Shattered and Shaken (2 page)

The cold water snaps me back into reality. I immediately cut the water off and step out onto the rug to dry myself. Going over to the vanity, I brush my teeth and hair, preparing myself for the day. I take one last look in the mirror. “You'll survive.”  If I can convince my brain that I'll be okay, maybe my heart will believe it too. I throw on some loose grey sweatpants with a white tank top and head downstairs to brew some coffee. No matter what's going on in my life, coffee makes it all better, for a few moments anyway.  

As I step off the last stair that leads into the foyer, I stop dead in my tracks. The delicious roasted aroma overtakes my senses; it smells divine. After soaking up the coffee's delicious scent, I make my way through the living room to join my mother in the kitchen. For someone who buried her son yesterday, she doesn't look too bad. I mean, you can tell she's been crying by her red swollen eyes, but somehow, she has a peaceful look on her face. She's sitting at the island in the middle of our kitchen with a cup of coffee, reading her Bible.

“Morning love. Sleep well?” she asks, smiling up at me from under her lashes.

“No,” I admit, bemused. How can she be so calm after experiencing something so tragic? My soul is empty and a major piece of my heart's missing, and there's no way I could force a smile across my face. So, why isn't she mourning the loss of her one and only son?

“Figures. You look like crap,” she puckers.

“Way to brighten up my day,” I smirk.

She reaches over and pulls out the stool next to her. “Allie, come sit. There's something I want you to read.”

Walking to the counter across from the island, I pour myself a hot cup of black coffee. As the mug approaches my lips, I feel the heat from the steam; it's hot enough that it'll burn the hair off my tongue; however, it doesn't stop me from sipping it.

I enjoy the blissful feeling as the heat travels down my throat. Gently placing my coffee onto the counter, I slide into the stool beside her. “What ya got?” I hope she isn't going to shove her Bible down my throat. I was raised in a Christian home. I believe in God and all, but as you can imagine, I'm having a little difficulty in the faith department.

I'm not questioning God's existence. I just question his works. Our parents taught us that when two or more people gather in His name and agree on something, it'll happen, but what happened with my father? We laid hands on him and believed in his healing, but cancer took his life. Mom and I held hands each night and prayed for Kyle, and now, he's dead. So, I'm sure you can imagine my lack of faith.

Aw hell, here it comes “I came across this verse and I think it'd do you some good to read over it,” she insists, sliding her Bible in front of me.

“Mom, I really don't feel like reading that
bullsh-,” 

“Allie, don't finish that sentence!” she demands, cutting me off. “This isn't like you. Where's this attitude coming from, huh?”

“I haven't slept….my soul’s been shattered, and the last man to ever love me is dead. That's where this is coming from! What I want to know is how you can sit here reading that shit, acting like everything's fine,” I yell at the top of my lungs.

She slams her coffee mug to the counter and scoots her stool away from the island. “Okay, I'm going to let that slide because I know you're hurting, but if you ever talk to me like that again, and most importantly, if you ever call God's word “shit” again, I'll knock every tooth in your mouth loose. You got that?” She turns away and storms out of the kitchen leaving her Bible wide open in front of me, exposing the highlighted verses.

With a roll of my eyes and an exhale of breath, I take a sip of coffee and relax. As I look down at the yellow highlighted lines, they draw my attention. Ecclesiastes, chapter 3 reads, “A time to be born and a time to die. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.”

Ironic, isn't it. It's the story of my life. My eyes begin to shed unwanted tears and a lump forms in my throat. If there's a time to heal, why isn't it happening to me, huh? Why are my wounds ripped open before they're able to scar? Hanging my head, I let the tears flow freely.

Mom sneaks behind me, gently laying her hand upon my shoulder. “Let it out, love. You'll feel better. It's okay to miss him, but you can't be angry at Kyle or with God. We'll all go through trials and tribulations, but you've got to stay strong in faith and depend on Him to get us through this devastating time. God's in control. Remember that, Al,” she whispers.

Arguing with her is pointless, so I nod in agreement to avoid confrontation.

Chapter Two

IT’S BEEN A LITTLE
over three months since I saw my brother laid beneath the cold, hard empty ground. Mom's kept busy; she decided to pick up another job, at the church of all places. She seems to be doing fine, as long as she's accompanied by someone. It's when she's by herself that the sadness sets in. I'm not okay, but I'm trying my best to return to normal. I guess you could say that I'm a work in progress, and I have been for quite some time now.

I finally gathered enough courage to clean up the shattered glass and busted frames I knocked over. Seeing Kyle's face felt like a sword was being pushed through my stomach; sharp pains radiated throughout my entire body. The pain was on the verge of being unbearable. I haven't slept since finding out about his death. Insomnia has become my new best friend.
  Late at night, I go into his room to lie in his bed and wrap myself into his comforter; it still smells of him. His scent doesn't help me rest any better, but it helps to ease the pain and emptiness that's consumed my chest. The circles under my eyes are ridiculously dark due to lack of sleep. Thank God for concealer, right? Make-up helps to cover the way I feel on the inside. On the outside, I'm as pretty as ever, but on the inside, I'm empty; my soul is black.

Since Kyle's death, I've gotten into a new routine. Each morning, I get up before the sun rises and go out onto the deck. Taking a seat in his favorite chair, I sip my coffee and enjoy nature's peace. And as I watch the sun rise, I speak to him as if he's here in person, hoping he can hear me. I didn't get to tell him goodbye or how much he meant to me; how much he still means to me. I'd give anything to hug him one last time, feel his arms around me and have that feeling of protection I no longer have.

When I finish my coffee, I go for my morning run. It's something Kyle and I did together when he was home. I run our usual three-mile path, but it's lonely running without him. Kyle would strap on his iPod without headphones, just so I could hear the music as we ran. I no longer run listening to music. Actually, I try to avoid listening to music at all. Everything I hear reminds me of Kyle; he loved music. He believed that behind every song laid someone's life experiences, and that we could relate the lyrics to our lives in one way or another.  I loved music as much as Kyle did, until the day after his funeral.

I attempted to go for a ride out by the lake, but as soon as I started my car, Tim McGraw came through my speakers and bitched-slapped me with his “If You're Reading This” song. Have you heard it? If not, don't - it's fucking depressing.

After I finish my run, I eat some breakfast, take a shower, and lose myself in the life of my fictional families. Before Kyle's death, I had over a hundred books on my TBR list. I've knocked out at least ten of them due to my lack of sleep and social life. Don't. Judge. Me. Reading's my addiction and it helps me escape from my shitty reality. Every now and then when Mom's off from work, we'll rent some movies and pig out on as much ice cream as our stomachs can handle. My stomach knows no limit, hence the morning runs.

It's unusually gorgeous outside for an April afternoon. Normally, it'd be pouring down rain, but today, the humidity is low and it's around seventy degrees. Instead of
staying in and consuming myself with a certain Mr. Holder, I'm going to go for a short run. I'm a little depressed today, and they say sunlight is the natural cure. Throwing on some spandex shorts and a sports bra, I pull my hair up into a loose knot and head for the door.

“Whoa there, killer, slow it down,” Mom screeches as the grocery bags she was carrying fall to the floor.

“Sorry, just headin' out for a run,” I announce, helping her pick up the bags.

“A run, huh, in your bra and panties?” she gives me a once over. “I mean, you might as well not wear anything at all; that doesn't cover much.”

Bless her heart, she's so old school. “Well, I've never been one to streak, but if you insist,” I say, shimming out of my shorts playfully.

“Aw, put your clothes back on and get going, but hurry back. I want to make you some dinner. It's been a while since we've had some girl time, and I miss you, love.” Wow. Depend on Mom to bring down the mood; damn Debbie Downer.

“I'll make it quick,” I reply, giving her a swift kiss on the cheek. Turning away from her, I exit the door, and as soon as my feet hit the porch, I take off like a bat out of hell.

After I finish my run, I'm famished and thankful Mom is making dinner. As I enter the house, the delicious smell of seasoned grilled chicken causes my mouth to water. If I were to stick out my tongue, it would drip faster than Niagara Falls. Slipping my shoes off, I head straight for the kitchen.

“Just in time, love, made your favorite,” she says, smiling proudly.

“Good, it's about time you cooked, woman!” She's made us a scrumptious grilled chicken salad with vegetables from our garden. I grab the tongs and place a large pile of leafy greens into my bowl, dash some dressing onto it, grab a breadstick, and dig in; it's exquisite.

The juices from the chicken leak in my mouth as I bite down, and the seasonings have my taste buds erupting like fireworks on the fourth of July. After I scoff down the salad and basically lick my bowel clean, I stand to take my dishes to the sink when suddenly, mom takes my hand and urges me to face her.

“Allie, I want to ask you something. I don't want you to flip out or feel obligated, but as you know, Kyle's birthday's next week, and well, the church is holding a service in remembrance of him and I-”

Immediately, I cut her off. “No. Mom, no, I can't; I won't.” She releases my hand and all hope disappears from her face “I can't look at his pictures, let alone visit his gravesite. I keep telling myself that if I don't see it, it isn't real. I can't go back there and re-live his burial. It hurts too much,” I explain. If I can convince my brain that he's overseas on tour, then maybe my heart will believe it too, eventually.

I head upstairs to take a quick shower and erase the sweaty grime from my body, and as I make my way to the bathroom my phone vibrates; I have several texts from Blake and three missed calls from Sophie.

Blake
: Hey, hotness, what's up?

Blake
: U ignoring me now?

Blake
: At least let me know you're okay, dammit!

Blake
: Fuck it! I'm on my way!

Immediately, I text him to let him know that I'm fine; informing him that I went for a run and left my phone behind. I assure him that I'll call later. He doesn't respond so I assume he's satisfied with my reply; either that or he's on his way over. I set the phone down and it vibrates again,

 
Sophie
: Why aren't u answering ur fuckin phone?

Sophie
: Please, don't make me come over and go all bat-shit crazy on ur ass!

Aw hell, not again. Texting her the same as Blake, I turn my phone off and head for the shower. After I finish washing myself, I stand under the water, letting it run over me until it turns cold. After I finish drying off, I open the door to exit the bathroom and enter my room.

“Holy fuck!” I scream, as my heart falls straight through my vagina and crashes against the floor. There's a little, hot Italian woman sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning back with her legs crossed and her red stiletto's bouncing. “
Soph, what the hell? How did you even get in here?” I ask, motioning to my door that was clearly locked, but is now open wide.

“Picked it,” she replies nonchalantly, shrugging as if it's no big deal.

“That shit's illegal. You know that, right?” I await her answer, but she's silent. I'm becoming uneasy. She's staring like she wants to bite me. “Why are you staring at me like that?” I ask, raising my brows.

“You, my dear, have one hell of a body. Makes me wanna bat for my own team, again." Slutty Sophie say what? Again? What the hell does that mean? We've never discussed her sexual orientation, but with all the plumbers leaving her apartment, I'd just assumed she loved penis.

“Again?” I ask, curiously.

“Oh yeah, girl, but that's a story for another day,” she replies, walking over and rummaging through my closet.

“What are you doing?”

“Well in case you forgot, which I assume you have, it's Friday and you promised to join us at Willie's,” she reminds me, holding my clothes up to her as if she's going to wear them. I don't have a problem with her wearing my clothes, because we usually share anyway; however, she already looks hot as fuck.

She's wearing black skinny jeans along with a tight red low-cut top, showing off her tan midriff, and exposing her cleavage. Her long silky-black hair flows down her back and her red peek-a-boo streaks stick out, matching her outfit perfectly. I hate to love her beautifulness.

“Here, witch, go put this on and hurry the hell up,” she demands, handing me a pair of dark-denim skinny jeans with a pink and black striped halter. I throw on the clothes and head to the bathroom. Thankfully, my skin's blemish free and I don't require much make-up. Ha! Make-up, making up for the looks your ass don't have.

I put on a little face powder, make my eyelids smoky, elongate my lashes with black mascara, and trace my lips with light pink gloss. Curling my hair, I pull it back into a loose ponytail so that the curls drape perfectly around my shoulders. Spraying myself with perfume, I head out to my room, and as I open the door, Soph shoves a pair of pink strappy pumps into my arms. “Here, strap these ladies on and let’s get goin'. Damn, woman!” She's so bossy.

“Zip it, bitch; you can't rush perfection,” I inform her, strapping on the pumps. Reaching behind her, I grab my clutch and exit the door, but Sophie doesn't follow. “
Comin'?” I motion out the door.

“Can't,” she replies.
 

“Why?
Ohmygod, if you tell me I need to change, I will kick you in the vagina so hard your granny will scream in pain,” I hiss. She doesn't want to test me, not tonight; I'll do it!

“Hell no, woman! I'm dumbfounded. Your sexiness paralyzed my mind for a minute, I forgot how to walk,” she stumbles playfully as she walks past me, slapping me on the ass. God, I love this woman. If you don't have a Sophie, you better start taking applications now. She's a total bad ass, and no one should have to spend their life without someone like her in it.

We arrive at Willie's around ten fifteen, and for a Friday night, it's not too packed. Willie's is a small local bar with a great dance floor. The bar is L-shaped, the walls are wood paneled, and it reeks of sex and booze. As I wiggle my way through the dance floor, my eyes clash with the most handsome man in the room. He stands at six foot three, has lean muscles that go on for days, shuffled light brown hair, a gorgeous smile, and hypnotic hazel eyes. He's friggin' gorgeous, like Calvin Klein underwear-model sexy.

Blake stands and waves me over to him. Running full force, I jump into him and wrap my arms tightly around his neck. “Hey, beautiful, I've missed you,” he whispers in my ear.

“You have no idea how much I've missed you,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. Blake is my security blanket. I know that I'm safe with him, and as much as I wish I wasn't, I'm dangerously attracted to him. I know we don't stand a chance, but it's nice to pretend.

“Drink?” He kisses my temple and waves his arm, calling the bartender over. “What can I get you pretty ladies?” Ladies? Ladies is plural, meaning more than one, and I'm the only lady with Blake; unless he's referring to Blake as a woman. If that's the case, things are about to get real ugly.

“We'll have two eight liquor ass kickers,” Sophie shouts, squeezing between Blake and I.

Eight liquor ass kicker? I don't know a damn thing about alcoh
ol, but this shit sounds lethal. “Soph, what's an eight liquor ass kicker?”

“Eight liquor's, one drink, dangerously delicious,” she explains, taking her drink from the server.

“Maybe I shouldn't.” I push my drink towards her.

“No? What happened to 'I'm twenty-one and I'm gonna start living like it'?” she asks, using those damn air quotes I hate. “News flash, Al, this is what you're supposed to do when you're twenty-one; drink, dance, party, have lots of sex, and lose yourself in the moment.” She's holding her arms out, spinning in a circle like she's in heaven.

Calling the bartender back over, I consider asking him to change my drink to coke on the rocks, then I look at how much fun everyone's having, and I think, to hell with it - I'm living it up tonight.

The bartender delivers us a third round of these ass-kicker things, and I'm taking '
em down like a woman - nose holding and all.

“Whoa! Al, be careful with that shit. It's been known to kick a few asses in its time,” Blake informs, playfully nudging my shoulder.

“Yeah? Well, let it kick away,” I insist, tipping it back. Holding up the empty tube, I alert the bartender I want another round. Soph mimics my action and the bartender delivers us another drink. Soph takes hers back and heads for the dance floor.

“Girl, I'm
goin' to find me some candy,” she announces, dancing her way across the bar.

Holding my tube up, I clink it against Blake's beer. “Bottom’s up, baby," Blake smiles, shakes his head, and releases soft chuckles. Bringing the tube to my lips, I suck the liquid down, and the alcohol burns as it slides down my throat; however, it doesn't burn enough to stop me from wanting another one. Signaling the bartender to bring me my fifth round, Blake reaches up and pulls my arm down onto the bar. “Damn, babe, slow down! Give those a chance to kick in. The effects from alcohol don't kick in immediately. That shit will hit you as soon as your feet touch this the floor.”