Rescued Yet Unsafe

(Before you read: according to terms of publishing I have to include this.)

This story has implied sexual violence and murder but there's no graphics. I do not enjoy doing graphic parts but the implication works, I think. Hope you enjoy it!

I backpedal, heart in my throat, away from a man I have never met.

He, knife in hand, approaches with the ease of having done this before.

“Calista Gavras.” His voice comes as a low rumbling, making chills run up my spine.

God, please help me.

“He was right. You are very beautiful. Grey eyes, long black hair-” He continues, taunting me.

I step backwards once again and find myself against a wall. Figuratively and literally.

“I think,” he nods, “That we could get to like each other, eh?”

“Pias to avgo kai kourefto.” I reply instantly, unconsciously, Completely impossible

He snarls, “Do not speak Greek to me.”

I immediately switch to accented English to translate. “Grab an egg and shave it.”

The cold brick against my back matches the cold shudders that I cannot control.

“Shaving an egg? What foolishness.”

“Correct.”

I have a feeling he’s forgotten why I even started that. But I have not forgotten his reason for being here.

God, why did You make me beautiful?

I wake up, tears in my eyes from the desperation in my dream. But it wasn’t a dream, not really. One week ago, the scene that has haunted me since actually happened. 

Now, I’m sitting in a room that I don’t want to be in. Comfortable, yes, much nicer than my patchwork tent- thing.

Here, there is a concrete floor and blankets on beds. Real beds. 

There, I slept on the dirt with whatever rags I had to cover me.

Here, I have good food.

There, on a good day I still had barely enough money to buy leftover bits of food from vendors.

Here, I am not fighting with my ‘neighbors’ for scrap metal to sell.

There, hours went by, filled with a neighbourhood squabble- often turning to blows- over who actually found the dirty dented copper kettle.

I roll up on the blankets and put my arms around my knees, looking at the clothes I am wearing. Real clothes.

And yet, I wish I were back in the filth and squalor of my Romani camp on the outskirts of Thessaloniki.

Here, I am not safe.

Of all the people who I would have expected to- well, assault me, it would be the man I am staying with. A random guy off the street who somehow knew my name, okay, maybe. But still. Can I trust the one who saved me?

No, I can’t.

I rock side to side, feeling alone and vulnerable in the safest- outwardly- place I have been in a long time. It is dark here, only a few slivers of light from three high windows that are supposed to only show light upstairs.

If my brother were still alive, he could have taught them something about architecture.

At any rate, the light in this unfinished basement, making everything look a shade of grey, is welcome.

A scratching, scraping sound comes from upstairs. I attempt to hide further in the shadows, even though I know it doesn’t matter. Light floods the room as the basement door opens, and I relax when I hear the childish prattle.

Oh God. Thank you.

It’s just his wife and son. Not him.

“I’ve brought you some breakfast.” The woman speaks sympathetically

“Thank you, Mrs. Leonadis,” I whisper back, truly grateful for her kindness. It’s not her fault that her husband is a brick.

I know that Leonadis is not her last name. It is a common boy’s name, but it’s how she introduced herself. I suspect it is her son’s name.

It was also my brother’s.

“Is there anything else?” She asks, sitting down beside me and obviously unwilling to leave.

“No, but I have time to talk if that’s what you want.”

She smiles sadly back at me, and turns her gaze to the folded hands in her lap.

“My husband turns easily after other women.” the other woman confesses quickly, but hesitates before asking, “Did he do anything to you?”

Oh how we women talk! So much is meant by one word.

“No,” I reply in a low voice, “He rescued me before the other man had enough. I’m sure he saved my life.”

Mrs. Leonadis searches my face, “Why would he do that for you?”

I can tell she would be disgusted by anyone admiring his ‘act of daring to save the damsel in distress’. And I certainly do not have that view of him.

“He was jealous.” I say simply, staring straight ahead, “He’s wanted to do that to me many times. He’s tried several approaches, like offering me money, threatening, pretending to love me, and others. And I always said no.”

“Why?” Mrs. Leonardis persists, “Why wouldn’t you just do it? You are obviously poor and could use the money.”

My cheeks redden. This is not the type of conversations I like having with total strangers. “I-I just can’t. God doesn’t like that type of thing.”

We fall silent. We Greeks aren’t known for our wide acceptance of God.

I remember back to where I’d rather not.

I used to take the money.

I was fifteen years old, orphaned since I was twelve, and the one who took care of me, my brother Leonardis, was deathly sick. He had been an architect, designing buildings in Thessaloniki proper, and sending his blueprints by mail to a distinguished company.

If they had known he was of the Romini, they might not have accepted his work.

We had a proper Greek surname- Gavras, from my father’s father, who married into the Romini. But that was it.

When Leonardis was sick, we had no food. A boy offered me money, if I would do him a favour. Needing the money to buy food for Leonardis, I naively promised to do whatever he asked. When my brother died and I found myself with no money, I turned to the easy route. Prostitution.

Mrs. Leonardis suddenly sits up. “He will be home soon.” She scoops up her son and dashes up the stairs, closing the door behind her. I hear shouting and know she’s too late. Her husband has caught her associating with me. Minutes pass, in which I hear even through the somewhat soundproof door, the sounds of beating and screaming. The door opens and the husband’s heavy steps sound on the stone stairs.

“Calista,” Vassilis' voice rings threateningly. I stand up and await his coming. He comes to within two inches of my nose and stares directly into my eyes. “What did you tell her?”

I gaze back. “The truth. Nothing but the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” Vassilis mocks, “That I bravely rescued you and offered you a place in my own home?”

“That is half of the truth.” I reply evenly, arms straight at my sides, “That half would make you the hero, wouldn’t it.”

“Yes it would.” In spite of himself, Vassilis smiles slightly, “Calista, I love you. I want-”

“Oh stop.” Anger rises within me at his act. “You do not love me. We both know what you actually want, and I am a prisoner here because of your jealousy.”

“Ah. So that’s what you told her.”

I feel foolish. He played me well.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her the other part?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t believe me then. I don’t care.”

I turn to sit down on the bed. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I know he thinks me beautiful, but beyond that, not much. He grabs my arm and I tense up.

“Calista, think of the life we could have together. I’ve protected you from many men. I’ve cleaned up your village.” His voice softens, so strong and yet so gentle. This is an act. THIS IS AN ACT!!“I love you, Calista.” I tense more as he croons over me, gathering me into his arms, “I want you to come with me wherever I go. Please, Calista, I can make you happy, I can give you anything. We will be happy together, you and I.”

I know if I listen any longer my resolve will give out. His words are what I’ve longed to hear from a true man all my life. I can feel his strength around me, and I want to believe him- with all my heart. Tears are forming in my eyes with longing, but I know what appearances I cannot trust.

“No,” I whisper out, pulling his hands from around my waist, “No.” I say it louder, stronger, turning to face him head on. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, running after me when you’ve got a beautiful wife who would love you to make such promises and keep them. I know you are acting.”

Vassilis' eyes light up. He knows the struggle in my heart. His sad countenance comes next. “Dear, dear Calista. My wife has met with an accident and I am heartbroken. You are the only one I know of that I can trust to care for my son and I need you.”

“Met with an accident you say?” I clarify, horrified at his lies and what he is capable of, “Poor you. I won’t be your wife just to meet with an ‘accident’ whenever you decide that you need a new pretty face.”

“At least care for my son for a few hours.” He pleads.

I hesitate. I know he doesn’t really care about his son, but I know his wife loved the boy.

“I’ll do it.” I promise. “But I can’t do it down here when he’s up there.”

Vassilis' only response is to motion for me to follow him upstairs.

I can smell the blood from down here.