Fate's Design

Broadcasted Traumas

His eyes flashed and the girl looked, for just a moment, as if she would run away in fear. She quickly composed herself back into the masked persona she wore before. Had he not been looking for it, Abaddon would never have noticed the change at all. This girl had lived her life surrounded by dangerous men. She knew better than to show them when she was afraid and she hid it very well. In that short moment of weakness, however, her eyes told Abaddon everything. She showed fear when, at the age of seventeen, her mother had given her up to the s****l desires and sadistic nature of her step father. She ran away after enduring and surviving a year of his abuse. She had the bite marks on her inner thighs to prove it. One night, her mother had told her to shower and brought her a new nightdress to change into. She had obeyed, allowing her mother to braid her hair once she had completed washing herself. She waited in her room after that and when the doorknob turned, she knew what she was going to do. The girl grabbed the long chef’s knife she’d stowed in her pillowcase and greeted her stepfather with the same chiseled smile and artificially syrupy voice she greeted him with. As he shoved her back on the bed and threw his mass onto her body, she pulled out the blade and rammed it as far into his chest as she could. His heart blood gushed, hot and crimson onto the girl as she pulled the knife back out of the wound. His face was a mixture of anger and shock. He had known what happened as he died. The girl’s face had not changed from her smile. She kissed her stepfather chastely on the cheek and spoke to him in her sickly sweet voice. “I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did.” She killed her mother next. It was quick, emotionless. She had no more energy or sympathy left to give. She simply slit her mother’s throat as she slept in her drug-induced slumber. At least she made it quick. The girl showered in that home for the last time. For a moment, she contemplated the straight razor on the bathroom sink. It could be as easy as that. But she couldn't give her stepfather the satisfaction of destroying and ending her life. She changed into tattered blue jeans and a flannel shirt, grabbed the go bag she had stashed in her closet, and slipped into the darkness of a new moon night.

She lived on her own, trading s****l favors for money, food, and shelter along the way until she reached San Francisco. One evening the girl knocked on an intricately carved ebony door. The woman who answered was older. You could tell she once held her posture high but age and gravity had worked their ways against her. Her hair, usually worn in a tight bun at the back of her head was attempting a disorganized escape. This woman looked as if her heart had been shattered. She looked down to see who had knocked and her eyes lit up with hope. She smiled, brokenly, and embraced the shell of a girl in front of her. The old woman ushered the girl into the house, fretting over her and how thin she was. She showed the girl to an empty room with a large, soft bed and a lock on the door. The girl remained silent, allowing the old woman to vent her emotions. She embraced the girl and her hands fluttered all around, not quite sure what to do. The girl was no longer capable of showing the emotions the old woman was feeling. She could see them crossing the woman’s face. The girl saw joy, gratefulness, and relief. She could tell that the woman never expected to see her; at least not alive.

Suddenly, the woman stopped fussing over the girl. She held her at arm’s length and looked into the girl’s carefully constructed mask. The woman smiled and nodded.

 “We will make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again. That monster is gone and you survived. You are stronger than you know.”

The girl managed to twist one side of her mouth into a crooked smile and the old woman embraced her. Finally, the old woman left the room to fix something to eat for the girl. Once the old woman left, the girl slipped out of her tattered jeans and filthy shirt. She locked the bedroom door and ran a steaming hot bath in the claw-footed tub of the bathroom adjoining her new bedroom. She poured in oils and salts and immersed herself in the water. The girl allowed her mask to waver then. She let her body tremble with her silent sobs. As she let all of her emotions flood out of her and be released into the steam. She vowed that she would never be this vulnerable, this raw again. She would never give up on her own strength or let a man have the type of power over her that her stepfather had. She would strengthen herself from the inside out and never again let another arrow pierce the tender emotions inside of her. The girl stepped out of the tub once the steam had vanished, along with her temporary loss of composure. She wrapped herself in the fluffy towel on the rack and slid on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt with holes in the armpits. Once she was changed, there was a soft knock on the bedroom door. The old woman was there with a large tray of food. There was creamy tomato soup, triangles of grilled cheese sandwiches, a steaming mug of chamomile tea with raw honey, and a large slice of wild blueberry pie complemented with an oversized portion of fresh whipped cream. The old woman placed the tray on the bedside table. She smiled at the young girl, patted her gently on the shoulder, and left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

The old woman went to her own room. She sat at the edge of her bed and picked up the tarnished silver picture frame on her nightstand. She looked at the picture, carefully looked into the faces staring out at her. The faces had been happy when this picture was taken. Three blissfully happy faces, a man with kind, brown eyes had a young girl who was no more than seven on his shoulders. The girl’s eyes were sparkling and her smile was missing two front teeth and her smile melted the old woman’s heart. The woman standing next to the man and girl had a smile on her face that embodied all of the love in the woman’s heart. The only person left alive from the picture was the young girl. The sparkle was gone from her eyes and the smile was no longer genuine and this hurt the old woman. She knew what her granddaughter had gone through. There had been many times where she had attempted to take the girl away after the death of her son. But all of her attempts had been fruitless. This was her time. She would help her granddaughter mend the fractured pieces of her heart and she would give the girl the best life she could give her. She couldn't undo the evil that had been done to the girl but she could try to help her heal and give her the best she could provide while moving forward. She was determined to give her granddaughter the life she deserved instead of the Hell she’d endured for so long.

So, the old woman helped her granddaughter form a new identity. She changed her name to Kristine, a name her teachers and employers would never remember, and the girl’s autonomy started. She was fluid, not memorable. People’s eyes had a tendency to slip over and past her without registering her. They knew someone had been there, but they couldn't tell you her name or what she looked like. She made her way through school. She was a smart girl, but did not over exert herself so as to keep attention off her. She spent her free time reading and writing. She only socialized with her grandmother, not wanting to make connections with children her own age. As she entered high school, her grandmother convinced her to take acting classes. These classes helped her to further construct a social self that was outside of and separate from her true self. She would never let anyone know her true self if she could help it. Kristine used this social self to excel in school and to become a stewardess for a high profile executive flight attendant company. She traveled and enjoyed it but ultimately felt unfulfilled. She was still just some piece of ass to the pilots and male passengers. Kristine took her intelligence and steadfast determination and studied to become a pilot. She would fly commercially for a short time before she was discovered by Mr. Gray who was in need of a pilot who could be ready to fly at a moment’s notice to a vast array of destinations. She had always wanted to fly and be free. This was as close to that as she could get.

All of this was communicated in that momentary waver of her defenses. That small, insignificant slip. That slight relaxation of her mask told her entire story to Abaddon. The demon had never given much thought to his pilot, Kristine, and would not have assumed her façade had been so carefully constructed. Here was, through the difficulties and filth of the human existence, yet another battered and broken soul that would ultimately land on the side of Hell. Now that he knew her secrets, Abaddon could use them to torture the girl if he so desired. However, this was not time for work and the girl remained useful to him as she was. He decided not to use what he'd learned -- not yet at least. He was ready to unwind and relax. Fortune smiled on Kristine today. Her secrets could remain her own until such a time Abaddon decided to dig them up once more. He smiled inwardly at what he had unearthed and strolled right past poor Kristine; her mask plastered back on her face like some sad pantomime of life.