N. Walters: Embroidered Fantasies

“I’m really sorry, Roxanne.” She could hear the other woman’s frustration. “I pushed for a longer sentence, but there were no previous charges or convictions.”

“I understand. It’s okay, Stacy. Really. You did everything you could and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“You don’t live in Nevada anymore. You’re in California. He doesn’t know where you are.”

But he would find out. Roxanne knew that. She’d seen the promise in his eyes when he was led away from the courtroom that last time. She knew that look and knew what it meant. Michael wouldn’t be happy until she was dead. Maybe a year in prison had made him rethink things. After all, if she died, he’d be the prime suspect and he’d get a lot more than a year in prison.

“Listen, I have to run. I have to be in a meeting in five minutes. You take care and call the cops if you see him. You still have a restraining order against him.” For all the good that would do. Roxanne knew firsthand just how useless a piece of paper was. She’d had the restraining order against him when he found her and beat her that final time, landing her in hospital for more than a week. The irony of the situation was that she was still his wife at the time and his health insurance had paid for her hospital stay.

“Thanks, Stacy.”

She hung up the phone and stared out her tiny window. Rain slashed against the glass. A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the tapestry. She’d been so happy only moments ago. Now her life was a nightmare once again. What would Michael do? Would he come after her? Or would he decide she wasn’t worth the effort?

Only he knew, but she had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Why?” she cried, burying her face in her hands.

She’d asked that question many times over the past three and a half years. She’d had a normal life once. Had parents who loved her and a fiancé she adored. They’d all been in the car together when they’d been hit head-on by a drunk driver. The other three had died and she’d walked away with a broken arm and a shattered life.

It was less than a year later she’d met Michael Talbot. Charming in a rough sort of way, he was the exact opposite of her slender-built, soft-spoken fiancé, Dan. Michael was six-foot-three, all of it muscle. With his dirty blond hair, blue eyes, tattoos and bad-boy charm, he’d swept her off her feet. He was a mechanic who liked fast cars and motorcycles. He’d breathed life back into her. When he’d asked her to marry him, she’d said yes.

He’d hit her for the first time while they were on their honeymoon. All because she’d spoken to their waiter. Michael had accused her of flirting. She’d been dazed and hurt. Michael had apologized with roses and she’d forgiven him. Life had settled down for a few months after that, but then he’d hit her again, the frequency growing as one year turned into two.

Isolated and alone, it had taken Roxanne a long time to realize it wasn’t her fault that he hit her. It was Michael’s. Furthermore, she didn’t have to put up with it any longer. He’d stripped her of her self-confidence, her sense of self-worth until she was little more than a shade of her former self. The laughing, smiling girl who’d been engaged one moment and left alone the next had turned into a quiet, frightened woman.

She’d looked in the mirror one morning and knew she had two choices. She could leave Michael or she could let him kill her, because that’s what would happen if she stayed long enough. She’d tossed a few belongings into a battered duffle bag and left.

But he’d come after her, finding her in the cheap motel where she’d taken refuge.

Thankfully, the people in the room next to her had called the cops about the noise.

Otherwise, she’d have died that night.

A soft sound, much like a sigh, startled her. She jerked her head up and whirled around. She was alone. “Now you’re hearing things,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands.

She looked down at the tapestry. All her early pleasure in the item gone. She traced her finger over one of the warriors and then the other. “Too bad I didn’t have someone like you to protect me.” But that was nothing more than a fantasy. These warriors were nothing more than the figments of someone’s imagination, nothing more than embroidered threads.

Roxanne didn’t hate men. She knew not all men were like her ex. Her father had been a good man. So had her fiancé who’d died at such a young age. But she no longer found it easy to trust men. Who knew what kind of monster hid behind a charming smile? In the year since her divorce she hadn’t dated. She’d been asked several times, mostly by guys she’d met while working at Joe’s. But she wasn’t ready to date again.

Might never be.

There was nothing she could do but continue to live her life on her own terms. If he wanted to find her, he would. No matter where she ran. She would be cautious, but she wouldn’t allow Michael to control her life. Not any more.

Picking up the tapestry, she draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs to dry. Then she reached for the purple vase. It was time to clean her other treasures and get them put away before she had to get ready for work. She was filling in a half-shift today for one of the other girls. She didn’t mind and it was extra money. It would also help take her mind off her problems.

Roxanne glanced at the clock and groaned. She had barely enough time to grab a shower and get changed before she had to catch the bus back downtown to work.

Setting the vase aside, she hurried into the bathroom.

The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, the light streaming through the window and catching the colors of the tapestry. It seemed to glow for a split second. By the time Roxanne came back out of the bathroom with her hair wet and a towel wrapped around her, the strange light was gone.

She didn’t give the tapestry a second thought. She quickly tugged on her pink polyester uniform, grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.

The razor-sharp edge of the blade slashed downward, slicing straight toward his head. At the last possible second, Radnor Craddock brought up his sword and blocked the deadly blow. The two blades skated against each other, the metallic shriek firing his blood. He would not be defeated.

Muscles bunched in his shoulders and forearms. His biceps bulged. Dust kicked up from the dry ground beneath his boots. The sound of heavy breathing and low grunts filled his ears as he slowly pushed his opponent back. They were equally matched in all ways but one—sheer willpower. Radnor was the more determined of the two. He would never give up. Never stop fighting.

Giving a battle cry, he thrust forward, throwing all his weight behind the move. His opponent stumbled, almost losing his footing. Radnor attacked. Mercilessly, he pounded the other man, driving him back, looking for an opening, some weakness in his defense.

But his opponent wasn’t defeated. Not by a long shot. He renewed his effort, swinging his heavy sword with the ease of long practice. The two men fought as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Sweat rolled down Radnor’s forehead and stung his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, but didn’t dare try to swipe it away. To do so would give his opponent the opening he was waiting for, watching for. He could see the gleam in the other man’s eyes and knew it matched his own. They’d both been born to fight.

“Enough.” His opponent suddenly stepped back and lowered his blade. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Radnor slowly let his blade fall back to his side. “That’s your problem, Sednar, you’re always worried about your stomach.” He sheathed his sword and reached his arm outward. His older brother grasped it readily. They clasped, hands around biceps, shoulders bumping before they released their grip.