Break Through
Authors: Amber Garza
BREAK THROUGH
AMBER GARZA
Cover: Mae I Design and Photography
Interior Design and Typesetting by Sharon Kay
Copyright © 2014 Amber Garza
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
For information: ambergarza.wordpress.com
Contemporary Romance:
Break Free
Head Above Water
Falling to Pieces
Star Struck
Love Struck
Tripping Me Up
Winning Me Over
Finding Me Again (Novella)
Single Title Suspense:
Engraved
Delaney’s Gift Series:
Dazzle
Shatter
Betray
YA Christian Thrillers:
The Prowl Trilogy
Prowl
Entice
Unveil
To connect with Amber Garza online:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Amber-Garza-author
Or to sign up for the newsletter:
http://eepurl.com/sp8Q9
To my heavenly father
who has
been with me in dark times and times of joy, and has never for one moment left my side.
The man who kidnapped me wasn’t a stranger.
He didn’t pull up in a big white van wearing a ski mask. He didn’t ask
for directions, offer me candy, or invite me to pet his dog. If so, I would’ve surely screamed at the top of my lungs and raced away. At eight years old I had been warned all about “stranger danger.” I had been coached on what to do to avoid being abducted. The problem was that it didn’t happen the way I had been warned it could.
When he drove up in his small blue car, motioning me inside
, I recognized him as a man who had been to my house. My parents had shared laughs and conversation with him. He had sat on our couch, drank beer on the back patio, helped Dad flip burgers on the grill, and watched me swim in the pool.
His smile was friendly
. Maybe too friendly. It was a large, sweeping smile that covered his entire face, larger than a clown’s. All he was missing was the giant red nose and puffy orange hair. That should have tipped me off. But to a child, a big smile isn’t scary. It’s welcoming.
Besides, it was raining that day. Before he pulled up I had been stom
ping through the puddles in my Converse tennis shoes. Water soaked the edge of my jeans, splashing its way up my calves, and splattering the denim like dark blue paint. Liquid swam inside my shoes, seeping through the thin material and soaking my socks. As raindrops slid down my face and dripped on my hair, I cursed myself for forgetting to wear my rain boots. Mom had told me to, but I argued with her. They were bright yellow with little white flowers on them, and I thought they were too babyish. But when my teeth began to chatter and my toes numbed, I wished I had listened.
That’s why I got into the car. I knew it would be warm. In fact, heat spilled out of the open window when I bent my head inside. It radiated against my cold cheek.
Ignoring the funny feeling that nagged in the pit of my stomach, I hopped in, grateful to be safe from the storm.
It wasn’t until he locked me in that room, leaving me alone for days, that I realized what a huge mistake I’d made. My parents weren’t coming to pick me up at his house like he had promised. They didn’t know he took me.
And I wasn’t ever going home.
It was raining the day I escaped. I took it as a sign.
It’s
funny the things we take for granted. Five years I spent in captivity, never stepping foot outside. The day he ripped me from the life I’d always known, I wanted nothing more than to be warm and dry, out of the rain. For years afterward I longed for rain, for icy air, for cool breezes. Hell, even scorching hot temperatures would do. I’d take anything to be out in the fresh air.
To be free
.
I would wave my fingers out of the bars in the window, attempting to grasp the air and draw it inside. As if air was something to be captured. But it would slip through my fingers, sliding over my skin and
disappearing. I envied it. If only I were that elusive. If only I were slippery and weightless, and couldn’t be tied down. Often I would close my eyes, imagining I was soaring high above the clouds like a colorful kite. One of those rainbow colored ones like my dad bought me for my sixth birthday. I loved to watch it flap in the breeze, blowing across the aqua blue sky. Yes, if I could’ve been anything it would have been a kite. Only I would have severed myself from the string so he’d never be able to catch me. So his thick fingers couldn’t yank me back to earth. I’d stay up in the clouds, allowing the wind to be my guide. There would be nothing anchoring me to the earth. It would just be me and the sky.
That was the reason I danced in the rain on t
he day I found freedom. It was because the air was finally mine. Not for a fleeting moment, a temporary fix. No, this was for good. I knew that for sure. There was no way I’d ever let someone own me again. I held up my arms allowing the raindrops to skate down my shoulders and drip from my fingertips. Tilting my face, I savored the feeling of them as they cascaded down my face and soaked my hair. The air was frigid, but I embraced it, letting it wash over me. The goosebumps that rose on my skin made me feel alive.
Even though
I had been free for ten years now, the time I spent locked in that house haunted me, mocked me, residing in the recesses of my mind. It had shaped me into the person I was today. There’s a saying that time heals all wounds, but I wasn’t so sure about that. No amount of time and therapy could erase five years of being held captive. None of it could bring my childhood back, give me the years he’d stolen.
L
aying in the grass, my white blond hair fanned out around my head like a halo. The sun shone down on my face, warming my pale skin. As I tossed my arms up over my head, the grass feathered my skin, tickling the sensitive flesh. A shadow cast over me, blocking out the sun. Using my hand as a shield, I squinted.
“Aspen, please tell me you didn’t sleep out here again.” Mom pursed her lips as if she’d sucked a lemon. She did that a lot.
“No. I slept in the guesthouse.” I sighed, imagining that most twenty-three-year olds didn’t have their moms breathing down their necks twenty-four/seven. Then again, most moms hadn’t endured what mine had, so I granted her some grace. When I first came back, I snuck out every night and slept in our backyard. Being inside made me claustrophobic. I still found it hard to breathe indoors. Only when I stepped outside into the open air would my chest expand.
On
the mornings after I slept outside, I would hear the screams from inside the house. Panicked shouts and frantic hollering. It made me feel like shit that I had scared them again; that I had made them believe they’d lost me a second time. And each time they would make me promise to stay inside.
“It
’s safer in here,” Mom would say.
“We have an alarm system,” Dad would add.
However, the next night my feet would glide down the stairs and head right out into the backyard as if they had a mind of their own. I couldn’t control them. I could only go where they took me. There was something magical about sleeping under the stars wearing only the air as a blanket. Fear had ruled me for far too long. I wouldn’t stay locked inside any longer.
So my parents sold the house and moved out into the middle of
the country here in
Red Blossom.
The home they bought had a guesthouse in the back. Dad built a skylight in it for me, so I wouldn’t feel constricted. It was the best compromise we could come up with. Even so, I longed to lie in the grass, to dream among the flowers.
“You need to get cleaned up.” Mom pointed to my fingers that
were caked in dirt and streaked in green. I had been gardening, planting flowers along the side of the yard. “That photographer from the
National View
is coming over today.”
Ho
isting myself up, I groaned. I ran a dirtied hand through my long, tangled hair. Agreeing to do that stupid article was something I regretted every day. But my parents had practically begged me to do it. They said it would be good for me, but I suspected it had more to do with the hefty paycheck.
Why now? Why did I finally have to tell my story
?
It wasn’t
just that I hated to talk about it. It wasn’t just the pain of remembering.
It was because
he was still out there.
He wasn’t behind bars where he belonged.
The
National View
had promised that my location wouldn’t be revealed; that they’d keep it under wraps. And honestly, I was sure he’d left the country by now. It’s not like he’d risk coming back here and getting caught. Besides, I wasn’t a child that he could lure away and capture again. I was an adult. Even so, it worried me, nagging at the back of my mind. I hated how he had power over me after all these years.
“Fine.” I pushed myself up off the ground and stood. My hands weren’t the only things dirty. The skin on my knees was stained in dirt and grass too, and mud splattered my t-shirt and shorts. Mom wrinkled her nose, smoothing her hands down her khaki pants, her freshly manicured nails sparkling under the sunlight. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on her outfit, and her short
, golden bob was sleek against her rosy cheeks.
Her glossy lips curved upward. “Great. I got out your favorite sundress and hung it on the bathroom door.”
Cringing, I maneuvered around her. The words “favorite” and “sundress” should not be used in the same sentence. I preferred jeans and t-shirts, maybe the occasional yoga pants or shorts. But I guess if I was having my picture taken I should attempt to look nice. As I walked up the steps to the back patio, I tried to remember the last time I got my picture taken. It must have been my school pictures the year I was abducted. That horrid picture where the photographer caught me with my eyes closed, and yet my parents still chose to hang it on the wall in the hallway. I was hoping my experience today would be better.
As promised
, the sundress hung on the door in the bathroom. Mom had also arranged some makeup and a curling iron on the counter. Admittedly, I acted younger than I was. There were days when I felt like time had stopped for me at eight years old. Like I was Peter Pan, a perpetual child. But seriously, my parents did not help at all. They treated me like I was incapable of doing anything on my own.
What they didn’t realize was that even though I
acted child-like, I was older in some ways too. Being kidnapped had forced me to forfeit my childhood, to grow up fast. I had to take care of myself, to learn things most kids don’t need to know at eight.
It wasn’t that I was incapable of being an adult. It was that I wasn’t quite ready to be one yet. My youth had been cruelly taken from me, and sometimes my rebellious nature tried to snatch it back.
Living in my parents’ home, and having my mom pick out my clothes, was definitely a way to catapult me back to childhood. Only I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted either. A good balance was apparently hard to find. As I peeled off my dirty clothes and discarded them on the floor, I wondered if this photographer would be as annoying as the reporter was.
My skin crawled when I remembered the reporter’s dark, beady eyes. The way he stared at me too intensely as I responded to his questions. The way he prompted and goaded me as if feeding me the answers.
It angered me, causing me to cut our last two interviews short. Mom had scolded me, saying I was throwing a tantrum like a child. But secretly I knew she liked it. She wasn’t ready for me to grow up either.
As I turned on the shower, I decided that if the photographer made me uncomfortable I would call this whole thing off. I didn’t even want to do it in the first place, and I definitely didn’t need to go through with it if it stressed me out. Besides, it wasn’t my idea. It was the magazine who wanted the story; it was the public who
desired all the salacious details. I never understood the world’s desire to invade someone else’s private pain. In the years after I came back home our phone rang relentlessly with reporters, authors, and television stations. Everyone wanted my story. Everyone wanted to capitalize on what was done to me.
I had kept silent all these years. Now it seemed that I was
finally going to open my mouth and speak. That I was going to expose the story to the nation. And, frankly, that scared the shit out of me.
In more ways than one.