That Which Destroys Me (33 page)

“They did find her though, right?” When I see him nod it feels like a million tons of weight have lifted from me. “Thank fuck.”

He shakes his head before turning and walks back towards where we’re sitting. “No, Wesley. Don’t thank fuck.” He slides a piece of paper across the mahogany table between us. “Stole a copy of her ER admit assessment.”

My eyes don’t move from his. “What does it say?”

“Drink your scotch and read it, man.”

After draining my glass I slam it on the table, shattering it. “
WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT SAY
?!”

“It says that at 8:32 pm, Lt. Jones and his backup team entered Preston Stone’s residence. They searched the first and second floors finding nothing out of place - no sign of occupancy, no sign of struggle - nothing. Several of the officers in the office area of his residence came across a bookshelf of diaries, while another officer stumbled upon a trick door slightly opened in a closet inside the office - that led to a concrete walled basement. Inside that basement, there was a cell made of two basement concrete walls, and two walls lined in steel bars, four inches between each bar.” He clears his throat and drains his glass then sets it on the table next to my shattered one.

“They found a Caucasian female, dark brown hair, possibly mid to late twenties. Other than that, there were no other discernible features useful to identify her.”

I shoot from my chair and I’m in the foyer grabbing my keys and shit off the table and shoving them in my pockets. “Come on! What hospital is she at?” When I look over my shoulder at him expecting an answer, my hands stop as my mind processes. Not only has he not moved, but he’s shaking his head. His eyes alone tell me what I’ve known but denied since he walked through my door.

He goes to speak, but gets choked up and coughs before finally speaking, “Wesley, the reason there was no other identifying characteristics the officers were able to discern,” Leaning forward and sighing, he says, “She barely had a thread of skin left on her entire body. The soles of her feet, her palms, those are the only way they were able to determine her race.” His eyes narrow on mine. “There are nine bones from a human’s waist to their ankles. Nine. The Jane Doe they found in Preston Stone’s basement, directly beside the blood covered sledgehammer whose head mold castings match the impressions covering the victim, she had seven of her nine bones from waist to ankle shattered; consisting of a fractured pelvis, two shattered patellas, or knee caps, an open compounded fracture of the left femur, and an impacted fracture to the right. Both of the victim’s tibias were hit repeatedly. From the medical documentation, it appears the initial impact to both tibias caused open compounded fractures. Meaning, when the bones split, they pierced her already shredded skin. In most cases, even though it looks horrid, those types of breaks are easier to set. However, not in this case. Stella was pummeled repeatedly from her knee caps to her ankles. When he finished on the lower half of her body, he sledgehammered both her clavicles, as well as the inside of her elbows, effectively breaking all six bones of her arms.”

Derrick stands heading towards the bar, grasps the bottle and while walking back to his chair, he takes long pulls of scotch before sinking back into his seat. Lolling his head back and looking at the ceiling, he whispers tortured words that resonate through the room, “Wesley, what I’m trying to say is, Jude Preston, or Preston Stone shredded Stella’s skin with chains and barbwire for six days straight; and on the seventh day, after there was no more skin to shred, he broke her bones, crushing them, one by one. And after Jude was done breaking her skin and bones, he bashed her face in.”

His head comes up and our eyes lock before he delivers the final blow, “Stella Jolie Reese was pronounced D.O.A., by not only paramedics, but the ER admitting RN.”

Chapter 44

Life

I’ve always considered my childhood, the reason for me being everything I was, both the good and the bad. Any strength I possess, I earned from my ability to withstand being drug through hell, time after time being broken, only to emerge from hell every brutal time stronger. Scarred, but stronger all the same. On the other side of that coin, it’s the scars left behind, the shattered pieces I glued back together after every horrible perversion I experienced which caused my nightmares to slowly creep into my strength and invade any sacred peace I held closely to me in life.

Don’t pity me. Don’t feel sorry for me. Everyone’s life is different. Everyone has their own issues and obstacles to overcome in life. Some worse than others; but it still doesn’t take away from the lessons.

Everything I experienced in my life led me back to Wesley Jacobs. Led me to the first and only boy I’ve ever loved. Wesley healed me. When I was wrapped in his arms, I became whole again. Wesley’s love is all consuming; it’s beautiful, courageous, fierce, and it was utterly precious. I will cherish the tiny moment in time, when I was his and he was mine, now and into my next life.

I was broken and scarred by the sins of others before Wesley came into my life and broke the ugly sins that bound me and held me as a prisoner. After he broke every piece of ugly I had left in me, he wielded me - bending me until changing everything I ever believed of myself, and then he covered me in his praise and protected me in his love.

So no, don’t pity me. Yes, I may have lived in hell, but in the end, it led me to being fiercely loved by a beautiful, strong man I fell in love with at twelve years old. How many women can claim they had a snippet of time in their life being loved by a man who is the epitome of their perfect, who is truly their soul mate?

Life is so poetic. The course and rhythm of it, the pulls and pushes, the give and takes, when what’s been reaped from what we’ve sewn.

When what nourishes us, heals us, and strengthens us sadly becomes the very thing that which destroys us.

All my life, I considered myself broken. What’s worse than being shattered? No one wants a broken thing. No one can love someone whose broken. I know now there is a difference in being broken and being destroyed. When you’re broken, you’re just broken; but when you’ve been destroyed…There’s no coming back.

Broken people are still living, destroyed people are not.

Chapter 45

Destroyed Angels

Trina, Eve, and Bo just left. It’s only Derrick and me in the waiting room. I keep telling him there is no need to stay but he shakes his head mumbling, ”I’m fine.”

Stella has been in surgery for over six hours. The admitting ER physician came in to call the time of death But as he walked through the door, the flat line on the heart monitor spontaneously indicated an agonal rhythm, a blip of a random heartbeat, meaning her heart began beating again while the ER nurses continued their CPR efforts.  The physician, seeing this random heartbeat immediately reacted. She was instantly prepped for emergency surgery.

Over the last six hours she died on the OR table eight times… but she came back to life nine.

I don’t care how many times she dies on that table, she better come back every time. I can’t live life without her. I won’t. So as long as she keeps coming back, I’ll refrain from blowing my head off, right before I fall from the top of my building.

I will not live without her.

Derricks nudging brings me from my thoughts, I look over at him, he nods and I follow his line of vision. I see the doctor headed in our direction and I leap from my chair. “Doc, how is she? Can I see her? I need to see her. Now.”

“She made it through the surgery. To be honest with you, I don’t know how. Sometimes, especially with cases as critical as Stella’s, as a physician - a surgeon - there’s only so much I can do. And frankly, it’s just a last ditch effort, a last resort that has me doing any and everything I know to do
just
to get through the surgery and my patient still be alive. In Stella’s case, I scrubbed in for her surgery wholly prepared to give everything I have to keep her alive and truly believing that it was an impossible feat. Everything I did, her body responded to almost miraculously. Now Wesley, we wait and pray she lives through her hour of recovery. After that, we wait and pray she makes it through the night.” He pats my shoulder and smiles. “I want you to stay steadfast, Wesley but also try not to let your hopes get too high.”

“Thanks, doc. What room is she in?”

“Wesley you don’t want to see her right now. Just head home, get some rest and come back later.” He moves to walk around me and I stop him, grabbing him by his shoulders, shaking my head.

“Room. Tell me what room she is in. Do not tell me what I want, where to go and that I need rest. You tell me what room she is in.”

“Recovery room three.” I spin and head towards the double doors.

When I see recovery room three, I take a deep breath to calm myself before walking in.

Nothing. Nothing could have ever prepared me for what I see.

Tears hit my eyes and I choke on a sob. “Angel?” I whisper across the dimly lit room.

I step closer towards the bed as my eyes scan her bandaged body, when I see her black and purple hand resting on top of the white sheet, I sit beside her, gently pick her hand up and cradle it in mine. Tears blur my vision before streaming down my face in rivulets as I sit there, staring at her tiny battered hand in mine. “I’m so sorry, I tried to protect you but I’ve never protected anyone before and I failed you. I knew there was something. I just didn’t know what it was. I’m so sorry.” Laying my head on the bed next to her hand in mine, I gently kiss it and try in vain to hold back the sobs. “Please, I know I’m a selfish bastard, I know I let you down and I know I’ll never deserve you but please, Stella, don’t leave me…Angel, please don’t die and leave me here alone.”

The sound of the door opening and closing behind me causes me to sit up and rub my hand down my face wiping away the tears before looking to see who walked in.

“Hi. I’m Dr. Hughes, Stella’s obstetrician. The attending physician consulted me after the SAFE RN finished collecting any evidence they may have found during the rape assessment.”

“God.” Agony slices through my already shredded chest. “Crucify me now. She was raped? A-fucking-gain?”

Why in God’s name is this woman still alive? How? How can one person bear so much excruciating torment, time after time and continue to live?

Stella may have made it through the surgery and she may make it through the night but if she makes it out of this alive, there’s no way she’ll ever be the same.

“You’ll have to wait and see what comes back after they’ve run all their tests. I’m sorry. I do need to do an assessment. If you’ll step out, I’ll have the nurses let you know when I finish.” She smiles.

She won’t be smiling for long.

“No. There isn’t any reason for you to be sorry. No, I will not step out. Anything you need to do to Stella, you can do with me sitting right here. I’m not leaving her side and I’m for damn sure not leaving this room, is that understood?”

“I’m sorry but I’m about to perform a trans-vaginal ultrasound to verify IF she’s still pregnant. So no, sir. It is not understood. Do I need to have security called? Because I will in order to protect my patient’s privacy.”

This bitch doesn’t seem to get it does she?

I keep Stell’s hand in mine and lean my other elbow on my knee before narrowing my eyes on her, “Dr. Hughes, let me be more clear. Stella is mine. That includes her pussy and her baby. Now, if the hospital policy states that the father of a woman’s baby cannot be present during the ultrasound of his own child, then I would probably call security if I were you, because you’re going to need help removing my six foot four, two hundred pound ass from this chair.”

I guess the hospital’s policy is in my favor. Dr. Hughes puts Stell’s casted legs in some leg holders and turns on the ultrasound machine. “Mr. Jacobs,—“

“Dr. Hughes, please, that’s my father’s name. Wesley is mine.”

Yes. I apologize. I know I’m being a total dick. But you have no idea the hell I’m going through! What if she lost the baby? I want that baby, that’s my baby. I made it, it’s mine. What if it’s already gone? What if it isn’t go—Oh my God…I’m about to see my baby. If it isn’t already gone. Please don’t be gone little baby.