Broken: Book 1 of the Scars and Sorrow Saga (2 page)

• • •

Rosalynn is my sister and best friend. Older by six years, she’s graduated from college and obtained her degree in nursing. She worked in the ICU at Shelton County Memorial Hospital where she met Mr. Perfect. Ros has a closet full of skeletons. The difference between her and I is this; she is beautiful and carefree. She copes in a healthy way and holds her head high. She has moved on and closed that chapter of her life forever, the chapter of my father. Aidan helped her do that.

She is my height with shoulder length black hair. Her facial features are perfect. Her brown eyes are full of sparkle and life. Her body is ideal; her hips are just right, B cup boobs, and a flat tummy (when not pregnant with life). Aidan is a gem and a hell of a husband. He worships the ground Ros walks on. He makes my sister happy, which makes me happy. I am proud of the woman she’s become. She’s strong and beautiful.

My brother is a Marine serving his second tour in Iraq. He’s 20, almost 21. Garrett is tall, standing at 6’3” and has an athletic build with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He was popular in high school, involved in football and clubs. The girls loved him and the guys wanted to be him. I miss the days when we were in high school together. Those were better times. College wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to go and decided he wanted to enlist in the USMC. I haven’t seen him since he graduated from Cherry Pointe two years ago. He’s a proud Marine fighting for our country. I’m honored to call him my brother.

Then there’s my Nonnie. My beautiful little grandmother that was taken from me before I had the chance to say goodbye. She lived with us for many years since my Pops died. She made me feel special and loved. Three years ago she died from a heart attack. I never got a goodbye. I didn’t get one last hug. A woman who I spent almost every day of my life with was cut out before I was ready. It wasn’t fair. I pray to her every day. I miss her more than any amount of words can explain.

• • •

It’s a Friday night and my birthday, my eighteenth birthday. I have no friends or plans. Most girls would be putting their makeup on and picking out their favorite outfit, checking in the mirror a hundred times to make sure everything was in its place. They’d accept their friends’ compliments on how adorable they look and the time would be filled with laughter. They’d be preparing to head to a gathering to celebrate another happy year. Not me. I don’t have that.

Instead, I am sitting with my legs crossed on top of my purple down duvet with my earbuds in listening to the melody that I consider my anthem. I am listening to the Dixie Chicks belt their beautiful southern voices to
Not Ready to Make Nice
. As soon as I heard that song, it pulled at my heart.

I pick out some pink nail polish to paint my nails and toes. I have an hour before dinner with my family. Momma is making my favorite, Nonnie’s marinara sauce. I can smell it simmering on the stove from downstairs and a crooked smile is brought to the edges of my mouth with thoughts of Nonnie and her trademark laugh and amazing hugs.

I fail track of time while I get lost in the tunes blaring from my iPod. I hear a knock over the buzzing music in my ears. My sweet Mom peeks her head around the door with a gorgeous smile spread across her cheery face.

“Come on, birthday girl! It’s dinner time!” she says sweetly before she disappears back downstairs.

I grin. I love my mother. She’s strong, caring, loving, beautiful inside and out, and she’s a fighter. She’s a wonderful mother and wife. I know I will enjoy a quiet meal with Mom and Rick. I would rather spend my evening with them anyhow, as opposed to the bitches and assholes that have succeeded at bringing me down the past year.

I get up from my bed and decide to change. I don’t have a huge party planned but switching my outfit may make me feel a little better. I go with my favorite pair of worn, wide-leg jeans and a simple black tank top. I gather my long, curly black locks and twist it up in a messy knot.
That will do
. I head downstairs to eat my birthday feast with two of the greatest people God put in my life.

I spend the next hour eating too many carbs and enjoying a few laughs with Mom and Rick. It was a nice dinner and it is the perfect way to spend it. I retreat back into my room. It’s the place where I hide and where I sin. The happiness is short lived as I feel anxiety creeping up my spine like a spider ready to bite and inject its deadly venom.

Okay, do it Lyla. Now. Numb yourself. Let go
.

I reach for the blade tucked secretively between the mattress and box spring set of my bed, pull my tank top up to expose the evidence of my debaucheries, and cut deep. The blood oozes from the self-induced wound that I created. As the blood continues a steady stream, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s time for more.

I wait until Mom and Rick are in bed and I grab my keys to my old Toyota Corolla. I get into my car and start the rattling engine. I’m heading to my favorite place, Brownsmith Road, a desolate back road surrounded by abandoned coal mines, stripper pits, roaming deer, and corn fields.

Fifteen minutes later I arrive. It is 10:05 p.m. and the sky is dark. The stars are shining brightly and the moon is glowing and showing off its beauty and fullness. The cornfields are growing and the stalks are tall. The dust from the gravel road is now settled, and I hear nothing but the peaceful chirps from the crickets.

I take a few swigs of the alcohol and appreciate the burning aftereffects down my throat. I then scoop the powder into four lines on a CD case. I grab nothing other than a razor blade to make sure the powder is as fine as it can be and assemble it perfectly into four symmetrical lines. I grab a dollar bill from my wallet, roll it up and put it to my nose and snort. I allow myself to feel the medicinal taste at the back of my throat. My nose is numb and the euphoria travels down my body in a slow wave.

A few more seconds and this will all be tolerable. I will feel okay.

My head is light and I feel slightly detached from reality. My heart is fluttering like an excited butterfly that has found its nectar. My skin is on fire. Not a burning kind of fire, but the feeling of a thousand little pin pricks on every inch of my body. I am content. I pull out a Parliament cigarette and light it, taking a long drag.

I am okay. The pain is endurable.
I have to continue to chant those phrases to myself to ensure that I enjoy every moment that this drug is giving me.

The satisfaction is cut short as I see the red and blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror. 
Please God. Please. Not again. I can’t do this. I promise I will be good. No more drinking. No more drugs.

My breathing accelerates and my lungs have the sensation of an anaconda snake squeezing the air from them. I feel my heart drumming in my ears. My heart is beating at an uncontrolled pace and I start shaking, unable to have the upper hand with the emotions that are spreading through me like a frenzied wildfire. My anxiety cannot be contained. I feel the tears start to pool in my eyes.

One. Two. Three. Breathe, Lyla. You’re alright. Four. Five. Six. God, be with me. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

I feel a small amount of peace. I’m praying with every amount of energy I have. I’d do anything to get out of this. It’s obvious I’m high and alcohol is on my breath. I roll my window down and notice a familiar face. It’s Davis Moore, Steve’s son. Steve is the former police chief and also one of Rick’s best friends. I’m hoping that since Davis knows me he will let me off the hook. I’m sure he understands that teens occasionally drink and party. He can’t be more than twenty.

“Step out with your hands up, Miss Harper,” he says. I do as I am told.

“Spread your legs and put your hands on the hood of your car, Lyla,” he states.

I don’t realize the rough feeling in the air. After all, my reflexes are sluggish from the poison I just snorted up my nose. He starts rambling off, asking me if I want to be stuck with drug possession. Of course he is privy to my drinking ticket. Everyone in this fucked up town knows everything about one another. I start to panic when he mentions my scholarships and my parents.

I am at rock bottom, my own personal hell. I know what is going to happen. I never believed when people said “trust your gut” until now. I am certain of his intentions. I am not sure what to do. Take it? Run? Scream? Who will believe me? He’s the golden boy of Rigdon. His cop bloodline coupled with his pretty boy looks and muscles make most girls weak at the knees… except me. I don’t want it, however I am sure at this moment I have no choice.

He grabs my breasts. I try one last time to shout “
NO
!”, but the words will not roll off my tongue. I am in a state of shock. Things are happening so quickly. He pushes me across the ditch to the ground and pins me there, encasing me with one arm on each side of my face. The look he has is indescribable. His hazel eyes are burning with need. I am so confused and am not able to summon the simple two letter word… no.

He presses his hard mouth onto mine. His rough motions give me no choice but to allow his tongue to have access to mine. It is fast, hard, forceful, and unwelcome. His wet mouth continues to assault mine. The tears are now a steady stream down my face, nonverbal evidence of my displeasure.
Why can’t he see that I don’t want this?
My sobs are silent. My body is quaking as he continues his powerful groping. He yanks the cups of my bra down allowing my breasts to spring free.

A sly smile graces his face. He is not the man most people think he is. Davis is not the golden boy. He is evil and stealing something from me that I can never get back. I am about to get raped. My innocence will be gone forever. I am already damaged but this is sure to break me for eternity.

He sucks on my nipple and my stomach is aching in a twisted and painful way. I want to throw up. I hate it. I try to squeeze my legs together, a gesture of saying no, but he is bigger and tougher than me. He tears my tank top away and gasps in surprise.

“What the fuck is this, Lyla?” How screwed up are you?” he questions.

Is he really asking me that? He’s the one forcing himself on me and he has the nerve to ask me why I am fucked up? I remain silent. He rips at my jeans and the button pops off. With one swift yank, my jeans and panties are down to my ankles. He pushes my knees apart, exposing the virginal flesh between my thighs. My sobs are no longer silent. My chest is heaving. I am crying out in terror. I still cannot summon the word
”NO!”

This is my fault. Just tell him no! Maybe he will stop if I tell him that
. Before I can try, he mounts himself on top of me and thrusts hard, making me his. Pain sears through me as my purity is gone. Forever.

“I’ve always wanted you, ever since we met. Now, you are mine,” he whispers into my ear as he removes his assaulting mouth from my now tattered lips.

I taste the blood from his abuse when he bit my bottom lip. I try to remove myself emotionally as best as I can. I do not want to feel it, but I do. His groans of pleasure make me sick. Every thrust is agonizing and uninvited. I want it to be over. His tempo grows faster. With one last deep thrust he spills himself into me. He pulls out of me and kisses my cheek as he brushes the tears away from my face.

He stands up and looks down seeing the evidence of what he has just done. Blood covers him. He remains silent and pulls his pants back up to his waist. He buckles his pants and belt and gets into his cruiser and drives away, leaving a thick trail of dust from the gravel road. I am still lying on the ground with my pants and underwear around my ankles. My breasts are still exposed. I am frozen. I am broken forever. I reach between my thighs and feel warmth. I look at my hand and see the proof. Blood. I pull myself together. I have to get home. I need my own release. I have to be numb again.

I barely remember driving myself home. The next thing I know I am standing naked in my bathroom with a razor blade in my hand. The shower is on high, the temperature so hot that a fog covers the mirror. My inner thighs are bloodstained and I need to forget, even if for a second. A moment of peace is all I seek.

I push the blade to my stomach and cut and cut even more. When I am done, I have marked myself eight more times. The blood is running down my stomach and dripping onto the white porcelain tiles. I launch myself into the scalding hot water, crouch down in the fetal position and sob until there are no more tears left to be shed.

I wake up to the cold water raining over my body, each tiny drop feels like a dagger piercing my skin. My eyes are swollen and it’s blurry to see. I am shivering involuntarily with my arms still wrapped around my knees. I feel colder than ice. My skin lost its usual olive hue and is replaced with a mottled gray. I have no concept of time; seconds, minutes, hours, or days could have passed. With effort, I unclasp my hands that are interlocked with one another in front of my drawn-up legs. Every muscle in my arms cries out in protest. They are sore and strained.

I take a moment to allow my shoulders to adjust. Moving my neck hurts, too. My head feels like a million tiny jackhammers are crushing into it. I straighten my back and feel a pain shoot through my spine, starting at the base of my neck and ending at my tailbone.

Fuck, how long have I been huddled in the shower? My body is a damn mess.

I avoid eye contact with the part of my body that will only remind me of my sins and imperfections. It is a canvas that holds the terrible memories of my life, and I added eight more ugly marks. It stings and burns with discomfort, enough to remind me of what exactly happened on the night of my eighteenth birthday. I must still be in a state of shock because I am not crying. I remain numb. I know I will have to face myself in the mirror soon enough, but I cannot take it now.

I allow my legs to unfold so that they are straight out in front of my body. I sit up, giving my muscles a few more minutes to amend. I reach forward and turn the shower off. I take my time pulling myself up to the standing position. My head grows light, and for an inkling I fear I may pass out. I fill my lungs with air to their depths and exhale slowly.