Chapter 3
Glancing at the receipts, I take note of the latest orders. A quick, thorough hand washing follows as I ready myself to prepare salads and other dishes Jim will finish cooking and preparing.
With a sigh, I approach the spot where my bag rests. Carefully, I remove my hoodie, revealing the evidence of my ordeal beneath. I fold it, place it inside the bag, and return to cutting the vegetables.
Minutes tick by like heavy footsteps, and finally, Jim enters through the swinging door leading from the back of the diner. He busies himself with the first orders I have prepared. His normally composed demeanour is replaced by an unexpected growl that sounds more like a wild beast on the brink of savagery.
Startled, I look up from my tasks to find Jim, his blonde hair tousled and streaked with hints of grey. He would have to be in his late forties, but I've never asked his age, as I felt it never mattered to know. He must have been running late for work today, as he has stubble instead of his usual clean-shaven face. His piercing blue eyes, usually calm and warm, now glint with anger as they settle on the battered state of my face.
'Astrid,' he says, with frustration and genuine concern, 'you know you can come to me for help, don't you? You don't have to go back home if you're not safe. If you don’t want to live with me, I have friends in a nearby town who could look after you,' he offers.
'Thank you, Jim, but I'm fine. I just fell down the stairs,' I lie, forcing a small smile.
Jim scoffs with disbelief. 'You said the same thing last time, Astrid,' he retorts with frustration.
Unable to maintain the façade any longer, my trembling lips quiver, and tears form. 'What can I say?' I choke out, my voice breaking as I slam my hands onto the counter in frustration. 'My house is old. The stairs are rotting.'
Without hesitation, Jim rushes to my side, his strong arms enveloping me in a protective embrace. He holds me close as I let my tears fall.
'Let me help you, Astrid,' Jim pleads with genuine concern.
I retreat a step, pushing him away, my head shaking in refusal. 'You don't understand,' I tell him, my voice adamant. 'I can't accept your help.'
His brows furrow in confusion. Jim persists, 'Why not?'
I heave a sigh, a gust of resignation escaping my lips. 'My dad would find a way to get me back,' I explain, my voice barely above a whisper. 'And he'd hurt, possibly kill, anyone who tried to stop him. He'd rather have me dead than see me living elsewhere,' I confess.
Jim takes a deep breath. His gaze doesn't leave mine. 'Regardless of whether you're the reason for your mother's death,' he says, his voice steady, 'you don't deserve this. There has to be something I can do to help you, Astrid?'
I turn away, my gaze falling on the food I've been preparing on the table. 'I know I don't deserve this,' I admit, my words laced with a sense of hopelessness. 'But I don't know what else to do. If you can't handle seeing a few bruises, I could always find a job elsewhere.' I reach for the knife's cold handle and return to slicing the lettuce.
I can feel Jim’s gaze burning into me while I am in thought. 'I want you to stay, Astrid. I don't like seeing humans treat our kind like this, even if you are a rogue,' he frowns.
Pausing with a confused expression, I stare at him, perplexed. 'Humans? A rogue? I don't know what planet you're from or what kind of human you think I am, but we're all just humans,' I retort, my confusion evident. I return my attention to the task at hand, now chopping carrots.
Jim stands there, his usual air of composed warmth shattered by shock, his mouth agape in stunned silence. I shoot him a puzzled look, concern creeping into my voice. 'What's wrong now?' I ask, my brows furrowing in response to his strange reaction.
But he remains utterly still, appearing even paler than usual. It was as if a profound realization had seized him, leaving him frozen in bewilderment. I can't help but worry as I rush towards him, fearing the worst. 'Jim? Are you okay? What's wrong? Is it a heart attack?'
His eyes blink rapidly, and he places a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. Yet, as his fingers make contact, I involuntarily flinch, stepping back. I know Jim would never hurt me, but years of abuse have left me uncomfortable with physical contact, and he notices, his brows furrowing in response to my reaction.
Breaking the heavy silence, Jim finally speaks, voicing an apology and understanding. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you,' he says, his eyes reflecting the sadness of a man who has glimpsed the depths of my suffering.
I shake my head and reassure him. 'I know you wouldn't hurt me,' I admit, my voice tinged with vulnerability. 'I'm just not us to the gentleness.'
Jim gives me a sympathetic smile before a profound question tumbles from his lips, a query that leaves me utterly perplexed. 'Do you not know what you are?' he asks, his tone heavy with implications that I sense I should already know.
'What I am?' I echo, my voice betraying my confusion. 'I don't understand the question. I am what we all are. Human,' I insist, casting him a puzzled look.
He seems to expect my reaction, his concern deepening. 'Can't you even smell the difference?' he presses, his question veering into strange territory.
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of his inquiry. 'The only thing I smell around here is the food burning in the frying pan,' I chuckle, unable to fathom where Jim is going with this peculiar line of questioning.
He curses, runs to the stove to turn it off, and removes the smoking frying pan from the stove and over to the sink.
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