Broken
Authors: Stella Noir,Aria Frost
Part One. | Chapter One | Ethan
Part Two. | Chapter Twenty | Jo
Part Three. | Chapter Thirty Three | Ethan
Copyright
©
2016 by Stella Noir & Aria Frost
––––––––
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.
A violent rape and a double homicide bring Ethan and Jo together. Can they support each other through difficult times, heal their scars and move on, or will Ethan’s desperate need for revenge ruin any chance they might have of happiness?
In the shadows of a broken life, can two people heal each other and find love, or will the darkness at the edge of their existence consume them completely?
This standalone novella explores themes of rape, murder, suicide and love. It is not for anyone with a sensitive disposition, easily affected by those issues.
Chapter One
Ethan
2
7 September 2015. Sixteen days after.
“Ethan, are you ok?”
I zone out sometimes. It’s been happening a lot more recently. Staring into the middle of nowhere while someone’s talking to me. It could be the medication they’ve put me on, the lack of sleep, the stress. I try not to think about it too much.
“Yes”, I say softly, my eyes refocusing.
I relax into a smile to let them know that they needn’t worry about me. Janet still looks concerned. She wears a face she feels is appropriate in this situation. Ted looks relieved I’m ok. I think he’d prefer not to be in this conversation at all. He’s not the only one.
“I’m ok”, I add, just for good measure.
Janet puts her hand on my arm. She’s sweet, well mannered, entirely condescending. “If you need anything, you know-.”
She’s shaking her head now, trying to empathize by imagining what it must be like for me. She can’t. Of course she can’t.
“Looking to get fit?” Ted says, indicating the punching bag I have in my trolley. He wants to change the conversation, and I can’t blame him. This is as awkward for them as it is for me. I wouldn’t know what to say either. What do you say?
“Something like that”, I settle on, that smile that’s not quite a smile creeping to my lips again.
“You should get another dog”, Janet says, the inappropriateness of her comment lost in her cynical attempt at good will. “You shouldn’t be on your own. Should he, Ted?”
If I was here emotionally right now, I might pull her up on it. Instead I just let it slide. Ted hesitates a response. “Now honey, I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”
“Well”, I say, jumping all over the awkward silence Janet’s comment has left. “It was really nice to see you two.”
“You poor thing”, Janet says as I leave, still shaking her head with supercilious concern. Too self involved to notice the length of rope, the several metres of tubing, and the hunting rifle I’m also carrying towards the cashiers.
Jo
2
9 September 2015. Two days after.
I’m a number now. A statistic, a case number and a room number. I’m all three. I’m not Jo anymore. Jo was taken away and replaced by this. Dehumanized, depersonalized, devoid.
“We can do this another time if you’d prefer?”
“No”, I say, shaking my head. “I want to get this over and done with now.”
There is a process for these things, which I have apparently already fucked up. I didn’t come the night it happened. I didn’t come the day after either. I took a bath, which I shouldn’t have done. I scrubbed myself clean and tried to wash every trace of that bastard away.
I give my statement in as much detail as I can remember. I describe it as though it is happening to someone else and not me. As though I was a witness to the crime and not the victim. I’m still struggling with that word. Victim.
I presume at some point along the line someone will tell me that’s a way I have developed to cope. That I am disconnecting or disassociating myself from a traumatic event in order to move away from it. They will tell me it’s not the best way, that I have to accept it in order to move on.
I can’t accept it. I can’t understand why anyone would do what they did to me.
There are two police officers here to assist me. A female officer who writes, stopping often to show concern or understanding, a male officer who asks me questions.
“Why didn’t you report this crime earlier? What were you doing alone at 2.00am? Is there any reason you can think of that you might have been attacked?”
Half way through the interview I break down into tears and we have to pause for half an hour while I pull myself together. I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I’d never be that person, reduced to this. Violated and debased.
“Just take your time”, Daisy says. “I know this is difficult for you.”
I pull away when she tries to put her hand on my wrist. The action is involuntary, and I apologize as soon as I have made it. I haven’t slept and I’m jumpy, but I know it’s not just that.
“We just have to make sure we have all the details”, Scott tells me. “It’s going to be better if this thing ever gets to court.”
I nod. I understand how these things work. I know only a small percentage of rape cases make it to trial and an even smaller number end in convictions. I know it’s not treated as a serious crime, and I know that most men still think that if a girl wears a short skirt and knee high boots then she is asking for it. It’s
her
fault she got raped, like the excuse of not being able to resist is valid. Either that or people just think women are lying, to court attention, to be noticed, to have power.
I have bruises at the entrance to my vagina that look like the skin of rotting peaches. My nose is broken and I have a cut above my left eye where he knocked me to the ground. I hurt, physically and emotionally.
“I was scared”, I tell them. Daisy nods, while Scott massages the loose hairs that form a goatee around flabby skin across his chin. “I still am. I’m scared he’ll come back.”
***
T
he interview process concludes, and I’m handed a leaflet for a rape victim support group I’m advised to attend. At first I think its a joke, because there is an inappropriate photo on the front page of a young woman smiling, which makes it look like a brochure for a dental practice. “Hey, you've just been raped, but don't worry”, it tells me, “We can make you smile again.”
I thank them and stuff it into my bag.
Daisy tells me that individual therapy and counselling sessions, and anything outside of that one support group, I need to organize under the guidance of my existing medical professional. I am advised to speak to whomever that may be at my earliest convenience.
Daisy writes down the address of the hospital they are sending me to for my tests, while Scott waits patiently for us to finish. I can’t help but feel my case is not his highest priority.
“We’ll call you when we have any news”, he says, hugging my statement against his chest. “That’s all we can do for now. Go home, rest. Take some time off work. Call that support group. We’ll be in touch.”
I wait two hours at the hospital for a nurse to prize my vagina open and scrape out whatever might remain of him. When I get home, I collapse onto the bed, curl up into a foetal ball and cry myself to sleep.
Ethan
7
October 2015. Twenty six days after.
I tie the noose in the rope according to instructions I find on the internet, placing it once tied around my neck to test the size. It’s taken a long time to get to this point. I am not the suicidal type, if that type even exists. I have family and friends around me, support groups, therapy sessions, medication to soften the broken edges of my life. I’m not in a high risk group. According to everyone else, I shouldn’t be doing this.
I try first in the garage but the cross beam isn’t strong enough to support my weight. I nearly pull the house down trying. I take the rope to the attic, pushing hastily packed boxes of Alice’s stuff out of the way to find a suitable spot, but the eaves are too low and the drop isn’t high enough for the force to snap my neck. I end up in the basement, the rope looped over a concrete support beam that glares down at me from above the stairwell.
I stand on the chair and ease the rope around my neck. Here, I can do it. Here, the drop is deep enough for the thickness of the cord to snap my spinal column like a dry twig. One second and the pain goes away.
I shuffle to the edge of the chair and feel the back legs begin to tip up. I adjust myself carefully, placing myself in the best position to step off, without the chair bowling forwards with me.
Alice is gone, I know that. I know I’ll never see her again. I don’t need therapy sessions to tell me that. I just can’t cope without her. Not any more.
I grab hold of the rope, go to step off the chair and hear the doorbell ring so loudly in the bell just to the right of me, I instinctively try to right myself, only to end up stumbling accidentally to the left. The chair tips up onto two legs, but I manage to catch it momentarily, my weight awkwardly balanced, one hand on the rope around my neck, the other pinned against the wall. I’m choking as the rope cuts into my neck, one leg dangling off the side of the chair, the other desperately trying to right it again, the bell continuing to ring loudly in my ear.
Eventually, after wobbling from side to side for what feels like an eternity, I feel like I’ve got things under control, only for one of the chair legs to snap, and the whole thing to kick out dramatically from underneath me. I’m hanging in the air, my feet a metre from the ground, choking slowly. I try to pull the loop over my head, but the notch has slipped and gravity is pulling it tighter.
The bell sounds for a third time, ringing in my ears. I can’t breath and begin to panic, which pulls the knot tighter. Blackness appears at the edges of my vision like night creeping in.
I try to reach the wall, but I can’t get enough effort in my swing to take me there. The rope is tied off at the other end of the room so there is no way for me to get over there to undo it. I’m going to die here slowly, painfully, accidentally. I’m going to die here, and I’m not ready.
“I’m not ready”, I try to shout, the words coming out as nothing more than muffled grunts. I feel angry. Angry for being pushed here, to this moment. Angry that my perfect life has been turned completely on its head. Ruined. I’m not suicidal, and this is not where it should end.
I can reach the knot behind me, but there is no way I can undo it. Instead I begin to pull. I grab hold of as much of the rope as I can and jerk down, watching the other end tighten and flex against the metal pipe I’ve bound it to. Above me, the rope catches against the edge of the concrete beam, see-sawing against it. I pull again, and the same thing happens. It tightens, but doesn’t give. I’ve tied the knot well enough so it will hold. I try again, yanking as hard as I can against it but I get nothing. I’m blacking out. I can tell there isn’t enough oxygen in my body to keep going for much longer. I give it one last series of pulls before my hands slip away from the rope as heavy as lead.