Broken: Book 1 of the Scars and Sorrow Saga Read Free Page B

have to face myself in the mirror soon enough, but I cannot take it now.
    I allow my legs to unfold so that they are straight out in front of my body. I sit up, giving my muscles a few more minutes to amend. I reach forward and turn the shower off. I take my time pulling myself up to the standing position. My head grows light, and for an inkling I fear I may pass out. I fill my lungs with air to their depths and exhale slowly.
    Okay, a little better. I need to find my bed. What time is it anyway?
    I step onto the navy blue terrycloth rug neighboring the shower and welcome the softness on the pruned soles of my feet. Without deciphering, I look up and there I am. The mirror is situated across from the shower. The image cannot be missed. The girl standing in front of me cannot be me. She looks lifeless, helpless, comatose, disgusting, unattractive, and flawed from head to toe.
    My eyes look sunken in with deep smokiness stretching from the inner canthus of my eye down along the bridge of my nose and over to the opposite corner of my orb. My lips are puffy with a tiny bite mark that is now scabbed over on my bottom lip, confirmation of the assault that had taken place on my mouth mere hours before. My black hair is in disarray. Part of it remains tied back in a messy knot at the base of my neck with dirt and grass tangled within it, more proof of the attack.
    I have a few scattered bruises on the biceps of both arms. Another reminder of what I lost, what I will never get back. I thought I was damaged before, I had no fucking clue. I am broken, forever. I am impossible to love. I am unworthy, and this is why. This is what I get. This is what I deserve. No one wanted me before, no one will ever want me now, except the man that stole from me. He is all I can get.
    My eyes lazily trace their way down to the place on my body where I stow my sorrows. I am still composed, not allowing myself to shed a tear. I lift my shaky pruned hands from my sides and touch first. My stomach twists itself in a way I have never felt. I gasp in surprise as my eyes meet where my fingers are grazing.
    What in God’s name have I done to myself? This is it. I cannot take this any longer. This world is too cruel. Too cruel. Too much heartache. Too many tears. Too much despair. Too much evil. I am near the end, I feel it within the dark abyss in my soul; the soul I once had. It is gone. It was taken last night. Is this what the end feels like?
    Nonnie, please help me. Please. Give me strength. Give me courage. Give me something to pull myself together. I cannot break Momma’s heart. I disappoint everyone. I need you more than ever before. I beg you, please help me. I have no one. I am alone, all alone.
    I am catatonic, unable to articulate the chaotic thoughts within my bustling mind into actions. I am fixated on the gaping wounds, eight to be exact. The other self-induced cut I gave myself before hitting Brownsmith Road last night is just the usual, it is like the others. These eight are the epitome of unlovely; they are the embodiment of me.
    Lyla Elizabeth Harper is vanished, incessantly.
    I cut so deep that the adipose tissue from my belly is exposed. There is clots of blood within the cut. My skin is separated and sagging apart from each side. A knock at the door sets me into frenzy. My heart begins racing, my knees feel weak, and I want to vomit from the nerves that are setting off currents to every cell in my body. All I can think about is how in the hell can I explain this?
    “Lyla, baby? You in there? It is 7:30, honey. I made some breakfast. Come eat with us,” says my mother.
    “Yes, Momma. Be right there.”
    I am completely shocked at my ability to sound so normal. I look worse than death, my thighs are still faintly bloodstained, my stomach is repulsive, and I have bite marks and hickeys on both of my breasts. My nipples are chapped from his forceful suckling, and I am sure that there isn’t a part of me that isn’t in pain.
    Pull