Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
"It is," I say.
"Do you have experience working in a women's shelter?"
"Over ten years," I say.
"Juliet, we have a low census right now, but as you know, that can change at any time. I'm going to text you a link to our online application."
"A link?" I ask before I can stop myself.
There's another pause before she speaks again.
"It's a secure link and a secure website," she says, a tone in her voice I recognize.
This woman has a lot of experience helping abuse victims, and it shows in her assurance just from reading the tone of my voice.
"Thank you so much, Victoria," I tell her.
"Talk soon, Juliet," she says before hanging up.
A second later, the link populates.
I've been directed to a website before, but it was to print an application to turn it in to the shelter, not one that had to be completed online.
Thankfully, all of my fake paperwork is digital and on my phone, so the application doesn't take me long to complete.
Next up is the grocery store.
I wish I had the luxury of taking my time, but the longer I'm out in public, the greater the risk is for me.
After shopping, I drive around a little, getting a better sense of what's in Farmington and the options I have for buying supplies, before heading back to my apartment.
I noted several fast-food places with hiring signs in their windows and on their signage, but a highly visible-to-the-public job is my very last choice.
I discovered that office buildings have a slightly tougher hiring standard and are more likely to check references. Factory work is also an option, but many of them hire felons, and despite certain people needing second chances, I just don't feel comfortable being around that all day.
I don't run into a soul in the parking lot or on the walk back to my apartment, and I hiss out a breath of relief as I lock myself inside.
I put away groceries and hang my curtains, knowing I can't go without them tonight, but making a mental note to add them to the laundry next time I wash my clothes.
I settle on the small sofa and turn on the tiny television I brought from my last location.
Thankfully, cable is provided at this apartment complex, and I flip through the channels before settling on some comedy, even though I know I don't have the bandwidth in my brain to pay attention.
Chapter 5
Nyx
"Notice that," Slick says.
The two words have the ability to make my mind dig deeper, but I don't know whether what I'm seeing in my head is something my mind has remembered or something it's created. Sometimes those visions are a twist of both.
The entire point of EMDR therapy isn't to get rid of the memories. It's to process the memories until they no longer trigger those fears and unwanted reactions.
"She's angry at me," I say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "What?"
"What are you seeing?" Slick asks.
"She hit me," I whisper, somehow knowing this is a memory and not something my mind created.
"A new memory?"
I nod, my eyes still tracking the dot moving on the light bar.
"I hid her bottle of vodka," I explain, the memories leading up to her striking me flooding my mind. "I thought if she couldn't find it, she'd stop drinking."
"This is after the final altercation with your dad or before?"
My hands tremble, and even curling them into fists until my nails dig into my palm doesn't stop them from shaking.
"After," I whisper. "I should've just left well enough alone."
"Notice that," she says.
But I can't. I can't seem to focus on anything other than this movie playing out in my head as if I'm reliving every second over and over.
The yelling, the strike of her hand on my face, my complete shock that she would hit me after all we had been through.
How could I have forgotten that she had hit me?
I lift my hand to my face, pressing my palm to my cheek, both in my memory and in the present.
"You hit me," I whisper.
"Gonna do a lot more than that if you don't give me that fucking bottle of vodka!" she screams, rage filling her eyes as if I'm not standing there, larger in stature than my father ever was.
"She was aggressive," I whisper, remembering how many of those nights started, including the final one.
Memories flood back, making me realize this happened a lot when my father was alive. They'd both start drinking, and then they were at each other's throats. My mother often reasoned that she was at fault after a beating. Had she not instigated an argument, then she wouldn't have been hurt.
She wasn't to blame. Both of them were volatile when they were drinking, but that never means it's okay to get violent. I'd never say my mother deserved to be beaten, no matter how loud and combative she got.