SEVENTEEN
Cindy sat alone in the shelter. It was ridden with graffiti and dirt. She was the only white woman here. The rest of her counterparts regarded her with suspicious stares, probably thinking she was some kind of undercover welfare policeman or something. Maybe they just didn’t like white girls here. Cindy didn’t care. She didn’t care about the dirt or her roommates. No one checked to see who she was here. So all she cared about was that she had a bed for the night. She’d lived long enough without friends to know that she’d manage.
The place was full. They served people by kicking out the longest tenant so that the bed would be empty. Soon it would be Cindy’s turn. Out of forty women, she was here the eighth longest at sixteen days and thirteen hours. Some clientele had already accused her of white privilege, saying that as they were getting kicked out that Cindy had been there already when they arrived, and that Cindy should be next. Given that, Cindy wouldn’t be surprised if she was asked to leave next. This place was run by white women. And white women, Cindy discovered through the years, were basically cowards, especially when it came to minority women. Some fucking white privilege.
Besides being the only white resident, she seemingly was the only childless one at that. There were kids constantly screaming here. It was like being stuck in a maternity ward, except that visiting hours were never over. At least she only had herself to worry about.
She closed her eyes as she lay on the cot in the room she shared with three other women, and felt a strange sense of gratitude. This place with all its drawbacks was still better than the home she had left. No one hunting her. No obsessed lovers begging her to stay after nearly killing her saying that if she left they would kill themselves. And so far, no police here to harass her and send her back to Patrick like she was an errant schoolchild. At least, not yet. Knowing Patrick, he was sure to have every precinct in the Northeast notified that his wife had been kidnapped. Any time she saw an officer she was terrified that she was going to be sent back to Patrick. They would take one look at her sorry state and one look at perfectly groomed Armani Patrick and laugh at her story of domestic violence. And back to hell she would go. She’d rather put up with the nursery school environment here.
She wrapped herself in her blanket, holding onto the minimal security she had now. She prayed to God that the police would not search for her here. Her whole life was gone now just so she could be free, though if she thought about it, she lost her life the minute she decided to marry Patrick Hughes. She didn’t know where her family was anymore; they cut her off the minute she came home as his bride. A foolish girl would have no part of their lives. But at least she was free of the classy rich prison which her marriage vows had sentenced her. And now, it seemed like for the rest of her life, she would have to be on the run. And for what. Her survival. Survival, her survival, what did it mean? Was her life doomed to be nothing but flights into obscure existence? What could she do with her life if she could never stay in one place, never to be known to anyone?
Thoughts of murder came to her head.
She was not divorced. Patrick would never let her go that easily. He had even told her that he would never let her go. At one time when she was younger, those words were romantic. Now they were a nightmare to her. She was afraid that even in her ragged condition, he might find her on a street corner somewhere. She would not live to tell about it; she knew from experience. Sometimes, though, she found her weary bones aching for that day. At least the fight would be over.
Disillusioned by charm, that was what had happened to her. She had been fool who was enchanted by wealth, gold and comfort. There had been a false sense of peace about the rich which she never thought apparent in her lower class lifestyle. She knew better now. Even after two years of bruises she’d been stupid enough to hold onto the myth. And worse yet, she woke up from her illusion only to find herself married and trapped. The worst, she had still loved him.
It was dark in her room even though the clock over the door read two o clock, and Cindy knew it was afternoon. When her roommates were gone and she had control over the room, she kept the shades drawn. The ugliness of reality was not so glaring in the darkness. Eleven years wasted married to a psycho. She had nothing to account for that lost time except for a lot of scars and a name that wasn’t hers. With the wisdom of a thirty year old and perfect hindsight, she knew her life had been better before Patrick, even though she had kept running away from it. She wished she hadn’t treated her mother so horribly. It would be a great comfort to run to her right now. Children didn’t realize the wonderful value of their parents until they were supposedly too old to need it. At least, that was so for Cindy DiEsposito Hughes.
Where could she go from here? They would try to put her on welfare. And once her social security number popped up again in the system, Patrick would be on her tail again. She wished she knew the right people. She knew some criminal people. but not any that were of use to her. She only knew drug addicts and street people. Nobody who could find her fake ID so she could start her life over again. At this point she was stuck running from shelter to shelter. Her options were few.
Suddenly it hit her. Russell/Avery. He was her key. Obviously he ha fake ID. And once she got him drunk, she could probably get him to do anything. Especially after giving him the good sex that he thought he needed.
She would leave in the morning, maybe go back to the bar where she saw him last time. She’d take a few pieces of clothing from the laundry and climb out the window, something that she had done before. She was going to find Russell. Something in her mind decided that. And inside it was the first time that she felt quiet.