.
Today I am proud to proclaim my deceased father was part of Washington’s third largest tribe, the Lummi Nation. I am guilty, though, of not learning more about Lummi culture and history, something I hope to rectify in the future.
And even with my past ghosts still haunting me, I’m a successful nurse, with a specialty field. I have an incredible loft in Seattle (even though I can’t go there); a new Jeep; a cat I love; and I have an opportunity to earn a million bucks.
Maybe I’m not so different from Olympia after all.
Keep telling yourself that.
My inner voice won’t let me off the hook without screaming BS and reminding me of the glaring difference between me and the woman seated across the table.
She embraced help, shared her secrets, and emerged from her constricting cocoon a colorful butterfly, able to fly free; where I’m still like some worker ant, carting around 5,000 times my own weight. I’ve basically gritted my teeth and done it on my own, refusing to share my load.
After I help put a serial, raping murderer away for life, I’ll consider getting some therapy and unlocking my past, maybe then I’ll get my own set of wings.
There’s no time for personal healing right now anyway. I have too much to accomplish with Rowdy and figuring out the best way to snare Dr. Martin without dooming myself in the process.
Both goals come with their own obstacles and challenges.
The Dr. Martin situation has obvious hazards. He’s a fucking killer who refers to his victims as playthings and assigns them numbers.
The risks with Rowdy might not be life threatening, but they sure as hell could be heart-shattering, especially if I refuse to adhere to the rigid rules I’ve erected as roadblocks between us.
“Hello there...Trina? You haven’t touched your coffee.”
“Oh! Sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.” That’s an understatement.
We’re in the cafeteria with our beverages on the table.
I was so tuned into my own memories and future plans I completely missed the journey through several long corridors, including an elevator ride, down four floors. I don’t remember ordering either.
“You okay? I know we just met, but if you need to talk, about anything, I’m available. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Thanks for the offer. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept much this week. Rowdy’s health was more important.” I lift the cup to my lips, savoring the coffee blend’s spicy scent and taki
ng a much-needed drink.
She gives me a knowing smile but doesn’t press for any details, one more reason to like her.
With my attention back on the present, I’m interested in learning more about how Rowdy and Demon rescued her. I’m scared to ask, but my fear is unfounded because she truly is an open book.
Without hesitation, she shares how Rowdy came to her aid and helped her overcome not only the beginning stages of heroin withdrawal, but how he also gave her a glimpse of hope in relation to men. To my surprise, she admits to actually believing she might have been in love with him at one point.
My stomach clenches at the thought of her with Rowdy. I’m not sure why, but the idea of them together makes my personal green-eyed monster roar.
I feel a little less incensed when she talks about how Boone came back for her and professed his love. After their relationship renewal, Boone and Rowdy discovered they were half-brothers.
“So you see, my life has been beyond crazy. But I truly believe all the hell I’ve been through has prepared me to help others find a piece of heaven.”
I don’t know what to say, so I tell her the truth, “I’m speechless.”
Honestly, I am more than speechless, I’m unable to move. Olympia’s account and everything about her has me riveted. But instead of answering my silent prayer and sharing more, she turns the table.
“What’s your story? How did you end up as Rowdy’s private nurse? I was surprised when Boone told me about you.”
“Really? Why?” I can’t imagine why she would be surprised over anything to do with me or my current role in Rowdy’s life.
“For starters, Rowdy has had a very difficult time letting people close to him since the accident. He’s changed.” Olympia glances at her nails, a momentary flash of guilt marring her features. “The fact he’s allowed you into his home is pretty telling in itself. The way he looks at you...it’s apparent he values your opinion.”
I laugh nervously, uncomfortable with the direction our conversation is heading. “You noticed all that during those five minutes in the hospital room? He’s been out of it for almost a week. I’m not sure now is a good time to judge anything.”
“You’re probably right. I just want the old Rowdy back.”
A sliver of annoyance overrides my discomfort. People need to understand head injuries change things, sometimes permanently. Rowdy might never be the same. And that needs to be okay. His friends need to accept him the way he is now, without so much pressure for him to return to the ‘old Rowdy.’ He’s already worried enough about the condition of his brain. Feeling like he has to live up to unreasonable expectations from others isn’t healthy and might actually derail the healing process. There is no way I can keep quiet on the subject.
“I think you should know injuries to the brain can lead to permanent changes. Sometimes the person is never the same. It’s up to us to help them strive for improvement while at the same time accepting they are okay exactly the way they are at any given moment. Does that make sense?” I watch as she contemplates my words.
She takes a sip from her cup. “I guess I need to do some serious research on traumatic brain injuries. Do you have any suggestions?”
Her simple question triggers an internal battle.
I know for certain the best resources out there are Dr. Martin’s books. But there is no way in hell I’m recommending them. Olympia is the type who would contact him if she thought it might help Rowdy. She certainly has the money, prestige, and appearance to get his attention.
I shiver at the thought. He would want to play with her.
That can’t happen.
“Give me your email address and I’ll send over links to the best information. Will that work?”
“Sure.” She digs in her purse and pulls out a colorful business card. It has a butterfly etched on the front with information for Wings, including an email address and her cell number.
I’m fighting not to fidget. I want to get back to Rowdy, and I want to avoid answering the first questions she asked. I have no idea how much Boone knows or what he told her about Rowdy and Demon hiring me. There is no way I’m telling her the truth, not now.
Olympia’s phone vibrates. She reads the message. “Boone needs me. You ready to head back?”
I release a relieved sigh before I realize what I’m doing.
She raises a perfectly shaped brow. “That bad, huh?”
“Like I said, I’m just tired, and Rowdy is my pet project. I want to be there in case there are any problems.”
“You don’t need to explain. Just remember, I’m available if you ever want to talk, and I’ll be watching for those information links.”
Our jaunt back through the hospital is quiet but not uncomfortable. I feel like I could become friends with Olympia. She has a great deal of wisdom to impart.
There’s a problem with friendship though. It requires a certain level of transparency and intimacy, and I’m in no way prepared for that type of relationship. There’s too much at stake. I’ll have to tread cautiously. Olympia Olsen isn’t the type to let secrets slide for long.
So for now, she’s the butterfly, and I’m locked away inside my cocoon. Which makes me think; there’s another key difference between me and Olympia.
Unlike a butterfly, required to escape the confines of its cocoon by using its own power and strength—I’m human. And the majority of us human-folk need help freeing ourselves from a cocoon’s confines. Without help, we’re stuck, thrashing and fighting for freedom.
With someone like Olympia Olsen around, it’s impossible to deny the truth. Her wings are too transparent and far too bright to overlook.
I can admit, I am a plain old caterpillar and my cocoon is squeezing the life out of me. If I don’t get help soon, I’m afraid I might be stuck forever, forfeiting any opportunity to spread my own wings and fly.
As we wait for the elevator, Olympia lost in another text message, I take a closer look at the Wing’s business card and study the butterfly’s intricacy. Olympia clearly hired a very talented designer to create her agency’s logo.
The door dings and glides opens, and like a robot on autopilot, I follow her inside.
For the first time since giving up booze, I’m overwhelmed with the compulsion to drink...or smoke...or screw—something―anything to distract me from the inevitable pain of leaving my familiar cocoon behind and facing a future filled with unknowns.
But there is no denying, the thought of breaking free seems safer than staying forever stuck.
Dr. Martin
I stare at the handwritten note again, something I’ve done multiple times since Trina stopped showing up for work.
I found it in my bottom inbox the Monday following the false fire alarm, the Monday I should have started hunting her.
This particular inbox is dedicated to any incoming promotional materials from competing drug companies, and there are a ton of companies out there that believe they have developed the next Prozac or Viagra. But even without a million dollar medication, the sales reps are always peddling their latest and greatest chemical concoctions, in hopes I’ll agree to a personal meeting.
They want to wine and dine me and kiss my ass, until I relent and acquire whatever product they’re pushing that particular day.
Because I love toying with chemicals, I always act interested and horde as many samples as I can, approving large purchases often, adding to the clinic’s arsenal of medicinal miracles.
Why am even I thinking about drug companies at a time like this?
I glance back at the note, annoyed.
Without my favorite nurse, I’ve become scattered. My superior focus is slipping more every day she’s away. Even my recent playthings have done little to quench my desire for number 23.
I’ve never missed a woman, but I miss this one.
Collapsing in my leather chair, I lean back and read the letter—again.
Dear Dr. Martin:
I’m sorry for not speaking w
ith you personally, but everything is happening so fast. I will need to take an immediate leave of absence in order to travel out of state and stay with a relative who recently escaped a domestic violence situation. She is alone and scared and recovering from multiple injuries.
Based on my history, I am hopeful you will understand my need to be available for her, especially since I’m the only family she has. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, and I understand you may need to fill my position. I hate to risk losing my job, but I wouldn’t be any good at work worrying about her.
You have always been so understanding and kind. I’m hoping those traits will extend to this situation as well.
Thank you for everything, Trina Templeton
Short. Sweet. To the point.
Enough flattery to stroke my ego without making me overanalyze her words. She knows me better than I realized.
But now, after almost a month, I am suspicious.
I expected her to provide an update, a clue to when she might return. Making the situation worse, I’ve been forced to hire a temp in her place, and no one is happy with the replacement. Trina truly was an extraordinary nurse amongst other things.
My mind flashes to her sprawled naked on my bed, her body pliable and relaxed, thanks to the drugs she’d ingested with her wine. She was indeed excellent in every way.
None of the newest playthings have compared.
At first, watching the light fade from their eyes was a rush like none other, but as it is with any new toy, the novelty wears off quickly. I’m already bored with my latest routine, and I don’t want to think about the girl that got away because of it.
You messed up. Forget it. Focus on the moment.
Of course my mental admonishment doesn’t work. It’s hard to shut off my mind when it comes to the worst mistake I’ve made, a mistake that could prove costly if I’m not careful.
In light of this most recent failure, I’ve initiated new parameters for playtime.
