Page 4 of Protected By Her Daddy

Just one apple to get by.

I snatch an apple from the cart and slip it under my jacket, moving away casually. Guilt and relief wash over me all at once. I know stealing is wrong, but what other choice do I have?

I find another alley and lean against a dumpster, taking a bite. The apple is crisp and sweet, and I’m overcome with gratitude for something so simple. I take another bite, savoring my first food in almost thirty-six hours. The juice dribbles down my chin, and I let out a small, involuntary sigh of contentment.

A sharp pang of sadness hits me as I finish the apple. How did it come to this? How did I end up stealing food to survive? I’m grubby and grimy, and I don’t know if it’s me or the dumpster that smells so bad. What I wouldn’t do for a hot shower and a soft bed. Small luxuries I’ve always taken for granted.

Despair washes over me. Would it matter if I died? No one is looking for me—well, no one who loves and cares about me. No one would miss me if I were no longer here. I’m not even sure Mom would miss me. I wonder if she’s okay or if Gregory followed through on his threats.

I dash away the tear trickling down my cheek. Mom chose Gregory over me ten years ago when she married him. She chose him over me the first time he struck me and every time after. And then she chose drugs over everything.

Sighing, I push the negative thoughts away. I need to focus on what to do next. I need a plan. I need help.

I wander the streets, trying to remain inconspicuous. The tall buildings and endless roads make me feel small and lost. I don’t know where to go or what to do. The faces around me blur together—business people in suits rushing by, tourists snapping photos, street vendors calling out their wares. It’s a world I’ve never been a part of, and now I’m thrown into its very heart with no compass, no anchor.

I spot a building with a worn-out sign: “St. Mary’s Homeless Shelter.” The place looks shabby, but a line of people is outside waiting to get in. It’s as good a place as any. Maybe I can get a bed for the night.

I join the back of the line, which comprises a mix of ages and appearances—men with weather-beaten faces, women with haunted eyes, children clutching their mothers’ hands. My heart aches for them and myself.

The guy in front of me turns. He’s older, maybe in his fifties, with a grizzled beard and tired eyes. He gives me a nod. “First time here?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“They got rules,” he says. “Curfew’s at ten. You miss it, you’re outta luck until mornin’. And don't take more than you need. They don’t like that.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes hold an understanding that makes me feel a little less alone.

“I understand. Thanks,” I say, grateful for the advice.

Once inside, I’m hit by the smell of unwashed bodies and musty air. Beds are lined up in rows, and people are already settling in for the night. The walls are covered in faded posters with messages of hope and resilience. I find an empty bunk and sit down, taking a moment to breathe. I’m safe, at least for now.

Later, a shelter volunteer stops before me. He’s tall and broad with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He hands me a clean blanket and a small packet of toiletries. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, this is enough. Thank you,” I reply, holding back tears. His kindness is like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my fear.

“What’s your name?” he asks gently.

“Wren.”

“Nice to meet you, Wren. I’m Sebastian, but most people call me Bass. I run this place. If you need anything, let me know,” he says before moving on to help someone else.

Throughout the night, murmurs and soft cries echo in the shelter. It's a stark reminder that everyone here has a story, a reason they ended up on the streets. I’m not alone, but it doesn’t make it easier. The whimpers and sighs blend into my dreams, where shadows chase me, and memories of Gregory’s betrayal and Jerry’s leering face haunt my sleep.

The next day, I venture out from the shelter to find food. The city feels different in the daylight—less menacing but no less daunting. I stick to the crowded areas, hoping the sheer number of people will keep me safe. I avoid the places where Jerry or Gregory might see me, trying to stay invisible. I’m not far away enough yet, and they could be out combing the streets for me now. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but the stakes are my life, my sanity.

My stomach growls, reminding me of my need to eat again. I pass by another market where vendors are busy with their morning routines. I spot a bakery with a tray of freshly baked bread cooling on a rack by the window. The smell is intoxicating, and my mouth waters.

I approach the bakery, pretending to browse the window display. When the baker turns his back, I quickly grab a loaf and stuff it into my jacket. My heart races as I walk away, half-expecting someone to shout after me. But no one does. I find a quiet corner and tear into the bread, the warmth and softness a comfort I didn’t realize I needed.

A group of kids around my age, also homeless, are hanging out near a fast-food restaurant. They make eye contact with me, and one of them, a girl with ragged clothes and a tough demeanor, approaches.

“New here?” she asks, her tone more curious than hostile.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just trying to survive.”

She nods. “Aren’t we all? Name’s Sam. We look out for each other. You in?”

I reply cautiously, “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” I need allies, and she seems like she knows what she’s doing. We sit together, sharing tips on where to find food and safe places to sleep.

Sam smiles. “Stick with us, and you’ll be okay.”

---