Okay, it was said that we need to repost these, and since I finally have a spare moment, here ya go.
Cold Comfort
by Laura Davies
Mine! All MINE! My story, my characters! Mwahahaha!
Emily woke in a cold sweat, long ago spoken words echoing in her ears and ghost images of what he had done to her floating in front of her eyes. “Ugly, fat, horrible, stupid. You should have never been born. You don't deserve to live,” the insidious litany swam around inside her skull. She saw the knife coming towards her again and flinched. She shivered and pulled the blankets up around her, wishing for a different kind of past. She closed her eyes briefly and pretended that her monster didn't exist. At least he no longer lived close enough to hurt her. She took a deep breath and moved closer to the warmth of her husband beside her.
She hadn't screamed and woken him up--it had been months since her last nightmare, and she had woken him then. Emily put her arm over him and was gratified when he turned over, muttering in his sleep, and reached out to hold her close. It was precisely what she needed; she laid her head on his chest and listened to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. Absently, she scratched an old, almost faded scar on her wrist and grimaced as she remembered how her step-grandfather had put it there.
Emily scooted closer to her husband, trying to absorb some of his warmth into her ice cold body. She wished there was a way to make all of her bad memories go away, but there would never be such a thing as a magic wand that could drive the pain out of her childhood memories.
The phone rang, so she leaned over and picked it up. "Hello?" she said quietly, hoping not to wake James. "Hi, Mom. No, you didn't wake me. Grandpa's sick? Oh, he's dying, and he wants to see me? Tell the bastard he can rot--I'm not coming. Why should I? Yes, Mother, I know he's my grandfather. . . it doesn't mean a damn thing to me. I hate him; you know that. Of course you don't believe me, you never have. Mother, I'm going back to sleep now; it's three am here. Goodnight, Mother. Mother, Goodnight." Emily sighed, hung up the phone, and slipped back underneath the warm blankets.
"Was that your step mom?" her husband asked groggily.
"Yes," she said flatly. "Grandpa's dying." There was no emotion in her voice--just an unnatural calm that was disturbing to the listener. After a moment of silence, she added, "Good riddance."
James sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, illuminating the cheerful room that she'd decorated in shades of blue and white. Her grandmother's favorite patchwork quilt hung from a rod suspended in the ceiling on one wall--the same quilt that her grandmother had wrapped her in after her mother's desertion. A knitted crocheted spread lay folded lovingly across the foot of the huge bed--it was the last thing that her grandmother had made just for her. The memories of her grandmother and the patchwork quilts that she made were special to Emily--they represented one of the few periods in her childhood that she had felt safe. "Emily, you don't really mean that, do you?"
"You know what he did to me, James. I hate him. I always have," she retorted sharply.
"I know, honey," he paused to look at her. "You have to let it go, sweetheart, please? It was a long time ago, almost another lifetime. Forgive him. . . or at least forget about him. He's dying and it's over."
"I can't, James," she choked out. "I can't. You know about my nightmares… every night, I dream about what he did to me. I still hate him. I can't forgive him." Tears began to trickle out of the corners of her eyes.
James reached over to wipe the tears from her cheeks only to have her flinch from him. "Hey," he said gently, knowing that any sudden movements at that moment would only serve to spook her further. "It's all right, sweetheart. He’s dying. He can’t hurt you anymore." He reached out slowly and pulled her into his arms.
"I can't forgive him," she muttered into his chest. "I won't."
"You don't have to. . . but it would be better for you in the long run, and I wish you’d at least try." James began to run his hand through her hair in a comforting caress. Slowly, Emily began to relax. He continued to play with her hair gently until her breathing evened out. He pressed a kiss on her forehead before settling back onto his pillows, determined that nightmares would not bother her anymore that night.
Five days later, the call came from Emily's stepmother, asking them to come to South Carolina for the funeral. James immediately got out the suitcases and began to pack for the long drive from Texas; Emily hated flying, so driving was the only option. Emily soon joined him and pulled her oldest and most worn clothes out of the back of the closet for visiting the gravesite. She folded them carefully and put them in the suitcase. "He doesn't deserve any better," she murmured in response to James's questioning look.
She didn't like the days on the road; the long drive gave her far too much time to think and allow more hurtful memories to surface. The drive became worse when the air-conditioner in the car stopped working not long after they’d entered Louisiana, and the muggy heat soon had their clothes sticking to their skin. The scenery got monotonous very quickly, with nothing but an endless stretch of highway bordered by fields of dried, yellowish grass. As they made their way north through Georgia, the flat, red earth gradually began to transform into gently sloping hills and soon they passed over the South Carolina border.
Emily stared out the car window, watching the miles slip past. She had to be there, she knew that. But at the same time, it was the last place on Earth she wanted to be. She twisted a Kleenex between her fingers, absently shredding it in the oppressive silence of the vehicle.
"You didn't have to come," came a soft voice from the drivers' seat beside her.
"Yes, I do, James," she asserted. "I promised myself that I'd at least see the gravestone. I know we're going to arrive too late for the funeral, but I want to make sure that he's dead."
"Emily, that’s not rational. Your parents told you your grandfather passed," James pointed out logically.
"I know. But I have to make sure," she insisted.
James sighed and looked at her. "You haven't seen him in years anyway; he can't hurt you anymore."
"It doesn't matter," she repeated stubbornly, "I have to know for sure."
James shook his head again and wondered why he had gotten involved with all of this mess. "We'll be there in about five minutes," he said, pressing harder on the gas pedal. A few minutes later, he silently pulled into the gates of the cemetery.
As the car rolled to a stop, Emily opened the door and began to climb the hillside. The grass was dry and brittle beneath her feet; the sere brown blades crunching underneath her worn sandals. A harsh wind whipped her dirty-blonde hair into her face and blew her faded, patched skirt behind her as she made her way to the simple stone that marked the spot. She stood and stared at it for a moment, not quite believing that her long time tormentor was actually there beneath the sod.
Emily scuffed the toe of her shabby sandal in the dirt, looking very much like a small child expecting to be punished for some infraction.
Nervously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before turning to glare at the tombstone. For years, she had dreamed of the day when he would be dead, no longer able to hurt her. Then perhaps the nightmares would finally be over. Emily paced around the freshly turned earth before she ended up standing at the edge of the plot.
She shivered as the painful memories of injuries inflicted years before washed over her. The bastard had been careful not to hit or cut her where it showed--except once, and he had explained it away by saying that she had fallen on a broken bottle. She had worn long sleeves for years to cover the scarring on her upper arms. As she had gotten older, he had hurt her in other ways, other places where it would not show to the casual observer. Emily trembled as his spoken words echoed though her head. “You're dirty now--and MINE. No one will ever want you now--as if anyone would give you a second look with all of those scars anyway.” She could still see his shadow looming over her.
"I said I'd dance on your grave," she said finally, her words hanging in the stillness of the air. She stopped as if waiting for an answer. "I hated you," she said harshly. She looked at the headstone beside it. "I hated you, too," she whispered. "It was your fault that he hurt me because you weren't around anymore to protect me. You left me alone with him."
Emily began to pace around the double plot restlessly. "Why?" she whispered, glaring at the tombstone. "Why did you do it? Why was I your victim?" She stopped and looked at the grave. "Why do I still even care--and why can't I get rid of the nightmares that are your legacy?" she drew in a shuddering breath.
"They're your fault, you know. I can't get the images of what you did to me out of my head. I can't forget your hateful words either," she glared accusingly at the grave. "You died and they're still there, waiting for me to go to sleep so that they can come back to torment me over and over." Emily stomped her foot and screamed her frustration at his grave. "I HATE YOU! I will never stop hating you and I can't forgive you," she finished harshly as tears began to trickle down her face.
She fell to her knees, sobbing now. "I'm not sorry that you're dead," she choked out in between sobs. "I'm NOT," she whispered fiercely. Emily climbed to her feet and brushed the remaining tears from her cheeks. She dusted off the faded print of her skirt and without even a backward glance, began to slowly make her way towards James who waited with the car.
"Are you okay, Emily?" he asked gently, noting the tears on her face.
"Not really," she admitted, drawing in a shaky breath.
"Do you at least feel better?" he said as he reached in his pocket for a Kleenex.
"It--didn't feel as good as I thought it would,"
she admitted. "I promised myself a long time ago that I'd come back after he was dead to tell him what I thought of him. That's why I had to come."
"I know," he said softly. James walked around the car and hugged her tightly. "I've often wanted to kill him myself for what he did to you," he said with a grimace. "I've seen the scars. . ."
"I never wanted you to," Emily whispered, "I tried to make you stay away, but you wouldn't," she climbed into the car and shut the door tightly.
"I don't know why you put up with me," she said softly, looking down at her lap.
James walked around to the driver's side door of their old green station wagon and got in.
Silently, he reached over and gently took her hand in his. "It's because I loved you--I still do," he looked up at her with a twisted, pain filled smile. "We're all walking wounded, honey. Some of us just have more visible scars than others." He kissed her hand gently before he laid it back on the seat and started the car.
Emily sighed and ran a tired hand through her shoulder length hair. They still had to visit her parents before beginning the long drive back to Texas, and she wasn't looking forward to it. There were bound to be recriminations for not attending her grandfather's deathbed as well as skipping the funeral. She really didn't like her family much; one of the reasons for their move to Texas had been a desire to put some distance between her and them. They were much easier to deal with from over a thousand miles away.
She looked at James for a moment. It still amazed her that he would put so much effort into loving her when she was such a mess. She wasn't sure if she would be what other people considered to be normal. . . and her family never seemed to care about her pain. The woman she called 'mother' still denied what Grandpa Ritter had done to her, and her father always took her stepmother's side. Emily wished her mother had stuck around longer--or at least taken her when she'd left. She supposed that her grandfather's offer of free babysitting had been too tempting to resist when her stepmother had wanted to go back to work.
She knew that her stepmother had viewed her as an inconvenience; after all, she wasn't Emily's real mother. Emily sighed as she remembered the long rants she had endured about the difference between real children and step children. She had always known exactly where she stood in the Steel household--she wasn't considered as good as the other three children that lived there. Slowly, she reached out and took James's hand. "I love you," she said softly. Emily ran her thumb over his hand, feeling the rough calluses on his palm against her smooth skin.
“I guess we should get going,” she said. He nodded and released her hand so that he could shift then pulled out of the graveyard, and started the short trip to her parents' house.
Emily smoothed down the worn, cotton fabric of her skirt. She began to twist her wedding ring around her finger nervously; her parents' house was the last place she wanted to be.
She shoved her hair behind her ear apprehensively as they pulled into the driveway. James cut off the engine to the car and reached over to take her hand. He gave it a comforting squeeze. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said in a small voice. “I don't want to go in there.”
James released his seatbelt and scooted closer to her on the bench seat of the car. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. “It's okay,” he murmured. “We don't have to go inside. . . But you know if we don’t your mom’s gonna lay a guilt trip on you for the next month.”
Emily smiled shakily. “We can't have that, now can we?” she quipped in a semblance of her normal tone. She took a deep breath in a visible effort to calm herself. “I don't want to face them,” she said softly. “They never cared about what he was doing to me and my step-mother always sided with him--she never believed me. Even when he. . . he almost cut off my hand. . .” her voice trembled with emotion.
“Shhh,” he murmured, rubbing his hand comfortingly over her back, unsure what else to do. He had promised a long time ago that he would never raise a hand to her, but he had to stop the hysteria somehow. James pulled back from her slightly and did the only other thing he could think of--he leaned down to kiss her lingeringly. She sobbed into his mouth as the reality of his caress began to penetrate her consciousness. With another half-sob she let go of the hysteria and wrapped her arms around his neck
James broke off the kiss and began to pepper a trail of soft kisses all over her face. “Better?” he asked quietly.
“A little,” she admitted, with a slight hiccup.
James pulled a tissue out of his pocket and began to wipe away the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she returned. “I love you, too.”
“C'mon,” he urged, “let's go inside.” He let go of her reluctantly, knowing that by convincing her to go inside, he was making her face demons that she might not be ready to deal with.
She nodded, opened the door, and slid out of the car. He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly as they approached the front door. Emily clung to James as he reached out, rang the doorbell, and draped his arm around her shoulders. “It's okay,” he said, ringing the doorbell again.
The door was flung open to reveal Emily's stepmother, Kate. “Emily, James,” she said curtly, motioning them to come inside. “It's about time you got here--you missed the funeral.” Kate looked them over as they continued to stand on the porch, making no effort to enter the house.
“We know,” James replied, “Texas is a long drive from here.” He pulled Emily closer to him, offering her what comfort and support he could.
“That's no excuse,” the woman snapped. “You could have flown and gotten here in time.”
“No, we couldn't,” he remonstrated gently. “Emily hates flying, and I don't much like it either.”
“Weakness,” she said, glaring at Emily. “You
always were a weak little thing, I see that nothing has changed.”
James glared at the woman fiercely. “Leave her alone,” he said harshly.
“Oh, so now you need a man to protect you from your own family,” Kate baited her. But Emily's only response was to move closer to James.
“I told you to leave her alone,” he ordered angrily.
She looked at him icily, but decided not to challenge him further at the moment. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come in.” Kate turned from the door and, leaving it open, strode inside. James started to follow, but Emily’s hand on his arm stopped him cold.
“James, I—don’t want to go in,” she whispered, close to tears.
He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, tucking her head under his chin. “It's okay,” he whispered softly. “I promise. C'mon, let's go inside,”
Emily nodded and taking his hand, followed him inside. Together, they walked into the living room where the rest of her dysfunctional family sat in silence.
“I see you finally decided to join us,” Kate said sarcastically. “Glad you could come down and visit, since we're so far beneath you.”
Emily took a deep breath before she began to speak. “Mother, I'm sorry that you don't like me, and I'm sorry that Grandpa's death hurt you. You have to understand that I left this behind me; there are too many painful memories here that I don't want to relive.” She laced her fingers through James's, taking comfort and courage from his solid presence.
“Oh, yes, that's right,” her stepmother gestured around the room at the other three occupants.
“You're the victim and we're responsible. Poor Emily. That's how it always has to be with you.” She shot Emily a scathing glance. “Well, the rest of us are sick of hearing about it.”
“Mom,” Sarah said, speaking up for the first time. “Please. Stop. Emily's right. I never said anything because I knew you wouldn't believe me, but I saw Grandpa hit her. All the horrible things Emily told you about him are true. Why can’t you believe her?”
Emily shot her half-sister a grateful look.
Jeffrey, her half-brother, was off in his own little world, as usual, and the conversation in front of him probably hadn't even registered--he never noticed anything. Her father was in his usual spot, slumped into the corner of the couch, staring at his newspaper, oblivious. Over the years, he had learned to tune out her stepmother's voice, so he probably hadn't heard it either.
“Mother, Dad,” she began, “we just stopped by on our way out of town.”
“Hmm?” her father looked up, noticing her for the first time. He smiled slowly, an abstracted expression still on his face. “Oh, hello Emily, nice to see you,” he murmured before turning back to his paper.
Emily's mouth turned up in a sad smile. Just like her half-brother, her father never noticed anything. He had always let her stepmother have free reign over the household--her word was law. It was as if as long as he had meals, clean clothes, and reading material, nothing else mattered . . . not even his eldest child. With a jolt, she came back to reality as her stepmother's nagging voice penetrated her consciousness.
“So you're leaving us again?” her stepmother asked, folding her arms across her chest, and purposely ignoring her daughter's confession.
“Yes,” Emily sighed, drained emotionally from facing her demons, both living and dead. “We're going home. And if you ever want to see your new grandchild, you'll respect our privacy and leave us alone.” She released James's hand, left the house, and headed towards the car.
Sarah looked at her mother, shook her head, and followed her sister. She caught up with Emily just before her sister reached the vehicle.
“Emily,” she called softly, stopping her before she got in. “You're pregnant?” she asked, a smile beginning to spread over her face.
Emily nodded wordlessly. “We found out just before we left home,” she said.
Sarah reached out and hugged her tightly. “I should have said something years ago,” she admitted quietly. “I'm sorry; I just want to let you know that I love you. Call me sometime, okay?”
“Sure,” Emily whispered, watching as her sister began to walk back to the house. Silently, she climbed into the car and laid her hand on her still-flat stomach. “We're never going to let what happened to me happen to you, little one,” she murmured, rubbing circles over the area where her baby was growing. “I promise.”
She looked up as James climbed in the car. “Ready to go?” she asked.
He nodded and started the car. “Sweetheart,” he began, “I know you're okay most of the time, aside from the nightmares, but I was wondering if. . . maybe. . . we could set up an appointment with the counselor you used to see when we get back?”
Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Maybe I will, honey,” she said.
He looked at her and smiled before bringing his hand to rest on her abdomen. “I want our baby to be happy and whole; it’s what I want for you, too.” James leaned over and kissed her gently before pulling the car out of the driveway and heading west. One more long journey and they would be home.
Finis.
