A Life Less Broken Read Free

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