"How long?" he asked me. His stare was direct, almost intrusive.
I shivered at his quiet tone, this was a man who could break me like a twig if angered, but he also had a fun, gentle side to him that peeked out every so often. His eyes, though challenging, softened whenever he talked about his brothers. He reminded me of men from the Valor MC, downright vicious but their revenge was always righteous. He understood the complex nature of life and that sometimes to do good, you had to get your hands dirty in the process. I’d struggled with this idea when I first came to the shelter, but now I was used to this brand of justice.
"I was held by a trafficking ring for ten years. I’m lucky to have my life. A lot of the girls I met along the way were not so lucky."
I watched as Malik worked his jaw with tension high enough to give me a vicarious headache. He slammed the dishes in the sink while I stood to help him. I heard the distinct shattering of a glass, but he stayed with his back to me. When I approached him, I put a hand on his shoulder. Though it was a bit strange to comfort him while I was telling my story, I also knew he needed it. When I looked into the sink, broken glass and blood marred the pristine white porcelain. A piece of glass was lodged in his hand, and the blood dripped continuously in the sink.
"Malik," I said, trying to get his attention, but his eyes had glazed over and he didn't respond. It was as if he was trapped somewhere else and couldn't come back to me; a common trauma response I’d seen from countless residents at the shelter. "Malik, unclench your fist; you're hurting yourself." He was pressing the glass deeper into his palm with his fingers.
He looked down, staring at the blood but still unresponsive. "Jesus, Malik. Don't touch anything. I'm going to look for a first aid kit."
I couldn’t find one under the kitchen sink, but there was one in the first-floor bathroom. I wondered if Malik had ever been treated for his PTSD and how the hell he could pull off hits if he went into flashbacks this strongly.
Back at the sink, I watched in morbid fascination as the drops of blood fell. "Okay, give me your hand, Mister."
I moved us to the island in the middle of the kitchen and gently placed his hand on the counter before opening the first aid kit. "Okay, welcome back. What happened there? Was that the first time you’ve left your body like that or is it something you’ve been living with for a while?" Same question I asked all the kids with flashbacks.
"I was thinking how I want to track everyone who’s ever hurt you and make them bleed out slowly until they die."
"I see," I nodded my head in understanding. Extreme, but understandable. Malik lived his life trying to right the wrongs inflicted upon those he loved. Maybe I should have been shocked and appalled, but the truth was, I wasn't at all. Perhaps it was because I’d become accustomed to the guys in Valor and the way they carried out justice. Maybe it was because I knew in doing that, it would only serve to protect the innocent. I agreed with him; some people deserved to die. The fact that Malik wanted to murder the people who’d hurt me wasn't frightening; it felt familiar and comforting.
“Why’d you really come along? You could have declined—taken a stand, demanded to stay at the club until the drama blew over.”
I tilted my head and considered his question. “I never back down because of fear. Fear is what they want and when you’re afraid, they win.”
“Were you afraid for Fio or afraid for yourself?”
“For Fio, but I guess I saw myself in her, too.”
“I won’t let them win. I’ll bet my life on it.” Malik locked eyes with me as I bandaged his hand. His eyes were intense with a mix of passion and anger. "No one has a right to touch you without your permission and that’s never going to happen again,” he said to me.
"You don't have to worry about the guys who hurt me," I whispered.
"They dead?"
"Most of them, yes. The others are in jail."
"Good. I hope they get what’s coming to them during their prison field trip."
I laughed at his statement. Malik had this crazy tendency to make the morose feel lighthearted, talk about hits like they were slapstick and trafficking like it was a game of cat and mouse. I guess everyone handled the darkness differently. Malik used humor and levity and it was a little crazy, but I liked it.
"You're a strange one, you know that?" I said to him. I'd bandaged his hand and I held it above his heart to stop the bleeding while I applied pressure to his cut.