Broken Girl(38)

“Yeah, it’s Sybil, she’s pretty f*cked up.”

“Wha’ happen?”

I stood silent for an uncomfortable moment.

“Rose? Wha’ happen?”

“She won’t tell me, but she’s all beaten, throwing up, shaking and shit.”

“How long she been down like that?”

“She’d been home about a half hour when she just started yakking and shaking.”

“Bleedin’? Is she been t’rowin’ up blood?”

“Awe, f*ck, Briggs, I can’t do this shit.” I leaned over and looked in the bowl. My stomach swirled, the back of my throat watered. “No blood,” I gagged.

“Sounds like she’d be goin’ into shock. You have yourself a blanket? Just wrap her up, I’m on m’ way.”

“Yeah, I wrapped her all up. Thanks Briggs,” I whispered.

“Rosie?”

“Yeah?”

“Leave the front door unlocked this time.”

“I will,” I answered as the line went dead.

Kean “Key” Briggs was one big-ass twisted motherf*cker. He was a six-foot-tall black man from Ireland with arms as thick as my waist, covered in tribal tats and tinted ink that told stories more horrific than anyone could ever imagine. Painful chapters he must have burned into the secret corners of his mind after two tours in Iraq. His body became the visual diary of his life as a war veteran. Briggs drove an ambulance in the Tenderloin for over five years before he retired and started making house calls for us hos. He found a need and made hand over fist money privatizing his services. Just seven calls a week from suffering prostitutes that were beaten at the hands of their pimps or clients and cha-ching, he was rolling in more money than he’d ever made in a month of driving an ambulance. I knew I was going to pay through the nose for his services; but I had to, hospitals were out of the question and I didn’t think clinics had the capacity to handle this situation. I didn’t know who else to call.

I looked over at Sybil; her uncontrollable shakes turned into barely noticeable shivers. Her jaw still chattering, maybe some tea will warm her up. I brushed my fingers across her forehead, before I pressed my hand to her cheek, she looked up at me with a tattered expression and whispered, “Ro, you gotta promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll get out. Promise me.”

“Shhhh, come on Sybil don’t worry about me.”

“Say it. Say, I promise I’ll get out. Say it!” She clutched my wrist trying to pull me closer.

I cleared the strands of hair that clung to her dampened face.

“This isn’t the life you want, Ro. Please, promise me you’ll get out.”

“I’ll promise, but only if you promise to come with me.”

A forced smile crept across her face as she nodded at me and for a single moment I thought maybe she didn’t really need Briggs. Maybe all she needed was a moment to relax and close her eyes, like she said.

I second-guessed my call to Briggs when the door flew open and reprieve melted down my spine, finally someone other than me will see her, but it was short-lived. The moment of peace turned into instant terror, Dax, the devil himself stood before me. That f*cking piece of shit lunged, pushing through me, to get to Sybil. My feet left the floor as my body flew, weightless as a feather swirling through the thick air, before the crown of my head met the edge of the small rickety table and the rest of my body followed splintering the table into pieces. The room filled with his scary growls, words sharp with edges that pierced my ears.

“Get the f*ck up! I own your cunt now! There ain’t no days off for my bitches.”

My vision blurry, I focused on the space where Sybil was being swallowed by Dax. His fist floating high above, before the hammering hollow thud of bone against her delicate, damaged body.

“Pleeeeassseeee . . . no, no, no, hel . . . paaahhhh.” Sybil’s voice was hoarse, filled with raspy cries for help, tainted by the mixture of Dax’s evil demands.

“I’ll beat your shit all f*cking day, you crazy bitch. Get your skanky . . . * . . . up . . . out . . . of . . . this . . . bed.”

Each word sandwiched between the echoing sounds of him punching her. I pulled my hands up over my head as my mind twisted and plummeted into the putrid memories of my childhood. Terrifying moments filled with the woman who was supposed to love me more than any liquid confidence she and my father poured down their throats.



My bedroom door creaks open before it slams shut. I know it’s my mom by the nasty aroma of stale whiskey that saturates the air. Dad punished her tonight for mixing his mashed potatoes with cream of corn at dinner. God, I never know what’s gonna to set him off . . . My father uses any reason to beat my mother, he tears down her self-esteem, keeps her prisoner to his rage, and now she’s standing over me.

I sense the silence before the storm, the split second God may hear my prayers . . . I let out a short breath, relax just enough to invite hope when mom’s hand slaps across my cheek, she grabs bundles of my hair at the nape of my neck and pulls my head back.

‘Look at me you piece of shit! You think lying there, acting like you’re asleep is going to erase the fact that you’re the reason he hits me? Huh? Do you hear me? You spoiled little brat . . . See what you make him do? You push us enough and make us drink . . . you’re the reason, it’s all your fault Rosalie!’