A Life Less Broken (2 page)

Three Years Later

Did I lock
the door?

Are the
windows shut and locked?

Where’s my
panic button? Fuck, where’s my panic button?
Where the fuck is my damn panic
button?

I check my
pockets and it’s not there. Is it around my neck? Nope.

The sudden lump
in my throat prevents me from swallowing. My hands start shaking and my body is
immediately smothered in a blanket of cold goose bumps. Where is my panic
button? Why can’t I find it? I need it. Who took it?

My entire
frame freezes.

Have they
come back?

What if they
took it?

Are they
here?

I can’t
breathe. Black spots cloud my vision. I gasp for breath, my fingers tightening
around my throat. I stiffen.

Fuck,
they are here!

Where’s my
damn panic button?

I reach out
to lean against the wall before I fall, and I see it.

There’s my
panic button, on the hallway table.

I reach over
to where it lies, innocently waiting for me.

The moment
my fingers touch it, my body calms. I allow myself to relax. I’m alright.

They aren’t
here. They didn’t come back to finish me off.

I’m not
dead.

I wish I was.

I survived
them and what they did to me. Not without scars though. They ruined me. They broke
me, both mentally and physically. The voices inside my head tell me I’m crazy. And
I listen to them, because they’re right.

It’s been
one thousand and nineteen days since they destroyed my former life. They took
me, gang-raped me, and nearly murdered me. They left me disfigured, inside and
out.  Most days, I wish they
had
killed me.

I’ll never
have a child of my own. I’ll never be able to see more than blurs out of my
left eye. The top of my right ear was bitten off.  My body is scarred everywhere.

They took me
to a pond and dumped me in the water.  They thought I’d sink.  They thought I’d
drown.

But I
didn’t. Somehow, I made it to the shore and laid there for I don’t know how
long. A couple going for a walk finally found me and called 911.

For ten months,
I was in the hospital.

My pelvis was
completely shattered. My spleen needed to be removed. My collar bones were
smashed. Both my legs were broken, in four different spots. My arms were dislocated
from the shoulders and both forearms were snapped. My nose was crushed. My left
eye socket was completely shattered. There were bite marks and other scars from
having my skin torn open with knives.

There are no
mirrors in my house. I had them all taken out before I arrived home from the
hospital. I also had bars installed on all the windows, replaced my doors with double
reinforced steel inside the wood and had a state-of-the-art alarm system put in
before I set foot back in here.

Now this is
my sanctuary…and my prison.

My very own
heaven and my own personal hell.

I breathe
deeply to regain my control, or what little I have that hasn’t been consumed by
the disabling fear, and I go back to doing my usual security checks.

I look down
at my hand and grip the panic button like it’s my life raft in a perfect storm.

Did I check
the windows?

Are the
doors locked?

I may have
already checked them before my mini panic attack, but I’ll do it again. I need
to be sure.

My legs are
shaky and my heartbeat’s still thrumming away at an impossibly rapid rate, but
moment by moment, I begin to calm. This panic attack was more like a small hiccup,
not one of my more debilitating episodes that can last hours, days, or
sometimes weeks.

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.

“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 over 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.