Chapter 3- Azura

Azura.

The old stone building in the heart of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,is multi functional. Christians come and go to attend church on Sundays, and some of the same men I have seen at the brothel on weekdays. Allen, with the pert wife and two kids, was part of the hunting party. He's a boyscout troop leader during the week, and a daytrader by profession. His wife a former pageant queen turned stay at home mom and PTA president. They're what you call tiger parents, and their kids always look miserable, but there may be more behind that. Allen is well respected within his community and they are none the wiser to Allen's extracurricular activities. Allen has hunted me before, the way you do animals on safari, if when you caught animals on a safari you raped them instead of mercifully killing them, that's what these pedophile parties are all about. He doesn't recognize me, and that's for the best. He's a tall, white man, in his late forties with a thick mustache. If this were the seventies, and not 2020, one might call it a porn stache. But now I suppose you could classify it as hipster. I've never been into new and emerging trends, so I really can't say for sure. Allen has had allegations levied against him in the past, for supposedly molesting a little girl. I'm just kidding, about the supposedly part anyway. This isn't a fucking court of law where someone's innocent until proven guilty; I'm the judge and jury here, and he assaulted that poor girl. Sometimes vigilante justice is the only kind of justice, and my gavel swung down the guilty verdict as soon as I heard the rumors. His friend was another story.

His pedophile party friend, the DA, squashed the charges and buried them under the rug. Allen has made it clear to the community his accuser was merely an attention seeking whore, and they believed him. Shortly thereafter, the young girl slit her wrists in the bathroom of her parent's home, and they found her lifeless in a pool of dark maroon, almost black, blood. She was an only child, and her mother may as well have died with her, because she is dead inside now. I have seen dead inside, know it well, and her body is the only alive part about her now. I know she wishes it wasn't though, and it will only be a matter of time before she kills herself too. I wish I could help her, prevent that from happening, but honestly it's the best thing that could happen to her. There are just some things you can't come back from, shouldn't even try, and finding your only daughter with two gaping slits in her wrist, at twelve years old, bled out on the bathroom floor is one of them. Frankly I hope she does it sooner rather than later as she will only then have a modicum of peace.

Allen has two little boys, Jake-10, and Alex-8. They have been to our house to play with my same aged son, Sammy. Sammy has never gone to their house, however, and he knows never, ever, under any circumstances, do so.

The old stone building is also a soup kitchen. My family volunteers there, a lot. We dole out meals to the less fortunate. They are my friends, my counterparts, my kindred spirits. Sons and daughters of abuse, molestation, violence. Addicts and the mentally ill, mostly all with dual issues. Now I have all the money in the world, but the friends it affords me, disgust me. They all remind me of Allen. I give away as much money as possible, and my volunteering at the soup kitchen is more about me than it is about them. They are fascinating, broken, beautiful people, and I know all about that. I've been told I'm beautiful too, fascinating, and most often, broken. If they knew how broken, almost as broken as the poor dead girl's mom, like me with her, they'd wish I'd kill myself to escape it too. I talk about just how broken quite a bit in this old stone building.

I enter mid morning, and greet my counterparts warmly. The donuts suck, but the company is great. My long blonde hair is filled with dew from the sprinkling rain, and as I enter, Jim, the local homeless man, offers me napkins to dry myself off. I've offered Jim money, shelter, clothes, but he's too proud to take it. He'll take a small amount once and awhile for "food", but that's because he's desperate. I don't think he's buying food with it, but I understand that desperation and give it to him anyway. Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. I am in my early thirties, a lot tell me not enough time to live, but they don't know my full story. I have sinned enough for all of them combined, and therefore won't judge Jim for whatever he spends the money on.

The meeting's ready to start, and I feel like sharing. "Hi, my name's Azura, and I'm a recovering addict". Hah, recovering, whatever the fuck that means. I haven't stuck a needle in my arm in awhile, but I wouldn't say that means I'm in recovery. There are some things, like that doomed mother, you just can't recover from.

"Hi, Azura", the group sounds.

After the meeting, I make my way to the car.

"Hi, baby, how was your meeting". Jack smiles and kisses me warmly.

"Eh, you know, a bunch of addicts talking about how fucked up we are, so you know, it was great". I laugh, and Jack gives a loving chuckle. He fell in love with me for my sarcasm. And because, as he tells me daily, "I am gorgeous, inside and out."

He pushes the feathered mask out of the way, and makes way for my entry. Jack nervously asks, "you ready for this", before we drive off.

Later that night on the way home from the cabin to pick up Sammy from the grandparent's house, we get a call.

Jack looks over at me with a sadness we had anticipated. "Sammy wants to know if Jake and Alex can come over tonight, says 'their dad is missing' There's a search for Allen now."

"Tell him of course, they are always welcome and safe at our house, and we'd be glad to have them. Don't tell them he'll be okay, I don't want to give them false hope."