Am I making a mistake?
Should I just go back to Artem?
“No,” I say out loud firmly. I stamp my foot for emphasis.
A rat picking through a garbage can a few yards away looks up at me in alarm. He eyes me as if to say, What’s wrong with you, woman?
In my arms, Phoenix is still sleeping. Well, thank heavens for small favors, I suppose.
I fish through my pocket and retrieve the little piece of paper with the shelter’s address on it. It’s meant to be a women’s home, but I have no idea what to expect.
Geoffrey was kind to me. So were Gabby and Ruby and Sara.
But I’ve lived on kindness for too long. I need to try and forge a path for myself that doesn’t require pinning all my faith on other people.
I start walking, with Phoenix strapped to my chest. I’ve wound the blanket around my body so that he’s nestled against my breasts without me having to hold him in place.
The duffel bag is heavy on my shoulder, and I keep having to switch sides so that I don’t throw my back out.
My Caesarean stitches have started to throb in the last few hours. I grit my teeth against it, hoping the pain will fade once I’ve gotten some rest.
The sidewalk is filled with trash and dirt. Cars whizz by on the road every now and then, kicking up old burger wrappers and cigarette butts.
Eventually, the town proper springs up around me. Though that’s not saying much. It’s mostly fast food joints and strip malls with graffitied windows.
I have to stop a jogger to ask for directions to the shelter. She’s a blonde woman with an amazing physique, and the way she looks at me tells me how different I must look than the Esme Moreno I used to be.
Pure pity in her eyes.
I try not to let it bother me. I’d pity me, too.
“Women’s shelter?” she says, her eyes falling to the sleeping baby slung to my chest. “It’s about a block from here. Keep walking straight, make a sharp right, and you’ll find it. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much.”
I watch her jog away. As she goes, I feel a tug of longing, a sense of loss for the life I used to have.
I was nothing more than a trapped bird in a gilded cage in those days, of course. But there were moments now when I actually missed it.
No more gilded cage seems like an improvement. Like progress.
But how can it be, when all I have left now is gilded tears?
Maybe it’s better to be trapped and happy, rather than free and miserable.
The last stretch to the shelter really wears on me. One block that feels like miles.
But when I see its rusting sign and cheap paint job, I feel nothing but pure relief.
At least, until I walk inside. I was willing to put up with a hell of a lot up to this point.
But this… this is bad.
The building looks like it’s falling apart slowly. A decaying carcass rotting slowly in the SoCal sun.
A crumbling staircase hugs one side, its banisters faded and the paintjob chipped in so many places that I can see the dark rotting wood underneath.
The floors look like they’ve been clawed at and the ceiling is heavy with water leakage.