“I'll have a cup of coffee, please.” Daddy never let me have coffee. According to him, caffeine was a drug. You don’t even know how many times I wanted to scream, hypocrite! But I refrained and snuck the coffee anyway. Between Daddy’s snoring and my roaming thoughts, I rarely ever slept through the night, so the fresh cup of coffee in the morning was more than a blessing.
Peg scrawls my beverage order across the notepad and shoves it into her pocket. “I'll be right back with that.”
As I examine my options on the menu, I realize that the prices in this place are very inexpensive. Then again, I don't have anything to compare my observation of restaurant prices to. This is the first time I've ever eaten out anywhere. Daddy never took me out. And when Mommy was around she had three hot meals on the table every day. There was no need to indulge in the convenience of eating out. But, I have to say, I'm enjoying my first experience at a restaurant. It's nice to place your order in someone else’s hands. It's nice to just sit back, relax, and sip on my hot cup of coffee, watching the patrons come and go.
When Peg returns I order some scrambled eggs and two slices of toast. After I hand her the menu, I pour some cream into my coffee from one of the small rose colored pitchers on the bar, and bring the cup to my lips.
I'm just about to take a sip of my coffee when the bell on the door jingles. I hear Peg say, “Good Morning, Sir.”
Then I hear him, “Peg, how many times do I have to tell you, don't call me, Sir. Elijah is fine.”
My mouth drops open and my head snaps toward the door. Dr. Watson stands at the entrance, with his familiar intense stare and an unreadable expression on his face. I almost smile. I thought yesterday was goodbye. I thought I'd never see him again. An elated feeling surges through me and my heartbeat picks up and starts racing. I go to stand, ready to make my way toward him when a woman walks in behind him and smacks into his back. My eyes shift from her to him. She's lovely. Tall, slender, and elegant looking with pale skin and bright blue eyes I can see clearly from where I'm standing. Her complexion is clear and her deep chocolate hair is swept back into a low chignon style. Dr. Watson eyes haven't left mine and I know mine are full of hurt and confusion.
Who is this woman? If he was attached why didn't he mention it?
I swallow hard and let out a soft sigh. Because he and I are nothing and what he does in his spare time or who he does in his spare time is none of my business. I sit back down on my stool and put my back to him just in time to hear the woman speak, “Elijah, darling. What's the hold up?” Her voice is sultry and lovely. Just like her.
Dr. Watson clears his throat and even though I'm not making eye contact, I know he's running frustrated fingers through his hair, his gaze darkened and cloudy. “Nothing,” he says. “Uh, let's go somewhere else.”
“What?” the woman squawks. “But you love this place. This is your—”
He cuts her off with a huff and a snap of his fingers. “I'm not in the mood, today.”
“Okay. Okay. We'll go somewhere else.”
Shuffling footsteps ring out through the small diner, followed by the bell on the door jingling, and the door slamming shut all-together. Peg brings out my food and places it in front of me. I stare down at the contents on my plate just in time for my tears to fall out of my eyes and onto my toast.
An hour later, I'm still eating. Or trying to. It appears I've lost my appetite. Now I'm upset with myself because I've wasted two of my five dollars and I can't even enjoyed the food I bought with it. I push the plate away and decide to use the restroom before paying for my coffee and barely eaten meal.
The restroom is no bigger than a closet and has the same mauve/rose walls. The sink and toilet are the same color. Plopping down on the toilet I don't have a minute of dryness in my eyes before the flood gates open and I'm sobbing into my palms. I curse everything.
Dr. Watson.
My sanity.
My miserable, depressing existence.
Then I find myself wishing now more than ever that Damien would have stayed where he was when Daddy pulled the trigger on his rifle.
Is this what I was destined for?
To wander through my life getting hurt over and over again until it’s over.
I dig my fists into my eyes, trying my best to dry up all the tears and just when I think my crying spell is over and I can leave the cramped bathroom, my eyes water up and I have to repeat the process all over again.
After twenty minutes of on and off again sobbing, I stand in front of the sink and splash some cold water on my cheeks. My face is on fire and the ice cold water feel like heaven on my skin. I stare up at myself in an oval mirror that's hanging over the sink. I swear it feels like I haven't looked in the mirror in decades. But who would want to if they were me?
I spent a good portion of my adolescence with black eyes and bloody lips. After staring at yourself, looking ragged and beaten you refrain from looking at yourself all-together. But there's something different about the person staring back at me. There's more determination in her violet eyes and less fear. Her cheeks are fuller, rosier. Her ebony hair is thicker, wavier, longer, and less thin and stringy from being yanked on so often. I don't recognize this girl—this woman.
Because this woman is me, minus the pain.
Minus the beatings.
Minus the mind controlling drugs of Oakhill.
I am blown away when reality hits me.
I am not who I used to be.