Sweet AF

Chapter 1

Erica

         I stare at the mess in the office of the women’s shelter. Items are piled every which way, stashed on any flat surface they could fit. It looks like a tiny tornado blew through, leaving washcloths and miniature shampoo bottles in its wake.

         “Oh, my lord,” I mutter under my breath. Leslie pokes her head in the doorway behind me, quickly realizing why I froze.

         “It’s a bit of a mess,” she offers hurriedly. “I know. I’ve just had so many other projects going on. But we’re down to our last three welcome kits, so I guess it’s time to go through this stuff.”

         I shake my head but jump right into work. I’ve been volunteering regularly for the past few months, and I’ve never seen the office look like this.

         I know she grabbed most of this stuff out of the storage room over the last few days. That’s where it normally is kept. She probably meant to make the kits sooner. I don’t really judge her for the mess — running a shelter is hard work, and she’s always getting called to put out more urgent fires.         

         I start rearranging the items, putting similar items together in orderly, sensible piles. Leslie watches for a minute and then begins to follow my lead. Soon, we have a logical path to follow across the counter. One plastic storage basket, which gets filled with a small hairbrush, miniature shampoo, tiny body wash bottle, washcloth, lotion, toothbrush and toothpaste.

         It isn’t much, but a lot of the women who arrive at the shelter come in with nothing. It’s a start — something that they get their first day here, something that they can call their own.

         As we work, we chat idly back and forth. I can hear the residents on the other side of the wall, doing the same thing. It pops into my mind; how strange life can be. A few years ago, I could easily have been on the other side of that wall, with them.

         My own history in an abusive relationship is a big part of why it’s so important to me to be here helping. In a way, I know better than Leslie what those women are going through. It may be her shelter, and she may have the fancy degrees that make running it possible.

         But she will never know what it feels like to give up everything, to burn an entire life to the ground, in one last desperate attempt to build a new one that doesn’t bring pain. I have been there; I have lived it. And now, I am here to make sure that these women can get through it, too.

         Jennifer comes in about thirty minutes later with lunch. She greets us both warmly, and we laugh and talk as we take a well-earned break. My eyes roam over the completed baskets, proud of our work so far.

         “I have a job for you,” Jennifer announces between bites.

         “A job?” I echo uncertainly. I have a job; officially, I am a painter. It’s not always easy to make ends meet, but it is what I want to do with my life. I have waited too long to live life for myself. Now that I finally am, I have no intention of stopping.

         “If she wants a job, I call dibs first,” Leslie complains. She has been trying to offer me a paid position here at the shelter for awhile now, but I always refuse. I enjoy volunteering, but I’m not willing to give up my art career. Not yet, anyway.

         If the bills keep piling up, I might not have another choice. But that’s a worry for another time.

         I roll my eyes instead. “I’m right here, you know. I can hear you. I have a job. I’m a painter, remember?”

         A little part of me winces inwardly, half expecting them to make the usual comments that come with that sort of announcement. Advice that painting is not a feasible career, or remarks that they could never survive on my paycheck. Of course, they couldn’t, and they’ll never have to. They’re wealthy and married to rich men.

         I’m divorced and struggling. But that doesn’t invalidate my right to choose my own path.

         They don’t say anything like that, however. They’re too good of friends for that. Jennifer jumps out of her chair, looking surprised, and I instantly feel a little guilty for thinking the worst.

         “I know you’re a painter, that’s the point,” she blurts out. “I want to pay you for a nice portrait of me and Bruce. We think it would be perfect in the den. How much?”

         I feel my face heat, for multiple reasons. The idea that a woman wealthy enough to pay someone for a painting for the den is friends with me boggles my mind, just a little. I can barely afford the rent on my tiny little apartment, and it definitely does not come with a den.

         My uncharitable thoughts from a moment before spring to mind, causing some discomfort as well. Not least of all, the fact that she would think of me for such a request is flattering and touching.

         All of these feelings play out in the span of seconds, and all I can do in response is shake my head.

         “You won’t do it?” Jennifer asks, sounding confused.

         “No, I’ll do it,” I agree. “But I won’t take your money. We’re friends, Jennifer, and that means more to me than any gig. Just keep being my friend.”

         She protests at first, trying to coax me. I am adamant in my refusal, and we finally share a hug to seal our friendly arrangement.

         I can smell the fancy perfume she wears when she wraps her arms around me. For a second, I wonder why these two rich women are so nice to me, when they could be friends with someone so much more glamorous than I’ll ever be.

         But then a laugh comes from the other side of the wall. The residents are cheering at something funny, happy even in what might be one of their most challenging times.

         I remember how easily I could have been on the other side of the wall, instead of here now. And I decide not to question what has brought me here, instead, with Jennifer and Leslie.

         I am a work in progress, and I am not yet done.

***

         After a long but satisfying day at the shelter, I tiredly make my way home to my small apartment. I unlock the door and step inside, coming to an abrupt stop.

         Everything is in chaos, as if the tornado in Leslie’s office arrived here next. This mess is somehow even worse. It is not the overwhelm of clutter like in the office — someone has trashed my place.

         Books and CDs are scattered on the floor. Drawers are dumped out, spilled everywhere. A lamp lies smashed into pieces on the floor.

         Was I robbed? My heart races with fear of the unknown. A thought much darker than robbery forces its way into my mind, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

         What if he’s still here? I walk slowly through the apartment, my eyes scanning for any signs of an intruder. The mess only gets more shocking the further I go.

         My cell phone trembles in my hand, and I try to pretend I don’t notice. I unlock the screen, ready to call 911 at a moment’s notice.

         But when I enter my bedroom, I see a sight more horrible than anything I could have ever imagined. I let out a loud, hoarse scream, the phone clattering loudly out of my hand to the floor.

         My cat lies at a strange angle across the bed. Dead.

         This was not a robber. This was a warning.