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Holding her under her knees and around her shoulders, I turned when I heard a shout from across the road. I didn’t need to know these men to know they didn’t have this woman’s best interests at heart. If they had cared, they would’ve come to help her. They must have been watching because the moment I picked her up, they were shouting and carrying on about it as if I were taking something that belonged to them. If they saw her in any way at all, it was as property and nothing more.
I didn’t wait.
I bolted, keeping her curled against me as I ran.
The first corner I came to, I turned and took the opportunity to unfurl my wings and take off directly upward, landing on the roof and looking down at the men running into the now-empty alleyway. They looked behind every dumpster and pile of rubbish stacked up against the grimy walls. They looked everywhere, but it never occurred to them to look up. I didn’t like the sounds of their angry shouting at each other, but from what I gathered, it appeared they assumed she had been taken against her will.
Good, that means they wouldn’t blame her.
She moaned against my chest, and on instinct, I pulled her closer to me. This end of the city wasn’t unknown for the sex workers that patrolled the streets. I could put two and two together about who she was and who the men were that chased me, but they had plenty of time to help her and had ignored her suffering.
I couldn’t stand by and let that happen. Looking down, I watched her. Her breathing was shallow, the blood around her hairline congealing and drying. I’m certain she was closer to unconsciousness than she was to sleep. I can’t imagine how anyone could sleep while dealing with that pain.
I’d take her back to my place.
She’d be safe there.
Her face—I knew it.
I didn’t recognize her when I had taken her from the street. So severe was the beating she had endured and the resulting bruising and swelling, it made her unrecognizable, a morbid caricature of her former self. But as the days rolled on, and the swelling eased, even as the colors of the bruises deepened and spread, getting worse before they would get better, I realized I knew her.
I didn’t know her name, but I had seen her before. I couldn’t remember exactly how long ago, but it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks. A fare had hit her, and I had followed him and asked him nicely not to do it again.
No.
I had lost control in the moment and showed him the power behind my features, unfurled my wings, told him these women were under my protection, and promised him a fate worse than death if he ever laid a hand on one of them again.
He ran, and I hadn’t seen him since.
But she, she was the woman with the scars that told a story of a woman who had seen as much, if not more, suffering than I had. While I absorbed the suffering of others into my soul, she had experienced it firsthand.
I hadn’t undressed her. I didn’t want to cause her pain or distress by moving her more than necessary. I had placed her on the bed and given her painkillers and some water. She had struggled against me trying to refuse the tablets and drink, whimpering and crying, but she had no strength left and eventually gave in.
After that, she slept for almost twenty-four hours, and I let her.
I kept a close eye to make sure she was healing. It was a slow process. It would be weeks before she looked herself again, and who knows which scars would be permanent. Would they add to the crisscross of marks already over her body? Pale white lines against her milky skin were telling a story I wasn’t sure my heart could take as I wondered how hers did.
I’d never understand why humans did this to each other.
All the cheap apartments in the area were the same layout—lazy designing for lower-income earners. After the first day when she shuffled from the bedroom to the bathroom for the first time, I doubt she even realized it wasn’t her place. She certainly didn’t notice when she stumbled, her head lolling to the side. I was behind her to keep her steady while helping her to the bathroom, dutifully turning my back as she went before assisting her back into bed.
She didn’t even notice I was there. Whether that was from the pain or the medication, I couldn’t be sure, but either way, she felt like a lost puppy, simply willing to accept the help because she had no other choice. When she lay back in bed, her eyelids fluttered, her eyes still swollen.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“I’m your Watcher Angel,” I said. I don’t know what made me tell her the truth, maybe because I knew she wouldn’t remember, or maybe after so long of living in places of lies and deception, I craved the moment of pure honesty.
She made a sound. I think it was a laugh. “Guardian angel,” she croaked. “You’re not doing a great job.” And she passed out again.
I know what she meant and that it wasn’t personal.
But it still hurt.
She was so used to everyone hurting her, the idea of someone not trying to was a joke. If anything, this made me more determined to prove her wrong.
I’d wake her every now and then with water, but she wouldn’t eat. I wasn’t sure if she could.
It was all I could do to keep the painkillers and her fluids up and keep her wounds clean, changing the dressings as necessary.
