Page 7 of Compassion

If anyone comes in before I have a chance to sneak out, I won’t be the first thing they see. It’s strategic. Which is probably my personal key to surviving nowadays.

I carefully dig out the fleece toddler blanket from underneath the food in my backpack accidently causing my dog tags to clink against something inside.

The subtle sound feels anything but.

It seemingly echoes around the dark room.

Taunts.

Mocks.

Do you know how much easier it would be to just end all this shit? How one precise slit of the wrist would stop the memories from replaying in my mind, emotionally pounding me in the balls, mentally bleeding me fucking dry? How one well tied rope swung over the right tree would stop these voices in my head from whispering that no one would even fucking notice if I was gone. And they wouldn’t. Fuck…Do you know how fucking depressing that is? To know I could disappear right now, and no one would even mourn me? Do you have any fucking clue how hard that makes it to open my goddamn eyes every morning?

The unexpected overwhelming amount of bleakness is one that indicates I’m long overdue for some rest. Knowing that’s the only time those thoughts manage to seep through the cracks of my fractured mind pushes me to speed up the sleeping process. I arrange my backpack to double as a pillow, curl my body into a tight ball, and spread the blanket out to its fullest capabilities.

Gotta count the wins, right? That’s another key role in survival. Let’s see…I have a warm place to sleep tonight. I have breakfast of real sustenance for tomorrow. Probably even lunch and dinner if I really make it stretch. And I know how to do that like a pro. I’ve been having to make that shit really last lately. People haven’t been throwing out their holiday leftovers yet, so pickings have been a bit scarce.

On a loud yawn, my eyes shut and a vision of the kind, smiling, brown-eyed female clutching the pizza box immediately greets me.

Meeting her was a win, too. The biggest win of the day. The type that almost makes life worth living for. Not quite but definitely almost.

Chapter 3

Jaye

Thoughts of the striking, homeless man I gave cold pizza to are still lingering on my mind.

The initial ones when he walked away from my house were understandable.

And then the ones I had when I went to actually eat something for myself that night were still in the category of understandable, definitely not crazy.

And then the ones I had on my way to sleep were fine – because reflecting over your day is totally normal – but when thoughts about himthree times in one daybecame thoughts about himnonstop for three days– basically all my non-work time – that now successfully qualifies me to be placed in the insane section of life’s library.

Everything about our interaction has just been on one giant re-read. I mean the entire thing. From the first time I looked at him to the point where I backed away slowly with our eyes still glued on one another. Those green eyes that were so beguiling yet so broken. His light laugh that sounded like it hadn’t been heard in decades. The look of pure, unbridled pleasure on his face the instant that pizza touched his tongue…Okay, so that expression totally sent my mind whirling in the absolute last direction it had any business going but…itdefinitelywent there, if you know what I mean. And it stayed there probably a little longer than it should’ve. Add those things to the way he kept a guarded watch over my front door – we’re talking prepared to take down any possible threat that challenged my safety – while he ate and maybe you can see why I’m a total goner. Or maybe you can’t. Maybe something is fundamentally fucking wrong with me. After all, most people wouldn’t have done what I did if they saw some random dude dumpster diving in front of their house. They’d probably would’ve called the cops or chased him away with a broom or mace or maybe even a gun. They damn sure wouldn’t have walkeddefenselesslyover to him with their leftovers like they had no choice because that’s the way it was written in their poorly scripted teleplay. Yup. I heard it. Something has gotta be wrong with me. However, let me just say this for the record. Iwasn’tcompletely defenseless. Don’t forget my dad belongs to the red and blue club, so I learned self-defense tactics at a very,veryyoung age. I also read some of the scariest statistics about sex much too young, but I’m pretty sure that was part of his ‘keep my daughter innocent for as long as I can’ strategy.

“Jaye,” an unexpected voice calls over my shoulder. “You good?”

I casually turn to face Merrick McCoy, the preschool’s personal painter, leaning on the navy-blue doorframe to the library.

Oh, down ladies. Yes, I’ll admit it. He’s extremely dreamy with those bright blue eyes, mouthwatering muscles, and intricate tattoos, but he’s alsoextremelytaken. His girlfriend – though he sometimes uses the term fiancée – is an absolute doll. Met her when she brought him dinner one night a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a couple – outside of books – that is more meant to be than them.

Swinging my workbag over my tan trench coat covered shoulder, I present him with a forced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He cautiously asks again. “You look like someone’s on your mind.”

“You mean something?”

“Nope.” His cocky grin is accompanied by the folding of his arms across his chest. “My oldest brother is a professional brooder. I know the difference in the two better than I know the difference between plum and mulberry.”

Bewilderment bursts onto my face. “Those are different colors?”

“That’s like asking me if there’s a difference between comic books and graphic novels.”

The gasp that escapes is thoughtless.

“Exactly.” McCoy lightly chuckles and kicks his chin my direction. “You wanna talk about him?”

“There is no him.”

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