Broken: Book 1 of the Scars and Sorrow Saga (3 page)

Okay, a little better. I need to find my bed. What time is it anyway?

I step onto the navy blue terrycloth rug neighboring the shower and welcome the softness on the pruned soles of my feet. Without deciphering, I look up and there I am. The mirror is situated across from the shower. The image cannot be missed. The girl standing in front of me cannot be me. She looks lifeless, helpless, comatose, disgusting, unattractive, and flawed from head to toe.

My eyes look sunken in with deep smokiness stretching from the inner canthus of my eye down along the bridge of my nose and over to the opposite corner of my orb. My lips are puffy with a tiny bite mark that is now scabbed over on my bottom lip, confirmation of the assault that had taken place on my mouth mere hours before. My black hair is in disarray. Part of it remains tied back in a messy knot at the base of my neck with dirt and grass tangled within it, more proof of the attack.

I have a few scattered bruises on the biceps of both arms.
Another reminder of what I lost, what I will never get back. I thought I was damaged before, I had no fucking clue. I am broken, forever. I am impossible to love. I am unworthy, and this is why. This is what I get. This is what I deserve. No one wanted me before, no one will ever want me now, except the man that stole from me. He is all I can get.

My eyes lazily trace their way down to the place on my body where I stow my sorrows. I am still composed, not allowing myself to shed a tear. I lift my shaky pruned hands from my sides and touch first. My stomach twists itself in a way I have never felt. I gasp in surprise as my eyes meet where my fingers are grazing.

What in God’s name have I done to myself? This is it. I cannot take this any longer. This world is too cruel. Too cruel. Too much heartache. Too many tears. Too much despair. Too much evil. I am near the end, I feel it within the dark abyss in my soul; the soul I once had. It is gone. It was taken last night. Is this what the end feels like?

Nonnie, please help me. Please. Give me strength. Give me courage. Give me something to pull myself together. I cannot break Momma’s heart. I disappoint everyone. I need you more than ever before. I beg you, please help me. I have no one. I am alone, all alone.

I am catatonic, unable to articulate the chaotic thoughts within my bustling mind into actions. I am fixated on the gaping wounds, eight to be exact. The other self-induced cut I gave myself before hitting Brownsmith Road last night is just the usual, it is like the others. These eight are the epitome of unlovely; they are the embodiment of me.

Lyla Elizabeth Harper is vanished, incessantly.

I cut so deep that the adipose tissue from my belly is exposed. There is clots of blood within the cut. My skin is separated and sagging apart from each side. A knock at the door sets me into frenzy. My heart begins racing, my knees feel weak, and I want to vomit from the nerves that are setting off currents to every cell in my body. All I can think about is
how in the hell can I explain this?

“Lyla, baby? You in there? It is 7:30, honey. I made some breakfast. Come eat with us,” says my mother.

“Yes, Momma. Be right there.”

I am completely shocked at my ability to sound so normal. I look worse than death, my thighs are still faintly bloodstained, my stomach is repulsive, and I have bite marks and hickeys on both of my breasts. My nipples are chapped from his forceful suckling, and I am sure that there isn’t a part of me that isn’t in pain.

Pull yourself together, you fucking bitch. Clean up and do not disappoint,
shouts my angry conscious. I unravel my hair and grab a brush from the wicker basket under the sink packed full of hair products, clips, spray, and curling irons. I quickly brush out my hair and pick out the pieces of grass that are entwined with it.

I open the medicine cabinet with my hands still quivering and grab my toothbrush. I brush my teeth hard, convinced I can still taste him in my mouth. With those contemplations, my stomach can no longer take it. I claim defeat and rush to the toilet to empty its contents. Dry heaves follow suit. I take a few more deep breaths until I am sure that my stomach is void.

I wet a washcloth with warm water and wipe my face off.
It’s time to dress these wounds. Fuck!

I take a bottle of peroxide and a tube of bacitracin out of the medicine cabinet. I wet a few cotton balls and gently cleanse the gaping wounds one by one. I am disconnected, I feel zilch. I apply the medicated ointment generously to all affected areas and lastly, cover them with gauze pads and paper tape.

I sit on the toilet to try to empty my bladder. I am petrified and I feel changed
down there
. It aches, stings, burns, and feels swollen. With my bladder near the point of bursting, I give in and allow it to start to empty. I have to cover my mouth with my hand. The searing agony is near unbearable, but I cannot stop my bladder, and within seconds I am done.

What did he do to me?
I ask myself, wiping the tears from my battered face.

I dab myself and additional proof; bright red blood. I shake my head and flush the toilet, determined to get breakfast over with.

I wrap a fluffy towel snuggly around my maltreated body and head down the hallway into my room.
Time to get dressed, gotta eat so Mom doesn’t suspect anything. Then I will sleep for a long time. Maybe I won’t wake up.

I dress myself in a pair of loose sweatpants and a baggy tee. I wrap my hair in a tight bun, take one last deep breath, and head downstairs to eat breakfast with Mom and Rick. Hopefully they won’t recognize anything changed about me. Girls always say that they look and feel different after having sex for the first time. I certainly feel altered, but I have nothing else to compare it to. It wasn’t mutual, affectionate, gentle, or loving. It was rough, unwelcome, hard, and painful.

I mentally withdraw the images from the previous evening with Mr. Bad Cop. I have to in order to go about breakfast normally. I sit at the breakfast bar as Momma puts a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of me. I feel like vomiting, my body battling itself.

“How was your night, Ly?” asks Mom, looking at me carefully.

“Good, just listened to some music and went to bed early.”

“What’d you get in the shower so early for, baby?”

Fuck, she is starting to catch on.

“Ah, ya know, I was lazy last night. Skipped it and hopped in the shower this morning.”

I forge a smile on my face as she seems to accept the answer that I just gave her.

“Okay, well eat up. Those biscuits won’t eat themselves. You look like you’re losing some weight, baby.”

“Come on, Momma. I can stand to lose some more.”

I laugh at the compliment, because it is comical is to me. I’m not trying to lose weight, but if it is happening then I welcome it.

I do not feel like eating, but force myself to take a few bites here and there and wash it down with a cold glass of orange juice. The rest of breakfast was quiet and I think I succeeded at hiding the misery within. I clear the table like I usually do, kiss my mom on the cheek and give Rick a wave, then head back upstairs. I enter my bedroom and the fear creeps up behind me like a predator ready to prance on their prey. I quickly make my way to my desk, open the top drawer and retrieve the pill bottle. I open the lid and pop four Xanax into my mouth.

One, two, three… I will find peace soon. Sleep is near. Four, five, six, seven. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe I will wake up tomorrow and realize it was just a nightmare. Eight, nine, ten.

I pull the purple comforter down my bed and curl up into a ball, covering myself back up with the duvet. The tears that I thought were gone come back with a vengeance. They wash over me. I let them escape and stain my purple pillowcase. I cry until I fall into a slumber of total blackness.

Alone. Being alone isn’t always bad for everyone, but I am not every Tom, Dick, and Harry. When I am by myself, which is most of the time, my mind races and never stops. Images flash through my thoughts of recent events, conversations, drinking, numbing, powdery heaven, and the feelings that I get when the sharp, shiny blade touches my skin. The sensation that I acquire when it is forced to my flawed and broken belly prompts me to recall why I deserve pain and discontentment. When the blood starts a solid torrent down my less-than-ideal tummy, the flow of waterworks from my eyes ceases. That is the only way my tears stop. I need to punish myself for being a failure, and forever I will be recapped why.

It has been six days since my life ended. My heart continues to beat, my lungs are still inhaling and exhaling, and the blood is still surging through my veins, but I am lifeless. I walk and go about the past six days like a robot on autopilot. I barely speak and rarely come out of my room. I cannot consume food without immediately throwing it up, and I never succumb to a peaceful sleep because the incubi flood my brain with pure and utter terror. I am certain that Mother and Rick are catching on, but I try to keep my secrets hidden.

“I’ve got a headache, I’m just tired, I have cramps, I think I am coming down with a cold…”
I am beginning to forget which excuse I used last. To be honest, I don’t care any longer. What’s done cannot be undone. The mutilation is interminable.

I am laying on top of my soft purple comforter. My bed is situated in the middle of my room with the cherry sleigh headboard against the wall. I have a picture window that provides an incredible view of the large front yard and pond beneath the rolling hills. Things as simple as a glance through that window used to make me smile, but not anymore. I am not the girl I once was. I knew I was fucked up then, but man oh man I didn’t know what else would go wrong. And now, I am beyond help. Davis solidified my thoughts and insecurities. I am unlovable and spoiled for any other.

Still laying on my back on my bed, I pull up my pink tank top and welcome the pain as I shift my heavy weight to one side to get a better view of the wounds on my belly. They appear to be infected. The area around the eight self-induced cuts are an angry shade of red. It is swollen and warm to the touch. The granulation of new skin isn’t looking like it typically does, not like the others. They are still gaping apart and yellow slough appears around the borders. I have been cleaning them with peroxide and applying a liberal amount of antibiotic ointment to all areas a few times a day. I don’t know why I put forth such effort to keep them clean. I wish the infection would make its way into my blood and attack my heart, maybe then I would be out of the misery that I produced.

A soft knock taps at my door. I lazily pull my shirt down to cover my trouble.

“Come in,” I say.

My mother walks in. Her eyes are red and puffy and she has her arms grasped around her body. She looks so shattered. My heart stops and I feel panic. The accustomed contemplations invade my memory with vigor and I want to cope. I want to forget, even if for a moment or two. Unfortunately, I cannot do that with my mom standing before me. I try to control my breathing as best as I can. I feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead.

Fuck, she knows something. I can tell. God help me, please help me!

“Momma, you okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned.

“Lyla, baby. What is going on with you? This past week, you’ve been, uh… so unlike yourself. What happened? Can we talk about it, please? You know I love you no matter what, right? You’re my baby, Lyla Elizabeth. You changed my life, coming into this world fighting seven weeks early. I know you, my darling. I know when something isn’t right. Please, talk to me,” she pleads.

Her gracious and kind words make my heart swell.
Oh, Momma. If you only knew. I cannot tell you. It would break your heart. I can’t fathom disappointing you. Please, Momma, leave this be. I can’t do this. Not now. I just can’t. I wish I could tell you everything, but I cannot induce such sorrow upon your soul. You’ve been through so much, you don’t need anymore.

“
I’m okay, promise. I just started my period last week and I have been really crampy and tired. I’ve just been resting a lot that is all.”

“You sure? Maybe it is time for you to go on to the birth control pill?” she asks, in a half question, half statement.

“Mom, I am fine. Seriously. Stop worrying about me. I am fine. I don’t need birth control.”

“Okay, sweet princess, but if your periods continue to get worse, you will go to the doctor and get checked out, okay?”

I swallow hard, “Got it.”

“Now rest, my dear daughter. I love you,” she whispers into my ear before walking out of my bedroom.

As soon as I hear the click from the door, confirmation that it is closed, I allow the tears to freely fall down my full cheeks and stain them with sadness. It is too much to handle. I cannot keep all of this bottled up inside. I just can’t. I have known that the end is near since that fateful night on Brownsmith Road, there is no way for me to find the girl that I was. She is in a shallow grave, that grave being my body.

I pull out my iPod and scroll through the music. I find
Last Dance with Mary Jane
by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and I press play. I let his voice sing the melancholy tune into my ears.
Time for more.
I stride over to my computer desk and open the top drawer where I hide my stash of Xanax. I keep it on hand and take it when I need to. I cannot always score cocaine and I don’t feel like going to visit Mr. Pervert at the liquor store off Concord Street. It takes enough effort lately to shower and brush my teeth.

I rummage through my desk drawer. Anxiety starts brimming in my gut. My ears are pounding and my skin is stinging. Before I can realize what is happening to my body, I am fixed in the fetal position on the soft beige carpet of my bedroom.
They aren’t there. My fucking pills are missing
. I never ever place them anywhere else. They have always been under a few old photos in my top desk drawer. Now, they are not.

My eyes scan the room and suddenly, it all makes sense. I see the fresh vacuum marks on the carpet. The pictures atop my desk are organized nicely and there isn’t a speck of dust anywhere. My laundry is no longer in the corner of my room and the pillows near my reading nook by the window are arranged methodically. There is a faint smell of lemon furniture polish in the air.