I watch her walk and look over at Antoine again. He's smiling, but he's talking in French about Clare. She called him and gave him an earful and I know from the tone of his voice that Clare is wearing him down, weaseling her way back into another job. I sigh and follow Elise to try and calm Antoine's nerves.

The new girl will have to wait a little longer because no matter how many times I tell myself I don't give one f**king shit about Clare, I can't help myself. I still do.

Chapter Four - ROOK

Elise walks towards Antoine, but turns back when I start to follow. "Go over to the window, he wants to shoot by the window today. And just do what you're told, OK?"

I nod and she walks away with a brisk pace as I make my way to the window, looking up and gawking at how magnificent this place is.

Studio is not really the right word for it, it's several stories tall, and now that I think about it, it's the top floor of the building, even though we're only on the fourth floor of what appears to be a six-story building on the outside. There's a long modern staircase made up of concrete stairs and metal railings that leads up the far side of the room near Antoine's office, and the second story is loft-like with a set of double doors in the middle of the open hallway.

When I turn to the windows, I can totally see why Antoine would want to shoot pictures over here. They are massive. Two stories tall, each ten feet wide and the golden sunshine pouring through them lights the whole place up like heaven. Like angels with trumpets are about to fly in and celebrate the beauty that is this room.

The floors are a polished warm oak, and the whole place is filled with different set-ups. Like sets or something for photographers. Ladders and those umbrella things that you see in photo shoots to reflect light this way and that.

Antoine, Ronin, and Elise are arguing in the back room, but I can't understand them because they are all speaking French. Suddenly the door slams and I jump a little at the noise, but then enjoy the silence as they finish their argument in private. I'm sure Antoine took one look at me and refused to even bother getting out his camera.

I peer through the window and enjoy the view. It's spectacular and looks out onto a busy street. There are a few tall buildings nearby, but it's mostly small businesses contained within old historic buildings—various stores, restaurants, and bars. I watch the people below, going about their lives. I watch the women in particular. How many of them have lived with abuse? I try not to think about it really. It's over now. It's behind me and I'm sorta moving on. There have been a few incidents at the shelter with some of the druggie men, but I have a knife. I cut one guy across the arm when he touched me in my sleep. Since then they've left me alone.

I hate that place though. And all these women over on this side of town seem happy. I'm sure there are plenty of them who suffer abuse and are good at hiding it like I was, but from this vantage point, it seems unlikely that they are anywhere near the type of situation I was in back in Chicago.

Jon and I met in high school. Well, I was in high school, and that's only on a technicality because I never actually went to school. He was five years older. I realize now that lots of abusers look for young girls because they are easier to control and scare into silence, but at the time I just thought it was cool that an older guy liked me. He thought I was sexy, he told me things no boy ever told me. He treated me like a woman even though I was a girl.

I liked it at first. That he was tall and strong. He had his own place, a car, a job, a brand new college degree. It seemed like a perfect opportunity for me. A way to escape my stressful life and let someone else think about all these things people require for survival for once. No teenager should have to worry about living day to day the way I did.

So I let him take care of me. And maybe for a little while I could fool myself into thinking his strange obsession with controlling everything about me was normal, or a way to express his love.

But then his fists got involved, and by that time I was so dependent on him there wasn't a chance in hell I could make it on my own any more. He never lifted a hand to me at first, but slowly, over the course of several months, he alienated me from the few friends I had, asked me to quit my job, and moved us out to the country where he had access to a small family home that was sitting unoccupied.

And that's when it all changed. He spied on me, he monitored things like gas and groceries. Weird shit. And I was just too stupid to figure it out. Or just too young maybe.

Life in Chicago was the only life I knew before coming to Denver. It started out better than it ended up, that's for sure. I used to have a family. A mom at least. But she's been gone for a while now. I have nothing left of her, not even a picture. So the image of her burned into my memory is all that I have.

I'm pretty sure that memory is a bit skewed. For example, I picture her in a dress with an apron, but I'm almost positive that I'm thinking of one of the moms on RetroTube at night, and not my mother.

My mother didn't bake pies, she smoked crack.

But that's what happens when all you have left is a memory. Things change over time, other memories and images invade and reshape it.

You forget things.

And mostly you tend to forget bad things and I find that to be dangerous. Because if you forget the bad things, chances are those bad things will come back to get you again.

I try really hard to keep my memories of living with Jon fresh so I don't forget.

And I don't even care if this is healthy or whatever. The counselors at the shelter hinted that it's best to let the past go, but I don't agree and it's my life, my death. So I'm the one who gets to make the final decision.