#all43tasks

The banging woke her up, stretching her thin limbs out. She could hear her parents talking outside her room, so she lazily got up to go find out what was going on.

She had no reason to be afraid.

She’d never experienced that emotion before.

Just as she opened her bedroom door, the banging stopped as another door opened - by force. Splintered wood didn’t make sense to her, she was too busy trying to understand why her mother pushed her behind her and her father went to the door to confront the -

A monster.

At ten years old, she felt fear for the first time.

Sick, dark desperation radiated from the monster, everything about it twisted and violent. She wanted to be sick.

But everyone loved her. That’s what her teachers always said. That’s what her parents told her.

Her father pushed the monster back, but then there was just blood everywhere, the monster tearing her father apart.

It didn’t make sense.

Her mother ran to her father’s side, just like she belonged, pleading with the monster to stop.

It didn’t stop.

Not until it stepped over her parents bleeding bodies, and oh god, it hurt so much, had anything ever hurt this much before?

It stepped closer, and it looked at her, and she looked back and screamed.

The monster scurried away, afraid of the little girl in flamingo pyjamas.

When the cops came, taking her away to the hospital, and asked her if she could describe the ‘bad man’, she told them the truth.

It was a monster.

Too clearly, she could describe how twisted and scary it was, like a shadow or something melted.

“What was his hair colour, did you see that? Or his eyes?”

“Its eyes were on fire.” She replied, too calm now. She didn’t know why she felt so calm, and just a little annoyed. That was another feeling she wasn’t used to.

When she still didn’t stop believing in the monster, her foster carers suggested she get put somewhere she could get real help.

That was when she finally realised she was different. Being born of the gods made her different. She could feel every bit of sadness and anger and fear from the other children in the place they put her, and the adults didn’t like that.

So she’d keep silent, keep what she felt to herself, and learned how to smile even when her insides were screaming at her that everything was wrong.

When her roommate kept her up all night screaming, she made her sleep. Just one desperate scream back, and the girl was out like a light.

That gave her the idea.

Slowly, she started to push feelings away from herself, and the others would feel them. She got out of the institution, and back into the foster system. It wasn’t any better really, but at least she had freedom. No one ever questioned her out there, because she didn’t want them to.

No one had ever believed her, so she couldn’t believe in anyone but herself.

She wasn’t insane.

She never said ballerina, she never said rockstar, she only ever wanted to be just like her father.

It wasn’t always easy.

The first time she said it after her father died on the job, her mother shouted at her.

The argument lasted a week, from heated words to cold shoulders, but Eudora still never changed her mind.

It wasn’t even just about her father. She knew people thought it was, that she wanted to make him proud. But she always knew he’d be proud no matter what she picked, so long as she worked hard at it. She’d always been a daddy’s girl, after all, who could do no wrong in his eyes.

No, she wanted to do it for a much deeper reason.

She still remembers the time she was seven, spinning around in her father’s chair, playing with his badge. Everyone at the station was used to her, so no one paid her any attention. When she saw her daddy talking to a crying woman, she came sneaking up, and heard what he promised the lady.

“I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Something about the sincerity of those words has stuck with her ever since.

She wanted to be that kind of cop.

Hard work, kindness, and a spine of steel. That’s what her father had told her it’d take to be a cop. Going into the police academy as soon as she could, she held onto those values.

She knew people said she was too soft to make it, so she’d gotten tougher.

People had said she’d just gotten the job because of her father, so she’d just worked harder.

         it always started the same. jax’s mom, helen, would come home smiling. her hair would cascade down her back in an intrictate french braid, a few flyaways tucked behind her ear. i’ve had a good day, jaxxy. a great one, she’d say.  some nights they’d have pancakes, other nights she’d bring home chinese takeaway.  usually a few weeks later, she’d bring him home with her.  they were usually taller than she was; older, with thick facial hair that reminded jax of the throw cushions on their couch.  some would insist on kissing his cheeks, the stubble rubbing angrily against his face. from there, it varied.  some would stay almost constantly, invading their personal space like it belonged to them instead.  some came by at night, when jax was supposed to be asleep, and snuck out in the early hours of the morning.  others though, they slipped in and out like the seasons.  one minute they were there, the next ?  they were gone.  it was those men that jax liked the most;  the ones who didn’t want anything.  the ones who were kind, who remembered his name and helped with the dishes.

     this one was not like that.  he was in his 40s, oily hair constantly slicked back to hide the bald spots.  his shirts were wrinkled and his teeth stained yellow.  he reminded jax of cartoon villains in the saturday morning cartoons he watched.  or had watched, until this one.  this one didn’t think kids needed to watch tv.  he’d leave it on the news 24/7, constantly complaining about things that were going on in the outside world.  jax didn’t like him.  but when you’re a child and you say someone makes you uncomfortable, people think you just don’t know them well enough.  he’s a good man, his mom would tell him as she tucked him into bed.  her hands would shake as she pushed his hair away from his face.  he hadn’t known what withdrawal looked like.  not then.  not at five, when his world was supposed to be safe from the horrors on the outside. he’ll take care of us. 

     it wasn’t long before jax started noticing the bruises. sometimes they’d litter helen’s arms, twisting up under the sleeve of whatever blouse she was wearing.  mommy’s clumsy, she’d tell him whenever he questioned a bruise, or the shiner above her eye. it’s okay.  even at 5, jax had known that something was wrong.  he had known that this wasn’t right; that people weren’t supposed to hurt those they cared about.  (  verbally, it didn’t matter.  if his mom was strung out and screaming about how he ruined her life, he didn’t begrudge her that.  he agreed.  if he hadn’t been born, maybe her life would have been better. )  without seeing it for himself firsthand, he could believe the lies.  he could distrust - and he could suspect - but he was a child and no one would listen to what he had to say.   until they were left with no other choice;  when his voice was so loud, so convicted, they had no reason but to listen. 

       this one had lost his job.  he was sitting on the couch, cigar in one hand and a beer in the other, and wasn’t happy when helen refused to get him another.  we’re all out, she’d said carefully. too carefully. i haven’t had time to go to the store.  this one was usually careful about how he hit her.  about when.  it was never in front of the kid, never in front of witnesses.  he was scum but he was SMART.  his hand came up so quickly, none of them were prepared for it.  the back of his class ring caught her cheek, a sliver of red welling up as her hands came up to protect her face.  jax, who had been playing with his cars on the carpet, screamed when she did.

        he screamed.  he screamed.  he screamed.  while he screamed, he hadn’t noticed his mother’s eyes catch a glimpse in the mirror behind him.  how she’d watched the blood coagulate, watched it disappear back into the cut and seal itself.  how she wasn’t bleeding.  meanwhile the man was shouting, waving his hands as he flipped the coffee table over.  cars scattered every which way as he reached for helen, pudgy hands wrapping around her throat. what did you do, he roared. how did you do that? answer me, bitch.  as he backhanded her again, jax rose to his feet.  his screams drowned out the couples, hands outstretched in the man’s direction.  “ no! “  he yelled, shoving in the man’s direction.  the man tripped over his own feet, sprawling out on the floor. 

                                this time, it was helen that screamed.