A Life Less Broken Read online

  I take one small step in front of the other, as I begin to walk around the bottom floor of my small two-story home.

  Doors, locked.

  Windows, secure.

  Alarm, on.

  I look around the family room at the nondescript furniture and lack of decoration.

  Beige. Everything I have is beige. The sofa is beige, the dining room chairs are beige, the walls and ceiling are beige. There’s no color in here.

  It feels exactly like my life. Color’s been stripped away.

  That’s another thing they stole from me the day they left me for dead. They took my ability to live a life of joy and love. Now everything I see around me is beige, the color of dead grass.

  The world is cruel. People are horrible. I hate people. I hate myself. I can’t love anymore. It was beaten out of me.

  After I was first found, my friends were supportive. But as time passed, they weren’t so supportive anymore.

  “Come on, Allyn, it’s been a year.”

  “Your therapist should be helping you.”

  “You’re stuck in the past.”

  “Move on, already.”

  Armchair psychology and platitudes. But they didn’t know how it was. They couldn’t even guess.

  One by one, they stopped calling. One by one, they stopped trying. One by one, they left.

  My parents wanted me to move back home, but I couldn’t. I hated myself enough without having them look at me with pity in their eyes. I didn’t want them to see me as different, to recognize what I’d become, because then I’d know that I was different. Hopeless.

  Moving in here on my own might not have been the best thing for me to do. But I learned to manage, to cope, to the best of my ability.

  Breath by breath, moments became hours. Hours turned into days, eventually morphing into weeks.

  My phone rings and I look at the caller ID.

  “Hello, Dr. Monroe,” I answer recognizing my psychologist’s phone number.

  “Hi, Allyn. How are you today?”

  “Um, I’m okay.” I lie.

  “Did you take that step out your back door today?” she asks.

  “Not today. But I will tomorrow.” No, I won’t.

  “Okay. As long as you tried.”

  “Yeah I got to the door and I even unlocked it.” No, I didn’t.

  “Well tomorrow, I want you to open the door and just breathe in the fresh air.”

  “Of course.” No way.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Allyn. And when I come I want you to tell me you opened the door and stepped outside.”

  “Okay.” No.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, Dr. Monroe.”

  I hang up and look at the phone blankly. She wants me to go outside, but she doesn’t understand. I haven’t been outside since I came home. I can open the door to my parents and to her, but not to anyone else.

  One step at a time, I make my way up to my bedroom. I lie on my back and stare up at the beige ceiling.

  The monsters under my bed scream at me. They feed my fear. They keep me locked in here, and won’t let me move on.

  But the monsters aren’t just under my bed.

  They’re deeply ingrained in my head.

  Chapter 2

  “Shut that cunt up, will ya, Mick.”

  It hurts. Stop. It hurts. No more. Stop. You’re hurting me.

  Help!

  I can’t breathe; I can’t scream. I’m suffocating. I’m going to die. Please just stop.

  No, no, please.

  Please.

  I begin to cry, I can’t…

  I can’t…

  No…

  I sit up in bed and grasp at my throat. I’m surrounded by silent blackness.

  My heart beats loudly. My breathing is ragged, and my good eye hasn’t adjusted to the darkness.

  Slowly I reach under my pillow and grab the handle of the knife I keep there. I grip it with such intensity and strength that I’m sure no one can pry it out of my hand.

  With my other hand I reach for my panic button, hanging safely around my neck. All I need to do is press the button to call security.

  But I listen.

  I hear cicadas in the huge old tree standing regal and protective outside my bedroom window.

  The steps leading upstairs make a squeaky noise when you put pressure on step four and step seven, and I listen, making sure they’re quiet.

  The native sounds normally surrounding me haven’t been interrupted.

  I’m safe.

  No one’s in my home.

  No one has come back to get me.

  No one is going to hurt me again.

  My fingers cramp, and I loosen my grip on my knife, returning it to its place beneath my pillow. I reach for the bottle of water I keep by my bed, unscrew it, and take a sip. Replacing the cap, I place it back on the nightstand and lie down again.

  Are the windows locked?

  Is the alarm on?

  Yes, I know I checked these.

  I checked them and double-checked them.

  But did I double-check them?

  I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, because the logical part of my brain tells me I locked them.

  But my fear screams at me to go check them again.

  Every night, this happens.

  Every single fucking night.

  I swing my legs out of bed, and flip the night-light switch on. I allow my vision to adjust before I go downstairs to check the doors and the windows.

  The routine is the same: check upstairs, go downstairs, and then check upstairs again before trying to go back to sleep.

  Half an hour later, the fear has been placated and I can attempt to go back to sleep.

  I lie in bed, this time leaving the small night light on as I stare at my beige ceiling.

  What if I had been sick that day, and Jolene was the one at work?

  What if Jason had been with me from midday, like he was supposed to be?

  What if I had fought harder?

  Why didn’t I die?

  What if…?

  My eyes begin to close. I can feel my breathing deepen and I begin to fall back into my nightmares.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  I open my eyes and reach for the cordless handset on the nightstand.

  “Yeah,” my sleepy voice sounds hoarse.

  “Allyn, can you open up please?” Dr. Monroe asks.

  What time is it? I look over to the clock to see it’s 9:05 a.m. I haven’t slept this late for as long as I can remember

  “Sure thing,” I reply

  Day one thousand and twenty is starting off alright. I actually slept for more than a couple of hours and I feel okay waking up.

  Maybe today is the day I’ll stop hating myself.

  I quickly slip on some jeans and a t-shirt and take the stairs two at a time to get to the door.

  I check through the peep-hole to make sure that it’s Dr. Monroe and that she is, indeed, on her own. I disarm the alarm, and open the door for her.

  “Morning Dr. Monroe. I’m sorry; I overslept,” I tell her as she steps through the threshold into my prison.

  Dr. Monroe flicks a quick look over her shoulder at me and smiles.

  “That’s quite alright, Allyn.” She walks into my beige family room and sits in the chair she always uses when she’s here, every Tuesday and sometimes Fridays.

  I lock the door, set the alarm, and before I step away, I double-check it. “I’m just going to make myself a coffee. Would you like one?” I ask.

  “No I’m fine, thank you. Go make your breakfast.”

  I walk into the kitchen, flip the switch on the electric tea kettle and mix my coffee as I wait for the water to boil. I look out the back window and my body instantly stiffens as I recognize the same sort of dark, gray sky that loomed over me that day.

  The day they warned me that my life was going to change. I watch as the angry clouds move at a glacial pace ov
er my house, seeming to give the same warning as on the day that drastically altered my life.

  A chill runs along my entire body, coursing through every part of me.

  I can feel it.

  The change.

  Something’s coming and it’s going to tear me apart. Force me to face my fears.

  “Allyn,” Dr. Monroe touches my arm and snaps me out of the thoughts consuming me. The boiling kettle is whistling.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Drifting with the clouds.”

  “Were you happy?”

  “As happy as I can be,” I reply.

  Is it? Is this the best it’ll ever be for me?

  Caught in a state of self-loathing, in a beige life, with a mind still imprisoned by fear?

  Is this it for me?

  “I’m glad to hear that, Allyn. Did you open one of your doors and let the fresh air inside?”

  I stir the hot water into my mug where the instant coffee and creamer already wait for it. “No. Maybe tomorrow.” Never.

  “Let’s go sit in the family room and talk,” Dr. Monroe suggests.

  I sit and slowly sip my scorching hot coffee.

  “Tell me about how you slept last night.”

  “I went to bed and woke up this morning.”

  “Did you wake up during the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a nightmare.”

  “What was it about?” she asks as she scribbles in her note pad.

  “The same thing as every other night. It’s always the same; it’s never different.” It’ll never be different. I can’t change what happened.

  “How did you handle it?”

  “I panicked and then I listened. And when I checked the doors and windows I was able to convince myself that they weren’t here and I was able to finally get some sleep.” I put the coffee mug on the small table in front of me and I stand up. I’m tired of this charade. Our conversations are always the same.

  “Will I ever recover?” I ask Dr. Monroe.

  “I can’t answer that question, Allyn. You need to want to help yourself.” This is the answer she always gives me.

  “You don’t think I want to help myself?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is the progress you’re making.” I can feel myself becoming frustrated.

  “What progress am I making?” I ask her as I start pacing.

  “What progress do you think you’re making?”

  Fuck.

  She’s so damn frustrating. I’m sick of this. I don’t want more questions, I want some answers.

  I can’t do this shit anymore.

  The monsters in my head need to leave. I can’t be crazy anymore. I can’t do this. And Dr. Monroe isn’t helping at all.

  “Get out,” I say without turning to her.

  “But your session’s not over.”

  “It is now, get out.”

  I walk back into the kitchen and wait as Dr. Monroe packs her things.

  The ominous gray clouds stare down at me, taunting me with their darkness. I feel as if I’m drifting toward them. A dark light focuses on me, dragging my broken soul and fractured mind further into the black mists.

  I feel nothing but constant misery and unrelenting despair.

  I’m tortured by the memories that have plagued my soul every minute of every day for the last three years.

  The gray clouds suck me in, the blackness in my soul keeps me there and darkness surrounds me.

  My world will never be right again.

  I merely exist. I will never be alive.

  Chapter 3

  Locking the door behind Dr. Monroe, I set the alarm again and go back to the kitchen. Jumping up on the counter, I cross my legs in front of me and just look.

  The sky is trying to tell me something.

  The evil, dark clouds that droop over my home scream at me, performing a duet with my fear that says they’re not going away without taking my shredded soul with them.

  But for now, I’m safe inside my refuge, just me and my own private nightmare.

  I watch as the overcast sky finally breaks and water droplets fall like tears from the gray cumulonimbus. Rain doesn’t just fall, it hammers the ground in sheets, with ferocity. It wants me to know that it will never go away; it will never let me rest.

  I’m forever boxed into a world of shame, humiliation, and sorrow. This is the universe telling me I will never be allowed to heal.

  The moments sitting on the counter transform into hours. The rain doesn’t ease. The gray just turns darker.

  Finally, after what could be hours of wasted time, I get up and walk into the family room.

  What a stupid name for a room.

  Family room.

  I’ll never have a family of my own. That option was brutally taken away from me. I’ll never get the chance to experience being a mother, carrying a child in my body.

  I’ll never be able to feel the kicks of my baby as it turns and stretches inside me.

  The chance to hold that precious, tiny person in my hands is gone.

  Molding a baby of my own flesh and blood into a person who knows nothing but unconditional love.

  That part of life has been stolen from me. Selfishly trampled on, like an ant whose life meant nothing.

  Do I have no purpose now?

  Does my life have no meaning?

  Was that why I was selected to have my life broken? To be disfigured and destroyed.

  Am I nothing more than nothing?

  A life of opportunities was given to me the day I was born, and those opportunities were taken from me the day they killed my will to fight.

  I walk over to the TV and lift off the sheet that covers the screen’s surface, turning away before my eyes can focus on the reflection of the damaged face staring back at me.

  I sit on the sofa and reach for the remote. My mind is frail and I need to distract myself before I do something that I may regret.

  Or I may not.

  I turn the TV on and start flipping through the channels. There’s nothing interesting, nothing that can erase the horrors swamping my mind.

  “The remarkable story of survival by these three courageous women is one that I’ll never forget. Four months ago, Amy, Lauren, and Shannon managed to escape from eight years of being held captive by convicted rapist and pedophile Corey Traipsy. Welcome ladies, and on behalf of our viewers, I just want to say the strength all three of you have shown is nothing short of awe-inspiring.”

  I watch as the female host interviews them, individually and collectively. They were each kidnapped from just outside their homes and were used for the perverse and horrific sexual gratification of their captor.

  “Tell us, how have you managed to survive in the outside world in the last four months? I mean it must be just so difficult to assimilate back into a normal life,” the host asks with exaggerated empathy.

  The three women sit together, tightly holding each other’s hands, their bodies pressed close to each other. They’ve been beyond hell, for days, weeks, and years. I can see it in their eyes. “Um, we’ve all had extensive therapy with an amazing man, Dr. Dominic Shriver, and we’ve also had great support from our families and friends. But for us, the most important thing is the bond the three of us share. We’ve been witness to things that no one should ever see; we’ve all experienced life at the devil’s hands.”

  “Tell us all about Dr. Shriver and how he’s helped you,” the host prompts.

  “Dr. Shriver’s help is the main reason we’ve been able to survive with our sanity intact.”

  The camera cuts to a man sitting in the audience. He’s got broad shoulders, like a swimmer, and extremely dark, straight, neat hair. He simply smiles and nods once before the camera pans back to the ladies.

  Those three girls are sitting on the sofa, telling their story but I’m no longer listening.

  I can’t even see the light after
almost three years of self-hatred and fear-ruled emptiness.

  They’ve taken their suffering and agony and turned it into power by reliving their story.

  I turn the TV off and replace the sheet that always hangs over it.

  I go back into the kitchen and sit on the counter, looking outside at what’s now a light drizzle. The sky is still dark, but the rain has eased and it doesn’t seem so angry any more.

  I pick my phone up and dial 411.

  “Directory Assistance,” the bored voice says.

  “Dr. Dominic Shriver, please,” I answer.

  Getting his number is easier than I thought, the operator gives it to me and I write it on the notepad I retrieve from the top drawer, just below where I’m sitting.

  I stare at the number.

  He helped those three women.

  Can he help me? Suddenly hopeful, I dial.

  “Dr. Shriver’s office,” a sweet female voice answers.

  “Um, hi. Um, my name’s Allyn and I’d like to see Dr. Shriver please.”

  “Dr. Shriver doesn’t have an opening until eight weeks from tomorrow. Do you know where his practice is?”

  “I can’t come there. He has to come to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but Dr. Shriver doesn’t make home visits.”

  My palms start to sweat and I can feel my heart pulse faster.

  “Um, I um, I really um…”

  A tremor sets in and my hands are now shaking.

  I can’t do it. I can’t leave my beige home. What if they are just outside waiting for me to leave?

  “I um,” I shakily stutter. There’s a ringing in my ears and my vision’s being overrun by a dense, black haze. “I can’t breathe,” I struggle to say. My breathing tightens, starting to come in short, rapid gasps.

  I slide off the counter and sit on the floor with my back up against the kitchen cabinet.

  “I can’t,” I say through a tight, constricting hand clasped around my throat. Tears flood my eyes and black spots start dotting my vision.

  “Hello. Can you hear me?” A deep male voice says to me over the phone.

  “I… they’re every… I can’t…” My chest is rising and falling rapidly.

  “Shut that cunt up, will ya, Mick.”

  “Listen to my voice. Can you lie down for me?”

  “They’re in…”