All the Broken Pieces: (Broken Series Book 3) (25 page)

The frame and folder still in my hands.

I turned to her, my face on fire at the idea of what she must have thought seeing me there with that folder. “I didn’t… I mean… I was getting Teach’s picture… trying to help make it homey for you.” I sputtered so much I sounded like I was having a goddamn seizure. “I didn’t read… didn’t open anything… I’m sorry.”

She nodded slowly. “I know, Brant.” She stepped into the closet and grabbed her forgotten robe off of one of the hangers. “It’s okay. I believe you. And I don’t care if you want to read it—though you may want to skip the pictures.” Her gaze landed on it and she tensed. “Yeah, definitely skip those, but I don’t care what else you see. If you haven’t been scared off by the shit you already know, I doubt the contents of that folder are going to send you running for the hills.” She leaned down and kissed my forehead, walking out of the room and leaving me staring after her in a daze.

I eyed the folder warily, thumbing the cover but not letting it fall open just yet.

Something told me that it wasn’t a gift I’d been given but her trust in me most certainly was.

Setting the photo frame aside, I sat cross-legged on the closet floor and cracked open the pages of Lauren’s story.

The file had once belonged to her psychiatrist, state appointed and specializing in child abuse cases. The first segment was an overview of Lauren’s case, how she came into the state’s custody, her background, the criminal charges filed against her abuser. All of it was there, in addition to an envelope that held photographic documentation from her treatment at the hospital.

I skipped the photos, as she suggested. I didn’t think I would ever recover from a thing like that, anyway, and instead looked to the attached paperwork. I sat there reading in soul-crushing detail how the hospital had tended her numerous, horrific injuries and how they ended up taking her tiny, eleven-year-old uterus. I learned how the department of child welfare kicked her around from one foster home to another, with several group homes in between, while denying Teach’s petition for custody.

Toward the end of the file, the counselor made note that Lauren—who was sixteen by that time—was filing to become an emancipated minor but could be denied because of her refusal to participate in her therapy appointments. There was an underlined note that said Lauren was offered a ‘deal’ but no specifics were outlined.

It was the last entry from the counselor.

The next several pages were stapled together and handwritten.

Looked like I would learn about the deal directly from sixteen-year-old Lauren.

To whomever is pretending to be concerned,

I don’t know what you are expecting to read here, what admissions you expect from me after all these months and years of prodding and prying got you exactly nowhere. You think forcing me to write this shit down is going to help either of us? Do you really think holding up my emancipation is ‘in my best interests’ (a phrase I’m so goddamn sick of hearing I could scream, by the way)?

Will it make you feel like you succeeded if I pour out every terrible detail on these pages, giving you a disgusting play by play of my childhood? Will you puff out your chest and call yourself the winner in this battle of wills?

Fine.

You want to know? I’ll tell you. I’ll give you your five ‘relevant’ facts about me that are not found in my file, as requested. And when it’s done, when the last page is read and you’re sporting that smug fucking look of self-satisfaction that you finally broke me, you better get out your fucking pen and sign that release so I can get on with what little life you assholes have allowed me to keep.

Buckle up, bitch, you’re in for a rough ride.

You asked me to tell you who I am, how I see myself…

I am no one.

I am no one’s child, no one’s charge, no one’s protégé.

I am only pain.

There isn’t a time I can recall growing up when I didn’t hurt somewhere. My arm from being grabbed, my face from being slapped, my head from being shoved against the wall whenever I happened to be in someone’s way. My body hurt from head to toe most days, but the pain was especially bad after Isaac did those things to me. For a long time, I fought nausea and constant pain in my private places, in my stomach and my chest. I didn’t know that I had internal damage. No one spoke to me enough to ask if I was okay.

No one cared.

When I was eight, after one of Isaac’s late night visits, I woke up bleeding in the middle of the night. I remember running to my mother’s room crying, begging her to help me. She was too stoned to give a damn. She pointed to the bathroom and told me the stuff to take care of it was in there, then she picked up her straw and went right back to doing lines.

The bleeding stopped after a while but my belly always hurt after that. I did everything I could think of to keep Isaac away. I even started wetting the bed on purpose because it repulsed him and he would leave the room after calling me disgusting and dirty. Sometimes. Other times, he would just do it to me anyway. I had no escape. No one to help me, love me, or protect me.

Is this what you wanted to hear? Are you happy reading this, happy to have the vivid details of my terror? I bet you can practically smell the piss-soaked sheets, can’t you? And that’s what you want.

Yet you people are worried about my mental stability? What a crock of shit.

But that’s not enough, is it? No, no. You want at least a thousand words, right? Minimum. Because a little taste of my pain isn’t enough. A vague retelling wouldn’t get you off. It wouldn’t make you feel superior behind your high-dollar desk.

So, how about I tell you that I was hungry every day of my life until Parker Jameson moved next door and started giving me food? How about I tell you about being eight years old and walking half a mile to the food bank to beg them to please give me the food my mother was too stoned to go pick up? Or how I hated summertime because there was no school, no free lunch ticket waiting for me, no free breakfast to keep my already aching stomach from growling all day?

Had enough yet? Of course not.

How about the shame I felt when I was ten and sneaked to one of the Goodwill donation sites to steal clothes because I didn’t have anything to wear. And I don’t mean that in the way someone like you means it. I didn’t look through a full closet with a scowl on my face because nothing in it appealed to me. I truly had nothing to wear. Isaac burned my clothes as punishment for fighting him when he was hurting me. So I stole. I took whatever I thought would fit. I didn’t know my size because no one had ever taken me shopping, so I just held the stuff up and guessed. Sometimes I took shoes I knew were too small and wore them anyway because they were name brands and I didn’t like getting picked on at school. Once, there was a tattered leather jacket in one of the bins. It was too big but I wore it everywhere. I loved it because it was thick enough so that my mother’s slaps didn’t sting.

When I was taken into foster care, my mother was asked to send my things, which I’m sure you know, but did you know all of it? She did send my stuff. She shredded every stitch of my stolen clothing and put the scraps in garbage bags. The only thing that wasn’t completely destroyed was that jacket. I was so happy to see it. But when I put it on, I realized there was a huge hole gouged in the leather over my heart. I cried. And when I put my hands in the zippered pockets, I found a note from her. Do you know what it said? Would it make you happy to know that my own mother wrote me a note saying I ruined her life and she wished she’d killed me in her womb? Does that help you mark another box on some stupid checklist?

I think I’m close to your minimum number now, but I’ll throw in a bonus story before I get to the things I actually WANT to tell you. Then I’m so done with this. And with you.

Did you know I had a dog? I bet you didn’t. That’s probably not in my file. So add this to the checklist, will ya?

There was this stray dog that used to roam the neighborhood. Mangy, skinny, and covered in scars. If he weren’t so small, some kind of terrier mix probably, people probably would have run from him. That’s how awful he looked. He was pretty scared of people so he kept his distance for the most part. Smart dog, if you ask me. Anyway, I used to hide behind the shed in the backyard and read or draw or do homework by myself, anything to stay hidden from my mom and Isaac. So, one day, I look up and there’s the dog. He’s just sitting there watching me, looking ragged and thin and tired… like me. But when I moved to try to pet him, to get close to him at all, he ran off.

But he showed up the next day. This time, he sat closer. Not begging, just watching. There really wasn’t a need to beg to me anyway, I was as hungry as he was.

Every day he did this until soon he was close enough to touch. But I didn’t touch him. I don’t think he really wanted me to. He didn’t want to be petted. He just didn’t want to be alone. So we sat like that every afternoon. Just keeping each other company. Some days I would have scraps from my lunch that I saved for him but I had to toss them away from me because he wouldn’t eat from my hand. And that was okay. I just liked not being alone.

The little dog bit Isaac one day when he was hurting me in the backyard, trying to drag me into the shed so he could do bad things to me. He kicked at the dog but it wouldn’t run away, it just kept circling and growling through the matted hair covering its face. When he couldn’t chase the dog off, Isaac made me dig a hole and toss in a scrap of food so the dog would jump in after it. Being half-starved, the poor little guy jumped right in.

And Isaac shot him.

Then made me fill in the hole.

My only friend was gone. I never even got to pet him. I never got to thank him for trying to help me.

I didn’t have another friend after that.

Then Professor Jameson moved next door. He was nice to me. He talked to me when he saw me out in the yard. He gave me food and treated me like a real person for the first time in my life. He asked me questions and actually listened when I answered. I wasn’t invisible to him and I loved that. And when Isaac cornered me in the shed that day when I was eleven? Professor Jameson saved me. Protected me. Nearly killed Isaac for what he was doing to me.

And people like YOU took him away.

Why? Because giving custody of a little girl to a single man wasn’t appropriate?

How fucking dare you?

If I’m not so jaded as to think all men are pedophiles, what fucking right do any of you have to think that?

Instead of sending me to live with the one person on the planet that cared if I lived or died, you stuck me in a string of foster homes and group homes like I was the stray dog. I didn’t need you to save me from him. I needed him to save me from all of you. Just like he saved me from Isaac.

You told me at my very first session that I was a victim. That I had to make peace with the fact that I would always be a victim. Do you remember that? You want to know why I never confided in you, never uttered a single word of my story? That is why. I’m not a fucking victim, you condescending bitch. I’m a survivor. I survived what was done to me back then and I’ll survive the bullshit you people are putting me through right now. I could have been out of these sorry ass excuses for foster homes years ago but you wouldn’t allow it. You wanted me to be a victim, to play that role, so you kept me in your ‘care’, barring Professor Jameson from taking me in, from saving me from your bullshit.

And now that I’m trying to save myself, here you bastards are trying to stand in the way again. Well, I did what you asked. I told you my story so you can sit there with your wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of your pointy little nose and feel important. You won. I caved. I’m a lowly wretch who you managed to break. But newsflash, lady, I was already broken so you’re not blazing any trails there. Sorry to disappoint.

But a win is a win, right? You get to smooth the fabric of your designer skirt, walk out of your big office on those over-priced heels, crawl into your fifty-thousand-dollar car, and go back to your quaint little house on the ‘good’ side of town with your head held high in triumph.

Congratulations.

Now, sign the fucking papers so I never have to look at your smug face again.

Sincerely sick of your shit,

Lauren Caldwell,

Class A Reject

•••

I flipped the page to find a copy of the emancipation petition.

Complete with the counselor’s signature.

•••

When Lauren finally reentered the bedroom after an inordinately long shower, I was surprised to find her smiling and in good spirits. She didn’t seem fazed at all by my knowing her history in such detail. In fact, the first thing she did was kiss my cheek and stroll into the closet to get the file.

She took the messenger bag and plopped down on the end of the bed, pulling out the folder and setting it beside her. She rummaged through the bottom of the bag and retrieved a small scrap of paper, placing it on top of the file before returning the bag to the closet. As she stepped back into the room, she looked at me with a grin. “I was thinking while I was using up all the hot water, and I decided it was a good night for a fire.” She glanced at the file. “What do you think? I bet the pages would make good kindling and I’m ready to watch them burn. Do you suppose Kade keeps marshmallows around for occasions such as this?”

I slid from my position propped against the pillows and laughed. “If not, I’m sure we can have some delivered.”