Broken: Book 1 of the Scars and Sorrow Saga

This book is an exertion of fiction. All characters, names, situations, places, and events are the creation of the author’s imagination. Any likenesses to any person, living or deceased, places, names, or situations are entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 Mary E. Palmerin
All rights reserved.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, Mary Elizabeth Palmerin.

Editor: Ginger RozeMarie

Cover by Kelsey Keeton, KKeeton Designs

I want to dedicate this book to all the survivors. May you keep fighting, believing, and never ever give up on loving yourself. You are worthy and amazing. Take a step back and see what others see, the beauty of being you. Always have hope.

A warm thank you to my entire family, especially my husband and two children. They are my world and love me through the craziness of deadlines, new plot twists, and phone calls to my betas. I love you all more than you will ever know

Thank you to my editor, Ginger RozeMarie, for tackling this series and believing in it. You rock!

Much gratefulness to Kelsey Keeton of KKeeton designs and Rachel Kyburz, model for creating such a stunning cover. This cover is the epitome of the story and brought tears to my eyes the first time I saw it. I am so glad I had the chance to work with you two ladies who are amazingly talented and wonderful.

A special thank you to my girls Kelly and Cecily who have held this story in their hands since the very beginning. I am lucky to have you two by my side during my publishing journey and your encouragement, advice and most of all, friendship, means the world to me. My humble heart is grateful

Well, today is the day. I am officially considered an adult. It’s Friday July 20
^th
, and I am now 18-years-old. The past year has been less than blissful. My life has always been in limbo. I have never been able to get over the abuse from my father along with the phantasmagorias that remain engrained in my thoughts. There are so many images and memories that are burned into my mind, most of which are constantly traveling through it like a running wheel that never stops.

I have lost confidence in most people. I try to keep to myself and focus on the life I want out of Rigdon, Kansas, and I want to never look back when I leave this place.
Ten months. Ten more months of judgmental stares and knives in my back. Surely I can deal with that, right?

Things changed last year. I’m not exactly sure why, they just did. Maybe I changed, maybe my supposed friends did. I have learned to stop asking myself a question I will never know the answer to. I’ve always had this dark place within my soul and a sadness that never seems to disappear. Perhaps it was a stigma I was born with or maybe it was birthed when my father bestowed his fury and anger onto his innocent family. I try to ignore it and persuade myself that I’m okay. I put on a cheerful front and smile when needed, but it’s there. It will always remain there. It’s part of who I am.

I quit the cheerleading team last year. It wasn’t like it used to be. There were no longer giggles and shopping trips with friends. They turned callous because I didn’t fit the norm of what is expected, from whom I am not sure. Girls are so dramatic and mean. I really am in awe of the pure hatred some people have. Hence, part of the reason I’ve lost hope in most individuals.

I am not perfect, it is clear. Former friends and boys have told me so much that I now believe it. My hips are wider than they should be, my boobs bigger than most and I have an ass that may be too big for most boys to care for. I have black hair and olive skin. My lips are plump and my eyes are dark. It is me. I cannot change it.

Relationships with boys never interested me. No one will be able to understand me. I’m not too keen on trying it either. I’ve caught a lot of shit from my supposed “friends” for being the only virgin left
. “Pathetic, unwanted, not hot enough, too big…”
Those are the things they told me, reasons why I still had my innocence.
Yes, I am 18-years-old today and I am still a virgin.

I’m not against sex before marriage by any means. I probably could’ve had it a few times when Mr. Football player decided he was drunk and horny. I was the last resort at the parties. It started out the same every time; kissing, touching, groping, and occasionally oral sex. I always disappointed him when I never allowed things to go past third base. It usually ended the same way.
”I didn’t want you anyway. You’re really not that hot. You weren’t that great…”

And so it continued, the spiteful comments from the girls I used to call my friends and the perverted and derogatory chatter amongst the football and basketball players. I lost faith in others and a tiny shard of my soul died a little more each day.

I became numb. I coached myself to block it out as best as I could. It was still hard, hearing their snide remarks and the occasional overzealous jock groping my less-than-ideal ass to try to get a rise out of me. Words hurt. Actions hurt. My past hurt. I started to convince myself that it was me.
I was wrong. I was imperfect. I was the problem. I was ugly. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t beautiful enough. I am fucked up, forever.

So, last year I started to hate myself more and more until I discovered how to mask my emotional pain. I transferred it into physical pain by inflicting the addictive cuts onto my belly. I won’t ever forget that day. That was the day my life changed a hundred times over when I, Lyla Elizabeth Harper, punished myself. And I haven’t been able to stop since.

I am good at keeping secrets. I have more than most people. The only thing I manage to do is keep good grades. I have to. That’s my ticket out of Rigdon. I’ve almost lost it before, last year when I was wasted drunk on Boone’s Farm wine that was being fed to me by a jock with a boner hoping to get lucky.

The party started out fine. I was with a few girlfriends. I was excited that they invited me. My social life was hardly anything and I was looking forward to a fun night out. Drinking is the norm here among high school kids. The valedictorian, class clown, star football player, and even teens of teachers drank and partied. It was the standard and acceptable. If you wanted to fit in, you were expected to do it. As that night went on, the fun dwindled. The party was busted and the girls that brought me to the party left in a flash. So did the asshole who was trying to get into my pants. Most people got away, except me. They left me behind and I was stuck with a minor consumption drinking ticket.

My mother and Rick cried. Seeing the disappointment wash over their faces like a mile high waterfall made my heart wail with despondency. I remember Rick running his hands through his thick silver hair and my mom’s beautiful brown eyes turn bloodshot from the tears she shed, tears of embarrassment and letdown.

Since that night I’ve vowed to myself to keep my secrets and protect those I love. I will continue moving through the motions of life and cope secretly.
Ten more months. I can do this
. I start my senior year of high school in one month. I will play the role of a good student Monday through Friday and study my ass off. I have scholarships that will help me pay my way through my dream college, Loyola University. I will do my homework and make the honor roll. Now, I am counting down the days until I leave this horrible place that I call home and start the new chapter of my life in Chicago, Illinois.

Each day is one closer to a new beginning that I seek. Maybe once I get out of Rigdon I can find real friends and perhaps a man that is genuine and caring? No way. That can’t happen. I am not good enough. More so since last year, and now my stomach is covered with dozens of scars and freshly scabbed cuts. They are a constant reminder of the imperfect and damaged girl that I am.

I drink. A lot. I am an expert at keeping things hidden. I drink just enough to get to the place where I don’t have to feel the sorrow that has consumed and overshadowed my soul. A pint of vodka is always stashed under the passenger seat of my car.

The cashier at the local liquor store off Concord Street is a pervert. He is in his late thirties with a receding hairline and thick glasses that hang low on his crooked nose. His name is Bill and he gives me free liquor and cigarettes if I flash my tits. I braved the liquor store one day, desperate for a release. He knew I was underage. Bill told me he would give me what I wanted if I showed him my breasts, so I did and continue to do so. He never touches me, he just looks. I don’t care anymore because I get the vodka that helps me forget.

I started diving into a few other things. They are dangerous habits and I balance along a tightrope of taking chances. I smoke pot occasionally but my drug of choice is cocaine. I try to only taste it every once in a while, but the coke gives me a unique euphoria. Once in a while has turned into several times a week. My mind and body travel to a place where I feel no pain. I am alone and happy. When the high starts to fade, I have to remind myself why I’m so fucked up.

Once that ensues, I grab one of the many razor blades tucked between the mattress and box spring set of my bed. I hold it tightly in my hand with the anticipation of what’s to come. I walk across the soft beige carpet of my room feeling it tickle the soles of my feet. My breathing is even and my heart rate is controlled. I am near the edge of contentment.
Contentment? Who am I kidding? There is no such thing. There is only the terrible feelings that fill my soul, and I seek those few moments of peace when I hate myself just enough to forget.

I calmly lock the door to my room and remove my shirt and bra. I stand in my room naked from the top up and do what I always do before I cut. I need to prompt myself once more why I am not worthy of anything- happiness, love, friendship. I take a moment to stare at my naked and flawed body in the vanity mirror.

My boobs aren’t perfect. My eyes are too dark. My lips are too full. My hips are too wide. My stomach is not flat. My ass is too round. My thighs are too fat. I am not worthy. I am not good enough.
People tell me and I believe them. These are the thoughts that go through my mind while I hold the silver blade in my hand. Judgments that never stop until the razor is pushed to my belly and I press, hard. I cut deep. I do not induce scratches or paper cuts, I mark myself with deep wounds that bleed. A lot.

Silent tears fall from my rosy cheeks. I shake my head at myself, disgusted with who I’ve become. The girl standing before me is just a shell of who I once was. She is gone. Forever. Lyla Elizabeth Harper does not deserve joy or serenity. People have made that crystal clear. I wasn’t put on this earth to be loved. I was created to be someone’s punching bag. I take it and continue to count down the next ten months.
A fresh new start
. I chant it over and over again in my head. The next ten months cannot come soon enough. I’ve been surrounded by assholes. I have no real friends here. The only people I depend on is my family, but I’ve been pretending. I need to keep doing that so I won’t break their hearts. I refuse to embarrass them again.