Broken, p.10
Broken, page 10
I can hear Jess saying my name, but I can’t seem to respond. My head is spinning, and black speckles are tarnishing my vision. I feel sick and dirty, blinded by his face and the sheer pleasure he took in breaking me.
“Walk away,” I hear, and I think it’s Paul again, followed by a moment’s silence. “Don’t push it, kid. Or I’ll be the one helping him bury your body after he beats you to death.”
“Dani?” I think that’s Damien, and he’s close. “Dani, look at me.”
I try, but everything is too blurry. I feel the warmth of Damien’s hands as he takes a hold of mine, holding them out in front of me. I feel him slide something cold between them, a phone maybe, before he slowly guides my right hand, holding the phone, outwards and then back into the centre again, all the while keeping my left hand dead centre in front of me. He repeats the process with my left hand, out then in, and then my right again, and so on.
“Focus on your hands,” he tells me. “Just keep taking deep breaths and focus on moving your hands.”
Damien lets go, and I find the strength to keep up the rhythmic hand motions. I don’t know how long I partake in the exercise, a good while I suspect, but eventually, I feel my heart rate slowing. I continue until Damien’s face comes into view, and my breathing is no longer ragged. It’s then I realise I have an audience. Paul and Raif are standing behind Damien, and Jess is kneeling beside me. The concern on Jess’s face is both strange and touching. I’ve never seen such worry sit upon her face before.
The nausea hits me, and I force myself to my feet, my jelly legs threatening to drag me back down. Running around the side of the building, I vomit violently and profusely all over the path. A touch grazes my neck, causing me to flinch.
“Hair,” Damien merely says, and I relax a little, allowing him to gently pull my hair to safety from the nonstop vomit ejecting from my mouth.
Eventually, my nausea subsides, and I lean upright against the wall as Damien lets go of my hair. I wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve, very unladylike. It’s safe to say any dignity I had left, if any at all, has well and truly vanished, never to be seen again.
“Are you okay?” Damien asks, and I laugh nervously. “Stupid question.”
Jess runs around the corner, swooping in for a hug, but I cut her off. “Please, don’t touch me,” I beg, leaving Jess standing in a puddle of confusion. “It won’t help me.” Hugging me now, and ergo, touching my torso, will only make the flashbacks resurface, and I’m not sure how much more I can take.
“Okay,” she says, her eyes betraying her, revealing her disappointment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” she argues. “You were attacked –”
“Please,” I beg again. “Just –”
“Let me drive you both home,” Damien offers, but I shake my head.
“I can’t go home.”
James lives across the hall, and there’s every chance he will be waiting for me; to apologise or attempt round two of his unwanted advances. I can’t handle either.
“Do you want me to call someone?” Jess asks. “A family member…”
“There’s no one to call,” I say, a little blunter than intended, suddenly realising just how little Jess knows about me despite our growing friendship.
“You can stay with me,” Damien says.
I can count a thousand ways that’s a bad idea, but I’ve already established I have nowhere else to go.
“I can stay too,” Jess adds, and Damien nods his head in agreement.
“No,” I tell Jess. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“I left you alone once,” Jess says. “I’m not doing it again, not after this.”
“Please,” I plead. “Damien will be there. There’s no point both of us having our night ruined, and I really don’t want a fuss.”
Jess hesitates for a minute, appearing not at all impressed with her arms indignantly folded across her chest. “You’ll take care of her?” she asks Damien.
“Of course,” he answers. “Although I’m not sure you going back to your flat is the best idea either, what with James…”
“Oh, I can handle James,” Jess spits, the bitterness spilling from her mouth like a waterfall of pure bile. “Trust me.”
“Damien has a point,” I suddenly say, my sensible side waking up. “James is obviously unstable.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Damien mutters, emitting the same bitterness Jess did only moments ago.
“Maybe you should stay at Damien’s,” I add.
“I’ll happily crash on the couch,” Damien says.
“Or you can stay with me,” Raif pipes up, popping his head around the corner. “My housemate is out of town for a few nights, and it’ll save Damien kipping on the couch.”
I can tell by the fierceness in Jess’s eyes that she wants to have a confrontation with James, but when she opens her mouth to protest, I cut her off. “I’ll sleep better.” Reluctantly, she relents by nodding.
After driving me to his home, Damien potters about, leaving me to my thoughts, and I sit, contemplating the universe and its hatred towards me. The memory of James’s hands, his mouth, his… An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. I force myself to take deep breaths as Damien appears, handing me a cup of steaming hot chocolate, and my lips curl into a small, grateful smile.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sitting beside me, the concern etched into his face a heart-warming sight.
“Honestly,” I sigh. “No.”
“I should have gotten there sooner,” Damien says with obvious regret.
“It’s not your job to protect me,” I remind him.
Damien looks at me, a sadness in his eyes that tugs on my heartstrings. “I wanted to cave his head in right there and then. If Paul hadn’t stopped me…”
I sigh. I’m the last person to condone violence, but I can understand Damien’s reaction. He cares about me, it’s as plain as day, and if someone hurt somebody I cared about, I’d react the same way.
“He would’ve deserved it,” I say. “But I’m glad you didn’t. He’d only have gotten you done for assault.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him. “I’m grateful you got there when you did. Even more grateful you managed to drag me out of a panic attack. Where did you learn that hand thing?”
“In the Army,” Damien explains. “Most guys won’t admit it, but panic attacks are pretty common out there.”
It’s one thing to train for battle, but to be in the thick of it is something else entirely, and I can imagine it’s overwhelming at times. I can understand it. It’s the same as hearing horror stories about people being held captive. Unfortunately, I can say from first-hand experience it’s not the same as living it. Nothing can prepare you for that.
“Well, thank you.”
“Anytime,” Damien says softly. “Have you thought about what you’re gonna do?”
“About James?” I ask, and Damien nods. “I want to forget it ever happened.”
Ha! That’s hypocritical considering I can’t seem to forget him and the shitstorm he put me through, constantly letting it hold me back even though I know I should be moving on. Maybe it’s because of him what James has done pales in comparison. Oh, I’m pissed off, and I never want to see his face again, but I’ve been through worse.
“You should go to the police,” Damien tells me.
Going to the police hadn’t even crossed my mind, though it probably should have. I shake my head regardless. “It’s he-said-she-said. He was drunk and stupid.”
“Please don’t defend what he did,” Damien pleads, moving to stand. “You don’t know how far he would have gone if –”
“Don’t,” I tell him, sitting up straighter. “Don’t go there. There’s no point dwelling on what-ifs. I’m fine.”
“He assaulted you,” Damien spits, lifting his hands behind his head, pacing the room. He’s pissed off, and I don’t blame him.
“I’ve got enough shit to deal with,” I say. “I don’t have the energy to add James to the list.”
Damien instantly softens, ceasing pacing and dropping his hands to his waist. He stares at me for a minute before sighing heavily and retaking his seat on the couch.
“It’s up to you, but I’ll back you up whatever you decide.” There’s a moment’s pause, yet it’s not an uncomfortable silence.
“You know what,” I say dramatically. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The attraction,” I admit. “I mean, look at me. I see my face in the mirror every single day, and nine times out of ten I still cringe.”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Damien answers.
“No, I’m not,” I insist, my eyes meeting his. Damien is exactly the person I should be asking because he sees whatever James sees too.
“Well,” he sighs. “For starters, that scar isn’t half as bad as you think it is.” Déjà vu much? “And you are beautiful whether you see it or not, but you seem to forget there’s more to you than your face.” Double déjà vu. “I’ve known you for two weeks and in that ridiculously short space of time, I’ve laughed more than I probably ever have. I’ve seen passion, a passion for music even I can’t compete with, plus compassion – you let Jess into your home even though you didn’t want to. Strength…” That draws out a laugh. “That’s your problem right there,” he changes tact. “Negativity.”
“It’s just standard with me, I’m afraid.”
“That’s because you don’t see what’s right in front of you,” he argues. “It doesn’t take a genius to see you’ve been through some shit, that you’ve got a few issues, confidence being one of them. I’m guessing anxiety is in there too.”
“A panic attack is a bit of a giveaway,” I half joke.
“Just a little,” he agrees. “But what you don’t seem to get is the strength it takes to even attempt to put the past behind you. I saw some seriously screwed-up shit in the Army, things I can never un-see, and when I got back, I didn’t cope with it all that well. I have demons and emotional scars that will never heal, and when I look at you, I see the same pain in your eyes.”
Damien can see right through me. It’s a little unnerving yet comforting. I’m finding myself longing to know more about him, to know what he’s been through and how he managed to overcome it. I want nothing more than to do the same, but it took serious professional help to get me to the nervous wreck I am now, so in all honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to let my demons go.
“I’ve been where you are,” he says.
“Where’s that?”
“Lost,” he says softly, reading me like a book. “Caught up in the past and ignoring the future.”
“And tell me again how that’s a sign of strength?” I ask, confused. “Last time I checked, strength ain’t running away and hiding.”
“Strength is putting one foot in front of the other and taking one day at a time,” he says. “Which, whether you believe it or not, you’re doing just by getting out of bed every morning.”
“If you say so.” I’m not entirely convinced by Damien’s definition of strength.
“I do,” he states, playfully smug. “I’d say the only thing you need to realise is that you don’t have to do everything on your own. You have people around you, and if you want my advice, lean on them. Don’t shut yourself off. You’ll be surprised how much letting people in helps.”
“I’m not so good at the talking thing.”
“Doesn’t have to be talking.” Damien shrugs. “Sometimes all you need is a shoulder to cry on and be willing to use it. And for God’s sake, wake up and realise that you are beautiful.”
I laugh, utterly amazed at Damien’s ability to make me feel instantly comfortable, despite the uncomfortable situation we’ve just experienced. He’s got a gift, that’s for sure.
“Why is it…” I stare at Damien in awe. “That I feel like I’ve known you for years?”
My paranoid side stirs, but I swiftly slap it down. I can’t spend the rest of my life thinking badly of people, especially not someone who has done nothing but be nice to me. Let’s face it, if Damien was connected to him, I’d be dead in a ditch or at the very least, tied up in the middle of nowhere.
“I think I’d remember your face,” Damien teases, and I gasp dramatically in fake offence. “Although can I ask you something?” I nod. “And I’m not looking for an explanation as to why. I just want to know so I don’t overstep the mark.” Another nod. “When Jess came towards you…”
I sigh. Damien is clearly always paying attention, even when I don’t realise it. “I don’t like to be touched,” I explain. “Or more specifically, I don’t like people touching my torso. Hands, arms, I can handle, but it’s a PTSD thing, or so my former therapist told me. It stirs up memories I’d rather forget.” I omit the feeling pain part to avoid Damien’s curiosity growing.
“I get that,” he says, nodding. “I’m the same with sudden, loud noises. Takes me right back to Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan,” I repeat. “You were posted overseas?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was rough. Almost died once after our truck was ambushed. At some point in the firefight, a bomb went off. I landed some shrapnel close to my spine, needed surgery to get it out, plus a nice bout of physio.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Didn’t feel that way at the time,” he says sadly, and I’m touched by his honesty. “Survivor’s guilt is a bitch.”
I know how that goes. I feel the same about my family. To lose everyone you care about and survive despite the odds being dramatically stacked against you is a lot to contend with. The combination of grief and a gruelling recovery is overwhelming.
“Is that why you were medically discharged?” I ask, putting the pieces together.
“My back is weakened,” he explains, nodding. “But the PTSD diagnosis didn’t help things.”
“PTSD is a bitch too,” I state.
“You know what you need?” Damien suddenly says.
“What’s that?”
“A drama-free day,” he answers. “A day of nothing but fun.”
“I’m pretty sure your idea of fun and mine are two very different things.”
I shake off the invading déjà vu, quickly reminded the last time I used that sentence was in a conversation with James, and James is the last person I want to think about right now. In fact, I want to burn his image to smithereens.
“Maybe a walk in someone else’s shoes is exactly what you need,” Damien argues. “Let me treat you the way you should be treated.”
And with that, my heart sinks and the guilt soars. My time is running out. Damien has made his intentions clear, and his feelings are growing deeper, his reaction to James is proof of that, but I can’t keep stringing him along. Yet I want to. I want to pretend we aren’t going to end the way I know we will because the beautiful man sitting across from me is the only person in the world who has a sliver of understanding as to what being mentally screwed up feels like. For the first time, I don’t feel completely alone, and there’s a newly introduced shred of hope pleading with me to cling to Damien for as long as possible.
Against my better judgement, I find myself saying, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Damien repeats, probably wondering if he’d misheard me.
“Okay.”
The sparkle in Damien’s eye tells me there’s every chance I may live to regret my decision.
Chapter Nine
He’s losing control. The towels are wrapped around my wrists, slowing the bleeding. I want to rip them off. I want the blood to flow until there’s nothing left. He’s not supposed to be back yet. I fight the urge to scream in frustration. This was my way out. My chance at freedom. My only chance at finally finding peace.
He’s angry. He’s screaming at me. There’s a scalpel in his hand. He’s waving it about like a rag. I flinch repeatedly, my eyes fixed firmly on the blade. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s usually so calm. Even when he’s hurting me, he’s collected. Relaxed, even. He’s never paced the room like a madman before.
I blink, and before I can register what’s happening, the cold blade penetrates my skin. The towels fall to the floor as I bring my hands up to my face. The blood seeps through my fingers, blinding my vision. I drop to the floor in shock, and I can’t stop the tears from falling.
“Fuck!” he yells.
I scream, bolting upright and soaking in sweat as yet another bastard nightmare plagues me. The bedroom door swings open, and it only makes me scream louder as I jump from the bed in shock.
“Woah,” Damien says. “It’s just me.”
Shit. Damien switches on the light, and after blinking my eyes into adjusting, I quickly scan my surroundings. I’m not at home. Why am I not at home? It takes me a minute, but then last night’s events come flooding back like a tsunami, overwhelming me and taking me under. I force myself to sit back on the bed, leaning my back against the headboard for support and pulling my knees up to my chest as a form of comfort. Damien tentatively sits down on the edge of the bed near my feet.
The tears start to fall. The sting of both assaults is lingering, and I cannot stop my fragile body from shaking. I notice Damien move slightly, and I don’t stop him from taking my hand, squeezing it tight. It’s all he can do comfort-wise, and he knows it.
“Nightmare?” he asks.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he insists. “As long as you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
What a wonderful night tonight is turning out to be. Or is it morning now? I don’t know without looking at my phone, and it doesn’t feel like a priority right now. First the James shit, and now I’m waking Damien up, screaming. I think Damien is being introduced to the broken mess that is me a little too quickly, and I’m suddenly wondering why he isn’t running in the opposite direction. Probably because we’re in his house.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I apologise again.
“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for hours,” he says softly. “You want to talk about it?” I shake my head. “In that case, I’m making breakfast, if you fancy some?”
