Page 17 of Exit Strategy
He set the book down, frowning slightly and asked, “And just what will they do, Callie?” he asked me.
I sniffed and tried to keep the sob bubbling up my throat silent.
“I don’t know, exactly… but I’m sure it will be bad. It’s always been worse than what I imagined, so I try not to imagine those things anymore.”
He grunted, a thoughtful yet noncommittal sound and stared for a time at nothing at all before returning to his book. I closed my eyes and cried quietly, the tears hot against my battered skin, the salt making it itch, but I knew better with all the bruising than to try and wipe them away.
The next day, when Kurt decided it was time to move on, he brought me a pair of gray sweatpants and a white tee shirt.
I went into the bathroom and showered. I hadn’t the night before, scared I would pass out or fall and cause more problems. I’d said as much when he had returned to the hotel room and asked. He’d simply nodded.
The hot water felt good, but my face felt swollen beyond measure, and it was entirely too uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like I could get a good wash on my hair – it was too long, almost to my knees, and the water pressure out of the shower was barely a trickle. At least itwashot, although I don’t think hot was the right thing for my face or the swelling. I couldn’t remember the word for the right thing readily, my brain foggy and every time I tried to think of it, the word eluded me. I could picture the thing, like glass, in cubes, and I could think of the word’s synonym –ice, but I couldn’t think of the word for the opposite of hot. Such a simple thing to forget, and so maddening that it was just out of my thought’s reach.
I didn’t look in the mirror. I didn’t want to see if I couldn’t think. I didn’t need to fuel my nightmares any more than they were already fueled. I had plenty of fodder for the rest of my days.
When I came out dressed, Kurt looked up from the foot of his bed. He looked different. Very different. Gone was the suit and in its place, a pair of worn but comfortable-looking jeans with a few paint stains, and a white tee peeking from the collar of a plaid work shirt. Instead of loafers, he had on a sturdy brown pair of work boots, and he looked… I don’t know… more real this way. Like suited Kurt had been an illusion all along. A costume.
He looked me over and frowned slightly at how I had to hold the sweatpants with one hand to keep them from falling.
“Did you use the drawstring?” he asked.
“Afraid so,” I said, nodding carefully and slowly and he frowned.
“That’s bloody unfortunate,” he said, brow wrinkling. “I’ll work on getting you something more suitable to your frame.”
I nodded and murmured, “Thank you.”
He did something unprecedented then and kneeled at my feet.
“A bit bloodstained, I’m afraid; but it’s all you’ve got for now,” he said and cupped my heel gently. I raised my foot and he slid one of my ballet flat house slippers onto my foot then just as carefully did the other.
He stood up and turned like he hadn’t done anything at all and I just sort of stared at him for a moment, trying to decide what had just happened.
“You alright?” he asked, eyeing me a moment later.
“Um, yes, sorry…” I shook my head slightly as though to clear it and he frowned again.
“Let’s get you in the truck,” he said. “Some fresh air and a little sunlight might do you some good.”
I inclined my head in agreement and followed him outside, wincing as the harsh sunlight lanced through my eyes and raked the back of my skull. My head instantly set to pounding, my brain feeling like it was throbbing and too swollen on the outset of the throb to fit inside my skull.
“Oh, God!” I gasped and covered my eyes, stopping and swaying on my feet. A shadow overtook me and I risked a peek, Kurt standing in front of me, blocking the worst of the light.
“Here.” He slipped a pair of wraparound sunglasses over my eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“Is that why you always wore those big, bug-eyed things?” he asked casually.
“Um, sometimes to hide bruising, most of the time because I couldn’t for the life of me perfect lying with my eyes. The truth is always there.” I sighed. “Probably another reason why I was chosen,” I murmured.
“Chosen?” he asked, opening the passenger side of his truck, and holding out a hand. I put my hand in his and leveraged my aching body up into the passenger seat, holding onto the waistband of the borrowed sweats for dear life.
“That’s right,” I said, settling onto the bench seat, “you really have no idea how things really work inside New Eden, do you?” I asked.
“Apparently not,” he said, and he was thinking about that, I could tell. I looked down at him from my perch and sighed.
“When you’re ready, ask your questions,” I said. “I’ll uh, do my best to answer them.”
