Killing Tink

Ch. 17

John let Hope set the pace and stop talking when she was ready. She had given him a gift and he knew it. An olive branch of information. Surface speak and semi easy memories that were vague and generic enough to be on any movie of the week.

Hope's body told a story of more than being locked in a room as a casual sex toy. He thought about her file. Dehydration and starvation that had reached the point where death was mere hours away. Burns, bruises and breaks both new and old told a story of extreme torture, much different than the portrayal she was giving.

It would be a long road to recovery, that is if she chose to get on that path. Victims of long term torture were never easy to get to. They spent years in situations thinking of ways to avoid feeling. Days and nights of isolation and ignoring pain signals. Most importantly, being isolated from human contact made them forget the basic codes of sympathy, empathy, and become understandably unable to connect with others.

He left her there, small and alone on the bed looking tired and doing her best to look angry and sad. It was a good start, even if she were pacifying him, or just testing the water, she had taken a chance. It was a start.

John walked down the dimly lit hallway as the nurses turned on the "quiet time" signs. The dimming of the lights, the reduction of noises and the distractions helped patients with circadian rhythm and cut down on delirium and fatigue to long term patients. But not his patients. His patients faced nightmares and fear in any lighting that could drive someone to plead for an ending no matter the route.

He entered his office, grabbed his briefcase and locked the door. He walked to his car slowly, humming to distract himself. It was time to end today and go home. He remembered when this was the best part of his day.

When his wife, Calina would be waiting for him with Sophie squirming in her arms.  They would eat dinner, with Sophie chatting and sometimes music in the background. It was John's job to read the story-- usually something with Princesses or puppies.  Sophie, his Sophie with endless dreams and a head full of curls.

He sat in the driveway and stared at the house. It's perfectly manicured lawn a front of normalcy. He wondered what it would look like if it were a true reflection, not that it couldn't be, the neighborhood wouldn't put up with it, and he couldn't take it. He'd never be able to go back inside if he couldn't pretend life was normal- and then what would happen to them?

The house was silent, the air was stale and he cracked the kitchen window.  The squeak vibrated and he could hear start of whimpering coming from the back of the house. He dropped the briefcase on the table. She was upset. He'd have to make something for her dinner and deal with the anger caused by his recent distance and string of late nights.

If only she could understand he was working for her, to make her life better, to understand the damage of pain and abuse and find a way to reverse it. There was no magic pill to soften the past. It had to be dealt with, bad habits unlearned and new ones formed. Those things took months of hard work and painful reflection.

He took a frozen breast of chicken from the freezer and placed it in a disposable drip proof container and placed it in the microwave. As the meat spun around beneath the yellow light he went into the bathroom to undress. Placing his clothes carefully in a plastic bag and sealing it making sure to squeeze out the air. He opted for blue scrubs tonight.  Faded from bleaching but softened by age they provided comfort for the task at hand and would seem less clinical than the paper zip up suit. As the beeping sounded he covered his shoes with disposable booties. Tonight would be messy. It had been two days since he'd seen her, she'd make him pay for that.

John fried the thawed white chicken in olive oil with basal and added some potatoes to the skillet. She liked potatoes.  Her first month in the house it was all he'd gotten her to eat. He had tried everything to expand her pallet but potatoes were the only thing she willingly took and ate without a struggle. Tonight he was too tired to try anything else. 

With a disposable fork he placed the golden breast of chicken on a paper plate and surrounded it with salted sliced fried potatoes. He thought about adding  a sprig of parsley from the window box herbs and quickly vanished the thought. It wasn't about presentation. It was just about keeping her alive. 

He bleached the frying pan and spatula and dried them with paper towel which he placed in a ziploc biggie and dropped into the foot pedaled trash can.

Taking the small brown bottle out of the cupboard he shook out one small black and yellow capsule.  There were four left- he'd have to remember to refill the prescription this week. He opened the plastic shell and sprinkled its contents on the meal. Just something kind to help with relaxation and sleep.  It was the least he could do.

He grabbed a small black plastic bin and a pair of latex gloves for picking  up the scraps and set the timer. Thirty minutes.  Plenty of time to spend letting her eat and still leave the room before things got out of hand. Tonight he wouldn't succumb to probing or tricks, he wasn't in the mood to try build bridges.  Tonight was just about survival.

As he walked down the hallway his feet slowed to a shuffle. The paper booties crinkled and he could hear her rustling. He reminded himself that tomorrow would be a new day. Hope had made progress, all was not lost.

Passing Sophie's door he squared his shoulders. The silence behind her door  was deafening. Closing his eyes he pictured her there, holding Rufus, her beloved bear while the room filled with the sweet scent of her exhales.

No. Not tonight. He would open that door tomorrow. Tonight there was mending to do. It had been far too long since he'd handed out an olive branch of his own.

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So sorry for the delay here. My dog got lymphoma and I spent every minute I could with him before he passed. It was a gift and a sadness rolled into one.