Black (Clashing Colors Book 1) (15 page)

“Absolutely.”

I took a deep breath and felt momentarily brave enough, so I held out a fist. “Okay… but you promise to be there and if she tries anything, you knock her out.”

He bumped my fist with his own. “You got it, partner.”

When we got back I found Bruce and told him I would do it. I knew if I didn’t tell him right away, I would probably chicken out.

Bruce was pleased with me and promised to contact her to set up the session.

In the meanwhile I went to finish my art project, which was a series of six paintings that illustrated my mental journey. The first five were already done and taking up too much space in our small cabin, so Gabriel helped me carry them to the main building, where we placed them in the common room for Bruce to see.

“Wow,” he said and took in each painting. “I would love to hear your thoughts on your work.”

“This one represent my day as a baby,” I said and pointed to the first painting. The background was a dark green meadow with eerie trees all around, and in the middle I sat in a black and yellow baby jumper. My legs were crossed, and my head bowed. The painting had a depressive darkness to it, and only a small circle of light fell upon me as I sat bent forward with my long black hair hiding most of my face. All that was visible was my nose and my mouth with a big pacifier in it to compliment the baby bottle in my hand. Above me hung a swarm of angry bees ready to attack and I was holding an arm up to shield against them.

Bruce was waiting for me to elaborate and when I didn’t, he said, “Care to hear what I see in this painting?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I see a person who is sad and defensive, feeling under attack and put in the spotlight.” 

“Me too,” Gabriel seconded.

“And that one?” I asked and pointed to the next one.

Bruce tapped his finger on his upper lip. “Ah yes, how interesting.”

It showed me as a little blond girl stumbling on roller skates in a pink tutu skirt with a humongous cotton candy in my hand. I was trying to find my balance with my little tongue sticking out in concentration while my long shadow went to the lower corner of the painting, where another version of me as a little girl sat crouched over, wearing nothing but black.

“I suppose it could mean several things – why don’t you explain it?” Bruce suggested.

“I already expressed it through my art. You are the one who loves words; if you want to translate the meaning into words, be my guest.”

“All right,” Bruce leaned forward. “The Black girl is being left behind while the young child dangerously makes her way into the world of uncertainty.”

“And the cotton candy?” I challenged.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Is she finding something in this new world tempting and delicious?”

The thought hit me hard.
Gabriel is tempting and delicious.
Was that what I had portrayed without realizing it on a conscious level?

“I know what the cotton candy is about,” Gabriel said and looked pleased with himself. “It was a joke between Cia and me because being dressed in all that pink made her look like cotton candy.”

“Really,” Bruce said and squinted his eyes. “I would have thought it held a more significant meaning with the prominent size and placement of it.”

I inwardly cringed, knowing he was right.

“Personally this one is my favorite,” Gabriel said and moved to the third painting. Bruce put his glasses back on.

“Ah, yes, the bathing. Such lovely colors.”

It was a blue picture with me floating on water with my eyes closed. A man’s hand came from underneath me and was splayed over my genitals and another arm was placed across my chest with the hand firmly placed on my right breast.

On the side of my face a yellow rubber duck broke the blue color of water.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bruce said, “but I can’t really determine if she’s relaxed or sleeping.”

“She’s relaxed,” Gabriel interjected. “And underneath her there’s a man that helps her float.”

“Are you sure he isn’t trying to pull her down?” Bruce asked.

Gabriel pushed his chest out. “No, he’s definitely helping her float.”

“Is that so? And I suppose you assume that man is you.” 

Gabriel gave me a quick glance. “It’s me, right?”

I smiled, but didn’t answer, so we moved to the fourth painting.

“Oh wow, this one holds so much aggression,” Bruce said and leaned closer to take in the details of the lion roaring at the viewer.

“It’s not just an aggressive lion. Don’t you see that it’s protecting the child?” Gabriel pointed to a young girl who peeked her head out from behind the lion.

“But protecting her from what?” Bruce asked.

I laughed. It was entertaining to hear them try to analyze the meaning of my paintings.

“From the snake, of course. It’s right there.” Gabriel pointed to the tree, where a snake was almost completely hidden.

“You’re right.” Bruce turned to me and his eyes were sparkling. “Let me guess; Anna and Mark?”

I nodded.

“Excellent. You are truly talented Cia, this makes an old man’s blood pump faster. So many colors and emotions.”

“Then what do you think of this one?” I asked and went to stand in front of the fourth picture.

Bruce frowned. “It’s very dramatic and sinister.”

“Yes, it is.” Gabriel looked away. I knew he didn’t like that picture.

It showed the camp, and one of the cabins was on fire. A man stood on the porch of another cabin with his back to the burning house, busy talking to a woman. He didn’t see the child running out of the burning cabin engulfed in flames and with an expression of misery.

Bruce cleared his throat. “This represents the nightmare you had?”

“Yes.”

“And the man, is that your father failing you?”

I didn’t answer that question. Bruce hadn’t found out about the night Gabriel spent with Therese, and we both preferred it that way.

“I don’t see the Hello Kitty that your mother burned, and I’m a little confused why it would be the cabin burning and not your childhood home.”

After another minute of studying the picture Bruce added, “I’m surprised your mother isn’t in the picture, but maybe she’s the woman he’s talking to?”

“Hello Kitty is right there.” I pointed to a little white burning pile on the porch.

“Aha.”

The last painting was all white with only a small and a big hand merging fingers.

“A father and daughter bonding?” Bruce analyzed. “I think this is my favorite.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I like the simplicity. Holding hands and bonding holds such powerful healing; it’s the essence of what we do here.”

“Cia is planning to make six paintings in all.”

“Wonderful. When will the last be done?” Bruce asked.

“Before I leave.”

“Great; as I said, I would like to hang them in our dining room.”

I nodded, but the truth was that I would have liked to take the paintings with me. They were more personal than anything I’d ever painted before. But a promise was a promise, and I would just have to suck it up and be a big girl about it.

CHAPTER 11

Dennis

Cia

It turned out that I’m not the only one with nightmares. The second night after we came back from Ocean Shores Gabriel had a major one, and I woke up when he almost punched me down off the bed in his frantic movements. He was sweaty and muttering about being trapped, and I could tell from his movements that he was trying to break free of something.

My friend Daniel is ex-military and has severe post-traumatic stress syndrome, so I knew better than to try and wake him up. Daniel once attacked a friend who tried to wake him up and although the guy didn’t die, I wasn’t taking any risks.

I got up from the bed and moved away, shouting at him, “G, wake up, you’re dreaming.”

It didn’t help; he was still throwing himself from side to side and it sounded like he was crying in panic.

Then I picked up a shoe and banged it against the closet, hard and repeatedly. I didn’t care if I woke up the whole damn entire camp; I needed to help Gabriel break free from whatever nightmare he was caught in.

I was contemplating throwing water at him when he finally sat up with a gasp.

“You had a nightmare,” I said and moved to stand in front of the bed, still at a safe distance.

He blinked and looked around, pulling his hands through his hair.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Why are you over there? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked with concern in his voice.

“No.”

“Then why are you looking so wary of me?”

“I didn’t want to risk you attacking me.”

“Why would I attack you?”

“I don’t know… soldiers come home all fucked up and attack their wives in their sleep, thinking they are the enemy and stuff.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have a wife… you’re not my wife.”

“Nor will I be anyone’s wife if you strangle me by accident, before I’m even able to meet Mr. Right.”

He shook his head. “Come here. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“All right.” I sighed and crawled back on the bed, where he pulled me into a tight hug.

“Eww… you’re all sweaty,” I complained.

“Deal with it. I need a hug,” he said and so I did. With everything Gabriel had done for me, I could deal with a bit of manly sweat, which actually didn’t smell bad at all. 

I relaxed into him but when he squeezed me harder I pushed back. “Hey, big guy, you can hug and touch me all you want but I need to breathe, so hug me from behind, okay?”

I placed myself in the spooning position I knew he liked so much and he pulled me into his arms and rested his face in my hair.

“Sorry I woke you,” he muttered.

“Don’t be… I’ve woken you up plenty of times. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“Uh-huh… but not now,” he said in a drowsy voice and caressed my arm.

“Stop it, it tickles and I want to sleep,” I muttered with my eyes already closed.

“Nuh-uh,” he said in an exhalation of air, “You said I could touch you as much as I wanted.”

“Whatever.” I yawned and placed a hand under my ear, waiting for sleep to take me away.

⦓∞
⦔

Gabriel

I must have fallen asleep after my nightmare, because the next thing I remember is waking up with Cia fighting to get away from me. Even in the dark I could tell her eyes were wide with fear and my first thought was that I had somehow hurt her. “Don’t touch me, Dennis,” she whined.

“Dennis? Who is Dennis?”

“I don’t want to. Leave me alone.”

From the way Cia was looking at me, she had either gone mad or was somehow still sleeping. She kept calling me Dennis and accusing me of abusing her for at least two or three minutes until I finally had enough and went to shake her. That only made her scream, but at least it made her come to her senses.

“Stop shaking me, G.”

I did.

“Who is Dennis?” I demanded.

“Who?” she said confusedly. “I only know one Dennis.”

“And who is he?”

She hesitated.

“Cia,” I said in a deep no-bullshit-voice. “Who is Dennis?”

She answered in a whisper, “My mother’s boyfriend,”

My heart was already racing, but now bile rose in my throat too. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” she said and looked away.

My voice softened. “Don’t lie to me, precious. You thought I was him and just begged me not to touch you. Did he…” I swallowed hard. “Did he molest you?”

Cia started crying but when I tried to touch her, she pulled away.

“Talk to me, sweetie, tell me what happened.”

“I can’t,” she said in a broken voice that fucking tore my heart out.

“You can tell me anything, sweetie, you know I’m here for you, I’m not him, and I’ll never judge or hurt you,” I begged and avoided touching her.

She was still crying and curled herself up in a fetal position, facing away from me. If she didn’t want me to touch her, I didn’t have any other choice than to lie down behind her and whisper once again that I was here for her and that I would listen.

“My mom met Dennis in a bar,” Cia started, in a voice so low that I had to listen carefully. “He was different from all of her other no-good boyfriends: younger than her and always dressed in nice clothes. The fact that I never saw him hit her was a big change too. My mom was so proud of him, because he worked in an office, had some money and a car. I remember being happy that my mom had met Dennis. She was nicer when he was around and he would occasionally buy me a slush ice or give me a lift to and from school. I was thirteen when they started dating and he was the first of her boyfriends to insist I called him Daddy.” Cia stopped talking and I waited.

“At first I didn’t want to call him Daddy, but my mom got furious and said I had to. She told me he loved kids and wanted to be the father I never had. It was lovely at first: his interest in me and how he always included me in everything they did… until…”

“Until what?” I swallowed hard.

“Until it started getting weird. He would ask me if I had gotten my period and if I needed a bra now that I was beginning to get breasts. There were times when he would accidentally touch me; and one time when my mom needed to go somewhere, he insisted on babysitting me, which was strange since I’ve been left home alone for as long as I can remember.

“The first time I remember being scared was that night when we were alone. He asked me if I had ever kissed a boy and suggested I could use him for practice.”

“Did you?”

“No, but later he started coming to my bed when he thought I was sleeping. He didn’t do anything except pull my blanket away and breathe funny. After months of doing that he started touching me and pulling my panties aside. I always pretended to sleep, but one day he tried to take my panties completely off me and I made sounds as if I was about to wake up and it made him leave. The next day I told my mom.”

“Good for you,” I said.

She scoffed. “My mom said I was lying and that I was just jealous of her man. But I think she must have confronted him because they had a loud fight that night and he threatened to leave her.

“I don’t know why she wanted him to stay, but she begged him to, and after that they sometimes came to my bed together. There were noises that I didn’t understand, slurping noises, and he would still sit on my bed and touch my legs, arms, breasts, and sometimes more. Now of course I know she was making him come, but I was so scared and would often cry when they finally left me.”

It was hard to listen to Cia’s memories, but I kept quiet and didn’t touch her.

“Shortly before my fourteenth birthday it escalated and they would talk quietly and say dirty things about me. Sometimes he would cum on my belly and my mom would wash it off with a wet cloth afterwards”

“Did they never suspect you were awake?”

“I don’t think so, but then the day before I turned fourteen I saw him give her a bottle of pills in the kitchen. It made me suspicious so I eavesdropped after they thought I had gone to sleep. I heard them plan everything.”

I held my breath, not wanting to hear more, but I had to.

“Dennis asked my mom if she had managed to slip me the pill and she confirmed that I had emptied the glass of Coca-Cola she gave me. What she didn’t know was that I had poured it out my window because I knew she was up to something. My mom had never brought me a glass of anything before that day.

“They talked about giving me another half hour before going in to my room, and Dennis promised her that I wouldn’t wake when he took me.”

I sucked in air. “Shit. So that’s why you ran away from home. Because he was going to rape you that night.”

“Yes, I even saw him kiss her and thank her for the gift – me – before I went back to my room, grabbed a few things, and slipped out the window.”

“And that’s when you went to Brent, who then rejected you,” I said with a clenched jaw and felt even madder at my big brother for having failed his daughter.

Cia took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Yes, and I’ve never seen my mom or Dennis since that night.”

I couldn’t see her face, but her voice told me she was crying and I could see that she used her hands to dry away her tears.

“Sweetie, can I touch you?” I asked, feeling a burning desire to comfort and protect her.

She nodded and I instantly pulled her into a hug from behind. “I don’t even know what to say except to thank you for sharing it with me.”

“You still think I should meet with my mom?”

“Yeah, although now we might face a different problem.”

“What?” she turned her head and looked at me over her shoulder.

“Now I want to kill her for you.”

Cia turned her body around and cupped my face. “Please don’t, G, she’s not worth it, and you’re not a killer.”

I actually was, but I didn’t say that. My time in Afghanistan hadn’t been a picnic, and there was a reason I had been awarded a silver cross for my bravery. 

I brushed her tears away and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m so sorry that it happened to you,” I whispered.

“Me too.”

“I wish I could have been there to protect you.”

She lowered her eyes.

“Cia, look at me.”

She did.

“Those assholes will never touch you again, and you should press charges against them for child abuse.”

“I thought about it,” she said. “But I didn’t know where to begin, and I basically just wanted them to leave me alone.”

I trailed her lips with my finger and looked deeply into her wet green eyes. “You’re not alone anymore.”

More tears sprung from her eyes.

And then I kissed her. On her lips.

She stiffened and I pulled back, holding my breath and waiting for her reaction.

Her eyes lowered to my mouth and she wet her lips as if she wanted to sample the taste of me.

“You kissed me,” she said and it sounded neither accusatory nor disgusted, but rather like an observation. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t apologize or tell her it would never happen again, because at this point I honestly didn’t know what was up and down anymore.

Instead I hugged her tight and told her everything was going to be all right. Of course that was before I met her mother.