He was here. Again. For me.
Every night, he would come for me. We would talk and he would kiss me, then we would just hold hands and I began to pray, hope and cherish these nights. I didn’t know his name, he never told me, and neither had he asked for mine. He started coming that night when I was sixteen. Mom’s boyfriend Matt was drunk, he was abusing her, and I couldn’t stay silent any longer. I had gone for her rescue when Matt shoved me so hard that I hit the kitchen counter, its cracked and dirty tiles sending me into oblivion. The next thing I remembered when I woke up was him holding my hands. Now, almost a year later it didn’t matter that my mom was dead, I didn’t care that Matt would beat me until my ribs cracked demanding for money. For at the end of the night, he would come for me. He would ease my pain and just for the night I would be a princess.
But tonight was different. It was dawn. The sun was peeking out smearing the sky with magnificent hues and I had an especially rough day. Yesterday, I was sacked from my job, was almost mugged and then as the cherry on top of the icing Matt had been in a bad mood and drunk. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs hurt, my head pounded, and I couldn’t feel my legs.
He took my hand in his. He never talked to me, just comforted me, and I trusted him. When he held my hand I forgot all about myself, my sorry story, my mom, Matt. Firmly yet gently grasping my hand, he led my away, for away.