Page 7 of My Dark Divine
At least, my dad believes so.
These days, with the weight of my responsibilities, it’s becoming harder to sneak away to this place. I tend to show up in the evening, when the sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon. At that time, everything here is strict and precise; the animals are getting bathed and preparing for bed.
I don’t just come to play with them and scrutinize every inch of the center to ensure nothing has gone wrong—I already do that enough at my dad’s company. Typically, I help bathe the animals, feed them, or assist with their medical care.
Harper just mentioned that they hadn’t had bath time yet, so I’m fortunate to be able to help her now. “The party was terrible. The only good thing was the free drinks,” I finally say as we walk toward the bathrooms, hearing the three dogs trailing behind us.
Moving down a corridor bathed in bright yet comfortable light, we proceed further into the center. The staff room door is slightly open, with muffled voices drifting from within. I take a brief look inside, catching sight of our administrator, trainer, and attendant engaged in a lively discussion about something important, completely oblivious to Harper and me as we stop by.
As I refocus on the corridor, a voice calls my name. I stop in my tracks and raise my hands in a playful surrender. “Just checking on you guys. Everything good?”
They nod in unison, and the trainer—Marcus—grins widely at us. “We’re just taking a little break to celebrate my greatest achievement. Callie ate from my hands today.”
A wave of confusion washes over me, prompting a frown as I turn completely to face them, resting my palm against the door. “Wait, what? So soon?” I ask, disbelief coloring my voice. Callie is a cat rescued a month ago from an abusive owner, and she has struggled immensely with socializing. She has bitten everyone here, including me, and has spent most of her time cowering in a corner, her wide, scared eyes devoid of trust.
Marcus’s face breaks into an arrogant smirk as he folds his arms across his chest. “Doubting me, boss?”
“To be honest, we all doubted you,” Emma, the attendant, chimes in smugly. She takes a sip of her beloved green tea, the brand label dangling from her favorite mug. I’ve never understood how she can enjoy green tea; it tastes like piss. “Evenyoudoubted yourself, admit it.”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Fair enough. But yeah, that’s the truth. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself—she’s still frightened—but this is a small victory.”
A warm feeling spirals through my chest at the realization of his achievement. My employees are the best at what they do, and I never doubt their abilities. In the four years since the center’s founding, they’ve saved over a thousand pets and found them better homes.
I can never take these achievements for granted. Each success feels like they’ve accomplished something impossible, and my pride for them continues to grow.
“Don’t be so humble,” I say, peeling my palm from the door and taking a step toward the bathrooms, reminding myself that I have a job to do before the center closes. “You’re a hero.”
He shouts athank youas we continue our way to the bathrooms. Inside, the space is painted in neutral colors, withonly a few areas dipped in a soft shade of yellow. I initially envisioned a blue palette, but quickly realized that would make it look like a dentist’s office. With the help of a designer, I created a place that exceeded my expectations.
Here, I always feel comfortable.
Normal people might equate this comfort with home, but the word‘home’leaves a bitter, icy aftertaste in my mouth. It makes my skin crawl, and I long to escape, to free myself from the unease it brings.
In this center, I feel safe. If it were up to me, I’d never leave. Being here feels like being wrapped in the coziest blanket on a rainy evening. When I arrive, I don’t burden myself with any layers. Sometimes, I think about how I could let my guard down while volunteering here. If any of my colleagues were to wander in, they wouldn’t recognize me. Before I arrive, I wipe off all my makeup, revealing my bare, imperfect skin, and trade my fancy suits for a simple sports set. I even take a shower before coming because animals can’t stand the smell of perfume.
So, yeah, I doubt anyone would recognize me.
When Harper and I reach the bathrooms, she walks over to the large tub and turns on the water. While most of the animals we care for are scared of baths or downright hate them, these three pups would gladly take them all day if they could.
Melancholy sweeps through me as I watch the three dogs racing around the floor, their mouths wide open, tails wagging as they playfully smack into each other.
“They grow up so fast.” My voice comes out strange and thick, echoing oddly in my ears. It’s as if I’m about to cry, even though I’m typically the type to keep my emotions locked away.
I think my emotional barriers dissolve as soon as I step in here. Though these animals look perfectly fine now—clean, fed, and well cared for—my mind can’t help but recall the depths of human cruelty they’ve endured. I’ve witnessed enough horrorsduring my time here to know what I signed up for. I wanted to help them, which meant confronting all the suffering from which they needed saving.
But even when you think you’re prepared, seeing the extent of the damage and pain can shatter you. My only salvation is the knowledge that we do our job well and that, at the end of the day, every animal gets a chance for a brighter, better life.
I don’t notice the bathtub is full until Harper turns off the faucet and bends down to pick up Gracie first. My gaze snaps to the little dog as her paws start paddling in the air, ready to swim even before she hits the water. I can’t help but laugh at the sight, my chest trembling as I try to hold it in. Harper beams as she sets Gracie in the tub, giving her a gentle nudge to get the process started.
“Have you thought about taking a vacation?” she asks softly while I grab two nearby chairs and pull them closer to the tub. “Maybe a few days off? You work so much. You deserve it.”
I help her get the other dogs into the water, as usual, letting them enjoy themselves before we start washing them. “You could visit us more often, then. Their behavior changes every single day; I swear, there are new tricks every time.”
She settles into one of the chairs, her bright eyes locking onto mine. I chew on the corner of my mouth, feeling a twinge of anxiety kick in. I rarely go out without my makeup and perfectly styled hair, and now I feel like she can see every red spot and pimple on my skin. I know she probably doesn’t care—imperfect skin is normal—but that doesn’t ease my worry. I don’t like feeling so vulnerable and exposed, and my hands itch with the desire to pull a hood over my head and disappear.
Instead, I look down. “My father won’t let me. Our REIT is thriving and needs my full support. I can’t leave him to handle it alone.” My explanation feels like a broken record, a worn-out, annoying tune that grates on my nerves every time I sayit. I sound more like a child than a twenty-two-year-old woman capable of making her own decisions.
“You look troubled,” she observes. “Is everything truly okay? I’m not asking about business, Venetia.”
