The side of my face still stings from when his hand connected with my right cheek. Looking into my bathroom mirror, I see that that side of my face is red as a cherry.

I gasp and quickly turn toward the door when I hear it being unlocked.

My father.

All of a sudden, the door bursts open and it only takes one single stride for him to reach me. His strong, huge hands grab my waist and pull me toward him.

When I try to scream, nothing comes out. There’s no point in even trying, as we live on forty acres and no one would hear my cry for help. Not even my mother would come to even check on me. She never does. Sometimes she even watches as my father tortures me in nearly every way he can think of. Only once has she given me a word of encouragement. It was in the middle of one of my father’s episodes of lunacy, and what she said was a simple, “Be strong.”

My small, shaking body is pressed against his large one as I struggle to break free. It’s made clear in more ways than one that my struggling and fear are extremely thrilling to him.

Somehow, even with the little hope I have of getting away without another bruise, I’m able to escape his tight hold. Without thinking, the moment I’m free, I raise my fist and punch him hard.

I don’t see exactly where my fist lands, as I’m now awake. While I’m happy to know that that was just a dream, I’m disappointed to be back in my reality, since a bad dream is still just a dream. My reality is somewhat of a nightmare. Especially now that I’ve seen him again.

Even with this proof that what my OCD says are always lies, it never leaves me alone and I never stop listening to it. I remember when it said that if I didn’t change ‘reverberating’ to ‘repeating’ in my story, he would find me. I changed it to what I was being told to and he still did. It’s no surprise to me, of course, that what that disorder says are lies. Why do I keep listening to it if I know the words aren’t true?

I stiffen when a sudden, “Trinity?” fully wakes me and my senses become alert. “Are you okay?”

I sit up straight in the guest bed and use my heightened sense of hearing to track where the voice came from, and find Christopher sitting on the chair across the room. At first I’m startled, but my mind is immediately distracted when I see him holding his left shoulder as if he’s in pain.

“Christopher? Christopher, did I hit you?”

“You were talking in your sleep,” he says, concern in his voice and written all over his face. “You mentioned your father… He was hurting you…”

“What a silly dream,” I say, forcing a giggle. “Imagine that.”

Christopher doesn’t smile, but looks at me seriously without saying a word. He is clearly not amused.

After moving the pillows behind my back to an upright position, I sit against them and pull the covers up to my neck, even though I’m burning up. I feel so uncomfortable with him seeing me in bed.

“Christopher, I’m scared,” I say quietly, finally admitting it. “What if he finds where I live?”

“He won’t,” Christopher replies. There’s not a trace of worry on his face… only sudden irritation at the reminder of my father. “And if he does and tries to hurt you again, I’d probably be the one who would get locked up, and it would be for murdering a man. I won’t let him hurt you again, Trinity.”

“He’s not alone, Christopher.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, but there’s one thing I do know for sure,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “It’s that you’re not alone either.” The way he says it is so convincing that I actually believe him.

All is silent until I speak again.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Christopher’s brows furrow in lack of understanding. “You don’t have a choice… I wouldn’t let you.”

“You’re right. I don’t have a choice, but neither do you. When I have to go back is up to the judge. It depends on when my father gets better… or when he lies that he is.”

“Oh…” He looks down at his hands that rest on his lap, appearing deep in thought, but just for a moment. “I thought Mrs. Johnson was your real mom.”

I shake my head, and he nods slowly, now seeming to understand.

“My real mom cares nothing about me, and so I even detest the word ‘mom’. She probably kept quiet because she was getting paid.”

“What?”

Biting my lip, I shake my head frantically.

Did that really just come out of my mouth?

“Uh…” I say, stalling for a distraction. Then I come up with one, hoping it’s enough. “I’m really thirsty…” For a while Christopher just stares at me, probably still trying to process my words. Then he speaks.

“What? I’m sorry.”

“Nothing important,” I reply, sliding out from under the covers. I feel as if I won’t be able to get any more sleep until the afternoon comes. Right now it’s almost four in the morning.

The bedroom rug is soft and warm beneath my feet, and the cold wood beyond it is a shock to them. It doesn’t help that the house is like a frozen tundra.

As I walk toward the door, I begin to shiver and my teeth start chattering. It must be very obvious because, noticing this, Christopher shakes his head. “Stay in bed,” he says softly, putting his hands on my shoulders and turning me around. “What can I get for you?”

My instinct is to resist his touch, but I tell myself that it’s okay. That it’s just Christopher and he won’t hurt me. But what if I’m wrong, and he’s just a good actor?

I insist that I can get some tea myself, and he finally agrees after several of my attempts at trying to convince him to let me.

In the kitchen, I realize that I’m clueless as to where everything is. It’s overwhelmingly huge and I’m too out of it to find the light switch. Fortunately, Christopher follows me and gets the supplies I need. He even finds what I was hoping he would – chamomile, to help me fall asleep, despite my fear of having that repetitive nightmare again.

He found everything so quickly that it seems like he lives here!

“Would you like a coffee creamer in it?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Cold Stone or Dunkin’ Donuts?”

A smile comes to my face at the mention of the first creamer – my favorite ever. “Cold Stone, definitely, please.”

“I like Cold Stone, too,” Christopher says with a smile of his own as he turns on the kitchen island’s Keurig. The button that notifies us that it needs more water glows, and so he pulls out a gallon bottle from the stainless steel fridge.

“You drink tea?” I ask.

“Sometimes, but I prefer coffee ten times over.”

“I can’t have coffee…”

“I know. It often triggers and easily raises your anxiety level.”

My eyes widen.

I know he doesn’t want me to, but I ask anyway. I can’t help myself. It’s scaring me how he knows so much of that which he has not been told.

“How do you know all these things?” I question, nervous about what his answer will be.

Christopher turns back to the Keurig, but it’s clear that he’s trying to avoid my stare. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

To encourage him to give me the answer, I say in a half-joking tone, “After all I shared with you…”

In an obvious attempt to further stall me, he says with laughter in his voice, “I’ve gotta hand it to you. You’re gifted in the power of persuasion!”

Crossing my arms, I sigh in response, letting him know that I can see right through his facade. Completely stopping what he’s doing, he turns back to me, and the seriousness he wears and intensity in his eyes could almost scare me.

“Ever since I can remember, I’ve had the strange ability to…” Frowning, he hesitates for a moment and scratches his head as if he’s thinking hard. “…to touch someone and feel their pain… and to sometimes see a person’s past by simply looking into their eyes... and to see the future, but it was rare when I was younger. It happens much more often now. But I’ve never had these ‘gifts’ – as my grandmother puts it – become evident so often… until… until I met you.”

° * ° * °

As soon as I leave sleep and open my eyes again, I still feel them burning from the salty tears I cried out late last night. Embarrassment suddenly washes over me when I finally remember and realize that Alex and Christopher witnessed my let out.

“You’re awake.”

The voice startles me enough to gasp. I look around frantically, but my eyes are still foggy from fatigue and so it’s hard to see, or know if I’m still dreaming.

“Hmmm…?” I hum, hardly able to make my mouth produce words.

The voice speaks again, but now I recognize it, as I’m a little more awake. I’m very surprised at how comfortable I’ve become with Christopher, but especially how quickly it happened. Maybe his honesty with me earlier this morning had a part in it.

“Did you have any more nightmares?”

“No,” I answer. “Is your shoulder okay? I’m sorry…”

Smiling, Christopher shrugs.  “Nah, you couldn’t hurt me.” He then stands up from the blue suede sofa and comes over to the one I’m lying on, a glass of water in his hand. When I try to sit up, I realize that I’m trapped under a couple of light blankets and one comforter. The warmth they provide make me want to stay under them forever.

“I don’t remember falling asleep here in the family room…” I say slowly. “Were you here with me the whole time?”

“Yes. You were coughing and it sounded bad, so I brought you this.” He hands me the water and I take it gratefully. “Your coughing kept waking up once an hour, but you probably don’t remember since it was only for a minute or so each time.”

“My medicine dries my throat sometimes.”

“I know, and I’m praying that you soon won’t need it anymore. I know for a fact that that time is coming, and it won’t be as long from now as you may be thinking.”

“I don’t know… You couldn’t possibly know that. My past can’t be undone, so how could this just go away? Magic doesn’t exist.”

“But God does, and He loves you. He doesn’t just sit around and delight in seeing His children suffer like your mother might have.”

Squinting my eyes at him, I huff in disbelief. “Don’t talk about my mom like that,” I say firmly. “Just because she wasn’t the greatest mother doesn’t mean that I don’t love her. I don’t appreciate that comment.”

Christopher grimaces, and I can tell that he truly regrets having said that. He places my glass on the lightwood nightstand beside me and flips off the light of the lamp that rests on it. “Trinity, I’m sorry. That just came out… I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that… I don’t like knowing that you’ve been hurt. It–”

“Miggie!” An adorable little boy who can’t be any older than five runs into the room, wearing whatever he ate last all over his face and shirt. His arms are stretched open wide as he runs to Christopher, who hugs him tightly.

“Sam!”

Wearing a bright smile, Sam says, “Guess what!”

Christopher looks at me as if to say, ‘Sorry, one moment,’ and then turns back to Sam. “What?”

“No…” Sam whines. “Guess!”

“Um…” Christopher’s smiling eyes suddenly widen and he gasps. “You’re a secret agent and you haven’t told me all along!”

“No,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “I’m having–”

“–a ‘welcome to the spy club’ celebration? Count me in!”

Sam giggles, his tongue protruding as he lisps heavily on every single ‘S’. “No! I’m not a spy or a secret agent. I’m having a birthday party! It’s at the pool. Do you want to come?”

“I’ll see you there.”

I’m suddenly reminded that Sam’s mother, Mrs. Cathy Brisbane, is thinking of hiring me as a photographer. As long as Sam doesn’t invite–

“You can come too!”

–me because I can’t swim.

“Oh… I... I might be there to take pictures,” I say.

“You can swim, too,” Sam says. It’s hard to say no to that adorable little face, but I couldn’t possibly agree to it. “It will be fun!”

“Me?” I laugh nervously. “You don’t want me there as a party participant. I’m no fun. Besides, I’d have to take pictures and I can’t get the camera wet.”

“Please…” Sam begs. “I don’t have a lot of friends… There will be cake!”

I purse my lips. I can’t say no. “Okay.”

“Yay!” he exclaims, but then a puzzled expression blankets his face. “My name is Samuel Justin Brisbane. What’s your name?”

“Trinity,” I answer with a small smile.

“No, your whole name. Or are you scared of stranger danger? If you are, that’s okay.”

I giggle. “My whole name is Trinity Leigh Martin.”

Samuel smiles. “I like your name.” He turns back to Christopher, gives him another hug and says, “This is Miggie, my best friend.”

“Miggie?” I ask, confused.

“It’s his way of saying Miguel, his nickname for my middle name,” Christopher explains almost inaudibly, to prevent Sam from hearing. “I thought Raymond was your best friend, Sam.”

“No, he’s not even my friend anymore. He wouldn’t give my Ninjago back.”

“Is that why you came back home so early?”

Sam, his arms crossed, pouts as he nods. “Mhm.”

“You guys doing all right?” a man says as he pokes his head inside the room. He looks around and then spots me, and an even brighter smile comes to his face. “Oh, you must be Trinity. It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Tom, and please leave out the ‘Mr.’. It makes me feel old.” He cracks another smile, and so do I.

“Breakfast is ready everyone!” Mrs. Brisbane announces. “Let’s eat quickly because we have church in half an hour! No time to sit!”

My stomach growls, and quite loudly at that, just as she says this. All eyes turn to me, and I can feel the evidence of my embarrassment creeping onto my cheeks.

“Oh, that’s right,” Christopher says. “You didn’t eat last night.”

“Surely my wife wouldn’t have let you go without eating dinner!” Tom says, astonished. “She loves to feed people, and I’m sure you know that by now. That’s why I make a good Santa Claus at Christmastime, in appearance.”

What do I say to that? All I say is, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, I see. Well, you should listen to your stomach and eat something now!”

“Yeah, before it eats you!” Sam adds. I smile.

His mother walks into the room and informs me that she texted Mrs. Johnson last night, but she forgot to tell me. According to Mrs. Brisbane, my foster mother is okay with my being here, but I know the truth. I know that she’s worried, especially because two boys were sleeping in the same house. I’m surprised that she didn’t come snatch me in the middle of the night!

The phone rings, and without answering it, Mrs. Brisbane hands it to me.

“It’s your mother,” she says.

I cover the microphone part of her Blackberry as I reply, “Okay, thank you.” I then remove my hand and greet my foster mother with, “Hi Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry that I didn’t think to leave a note.”

“Oh, Trinity,” she replies, and at first I’m afraid that she’s mad at me. “As long as you’re all right. That’s all that matters to me, sweetheart. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you.” There’s a long pause after she sighs. “Maybe I’m not fit to be your caretaker. I know I’m always out… Oh, never mind. We’ll talk later. I love you Trinity, and I’ll pick you up as soon as church ends.”

I try to sound fine as I answer, “Okay,” but on the inside I’m scared. I’m scared of what the talk will be about. Does she not want me anymore? Is she going to send me away to another family? I’d sooner run away.

In most of the families I’ve lived with, there has been at least one person who has been abusive in the most creative of ways. None can rival my father, though, but they were abusive nonetheless. Mrs. Johnson is my favorite person I’ve stayed with and I don’t know what I would do without her. I don’t know what I will do if I have to move again. This is all I can think about as she says my name repeatedly, asking if I’m still here.

“Yes, sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” is the last thing I say before hanging up.