Damaged (Damaged Series Book 1) Read online

  Damaged

  J.L. Benson

  Copyright © 2014 J.L. Benson

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to those who told me I could, and those who told me I couldn't.

  To my grandmother who always believed in me, to my mother who served as the painstaking realist, and to my father who lost his own battle with cancer in 2006.

  Chapter 1:

  White Rose

  The electronic sound of a bell chiming announced my presence as I pushed my way through the heavy glass paned door at the pawn shop. The thick metal bars on the window made me feel like I was doing something I shouldn't, but I was doing what I needed to do. As much as I needed to constantly remind myself that I needed to do this for my own sanity.

  This was my only option. I anxiously chewed at the inside of my bottom lip. I'd been chewing at my lips so much lately that I was afraid I would soon taste blood.

  I'd never been in a pawn shop before, and it wasn't particularly something I ever wanted to do again. Outside, the streets were wet from the freshly fallen rain. The smell of wet concrete made me feel more alive than I had in days or weeks even. Stepping into the pawn shop I felt the familiar feeling of numbness return.

  I carefully navigated my way between the glass display cases of gaudy jewellery and supposed antique coins. I approached the man behind the counter. He was a large, bulging man who reeked of cigar smoke. His hair was black, slicked back with product and streaked with gray. His olive tone skin looked leathery and old.

  "Can I help you?" He asked in a thick European accent.

  I nodded, mustering my confidence and moving toward the counter. I had felt slightly ridiculous leaving the house with two purses on my arm. But I had other things to do any other issues to deal with.

  I lifted my brand new Prada bag from my shoulder and placed it carefully on the counter. "How much can you give me for this?" I asked.

  The man frowned and picked up the purse, examining it inside and out. He toyed with the label and inspected the stitching.

  "Is it real?" He asked, turning the bag over in his thick hands.

  "Of course it's real." I answered, rolling my eyes.

  "Did you steal it?" He accused.

  "Are you kidding me? My mother bought it for me. Would you like me to call her and ask her to produce a receipt?" I demanded.

  The man behind the counter shrugged slightly and turned the purse over again. He opened the purse and peered inside.

  "How much?" I asked again.

  "I can give you six for it."

  "Six hundred?" I demanded. "It's worth twenty-six hundred!"

  "I can't give you that much. I will not make a profit if I give you more." He shrugged. "I can give you twelve hundred but I need to take your name and phone number. I can give you half now, and half tomorrow."

  I considered this for a brief second. I couldn't stay in this city one more moment. I couldn't stay in this life for another moment.

  "What is the absolute most you can give me? Cash." I asked. "Right now."

  He drew in a deep breath. "Nine hundred is the most I can give you."

  "Fine, I'll take it." I replied.

  "Okay." He nodded, moving the purse behind the counter. He opened his cash register and counted out the money--three hundred dollar bills, four fifties and the rest in twenties.

  I folded the money, shoving the wad of bills into the pocket of my dress. I was glad that the dress I'd chosen for my father's funeral--although plain, black and nearly shapeless--had pockets. I didn't give myself time to change. Nearly the moment the funeral was over; I had slipped out one of the side doors and made my way to the nearest subway train.

  I thanked the man politely and rushed out of the store. I crossed the street quickly and pushed my way through the doors of Grand Central Station just as the rain began to fall again.

  I drew in a deep breath and looked around. There were people everywhere, scattering in many different directions. The long, tall arched windows looked like three darkened ominous eyes staring back at me. I shuddered.

  The tall arched ceiling and the stone walls and floors made me feel like I was in some ancient Gothic tomb. I felt stifled; like the walls were closing in on me. This wasn't a new feeling; I'd been feeling this way for a long time.

  I jogged down the stairs, being careful not to slip on the wet stone.

  I made my way through the crowds of people toward the ticket booth. I joined the queue and waited impatiently. I ran my hands through my damp curls anxiously, glancing from side to side.

  I wondered if my mother had noticed that I had left yet. I wondered if my mother had found her way to the bottom of a bottle yet. I wondered if the people from the funeral home had dropped off the various flowers that had been given to us for the loss of my father.

  From the moment I found out that my father had passed away; through the funeral arrangements, through the funeral itself... it had all been a blur. A dull streak of numbness that I couldn't quite shake. I felt like I was running on autopilot. I was going through the motions but my heart and my head were somewhere else entirely.

  I remembered every split second of when my dad was sick. I remembered the day my parents told me he had been diagnosed with cancer. I remembered the hope and the sheer determination that he would beat the disease. I remembered crying myself to sleep. I remembered it all.

  When my mother started drinking to numb the pain, I felt alone and abandoned. We should have stuck together as a family. But my mother chose hard liquor. I'd lost one parent, and I couldn't stick around to watch another fade away into oblivion.

  I had to get out. I had to put as much distance between my mother and me as possible. I couldn't handle this. I was only just seventeen; I couldn't be the parents I had lost.

  "Next please!" The woman behind the ticket booth called.

  I felt like I was drowning. Like I was gasping for air, but all I was managing to draw into my lungs was water. There was a huge, heavy weight on my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. It was this city. It was all of the memories waiting just below the surface.

  I was oddly conscious of my breathing, the air was escaping in short, shallow spurts. My heart hammered hard in my ears.

  "Next!" The woman barked louder.

  I shook my head, shaking away any distraction that was fogging my focus.

  I quickly walked to her station. She was peering at me from behind a thick plastic window.

  "Where to, miss?" She asked me, sounding bored.

  "What's the next train out of here?" I asked. "Something that's leaving right away."

  "Umm..." the woman behind the counter clicked a few buttons on her computer. “There's a train leaving for Chicago in five minutes..." She started. "With connections there for most of the other states..."

  "Sounds good." I replied. "How much?"

  "One way or return?" She questioned.

  "One way." I said, without thinking. Without even needing to blink. I knew I wasn't coming back here. There was absolutely no way I would ever return to this city or this life.

  "Okay, that will been one hundred and seventy-eight dollars and fifty-three cents." She finished.

  "Fine." I remov
ed a few bills from the wad in my pocket. Even with the money from my pawned Prada purse and the little cash I had saved, I would soon be running out of money. I was going to need a job and a place to stay. I would need to decide where I was going and soon.

  "Will you be making connections in Chicago? Where are you going, perhaps you could purchase your transfers here and save yourself some money..." She offered.

  "I don't know where I'm going." I shrugged. I took my ticket and my change and turned away from her booth.

  I had to sprint halfway across the terminal to make the train on time. It was made difficult by the fact that my plain black ballet flats were sliding on the wet stone floor.

  I surrendered my ticket to the conductor and barely waited for my ticket stub. "No baggage, miss?" He asked.

  I didn't dignify this with a response. I simply shot him a look which conveyed that I didn't want to be spoken to or bothered.

  I moved my way through the aisle and found a seat at the back. I plopped down next to the window and immediately put my legs across the seat next to me.

  I laid my head back against the cool window pane and shut my eyes tightly. I racked my brain. I clearly hadn't thought this through, but there was no turning back.

  Did I really want to spend the rest of my life taking care of my mother after I'd spent my teen years looking after my father? Did I really want to spend my time picking up my mother from whatever situation and position she decided to pass out in?

  I was already isolated enough. My former friends had already alienated me over the secrets I'd been forced to keep regarding my father's illness.

  Could things get any worse? Could I get any more isolated and lonely than I already was?

  Surely I had to be better off on my own than with my mother. Getting a job couldn't be that bad. I had enough money, perhaps I could stay in Chicago for a couple of months. I could get a job to pay rent and save up enough money to move on... I'd never had a job before, but surely working in a fast food industry couldn't be that hard.

  I removed the money I had in my pocket and the little money I had in my wallet. I added them both together and counted it. There would be no way I could possibly have enough for a first and last month’s rent for my own place.

  I reached into my pocket and produced the only keep sake I had from my old life in Manhattan.

  I had taken it from the flower arrangement that had been sitting on top of my father's closed casket. It was a single white rose that seemed to be calling to me from its resting place with the other roses and blue carnations. I had slipped it into my pocket without anyone else noticing.

  The closed bud was already starting to wrinkle and wilt. I had seen flowers after they'd been professionally dried, and I hoped I could keep this one.

  I didn't have any pictures of my father; I'd never thought to bring any. This single, white rose was all I had left of him and of my previous life.

  I stepped off the train in Chicago, and walked into the station. I moved my purse in front of me and hugged it tightly to my stomach, hoping that the added pressure would still the dull ache of hunger that resided there. I felt so hungry I might possibly either pass out or vomit. I needed something to eat, but I would run out of money quickly if I indulged. If I waited, the hunger pangs might actually go away.

  I found the concessions and purchased a bottle of water, hoping that if I at least had some liquid in my stomach, I might be able to last a little longer without food.

  Seventeen hours on a train left me feeling exhausted and sore. My limbs and muscles felt choked with sleep. I felt like my hands and feet didn't have blood circulating in them.

  I paced back and forth in front of the arrivals and departures board. There were almost limitless possibilities. I could go to California, or I could go to Texas. I could even probably escape to Canada or Mexico if I wished. For the first time in my life I felt truly free. Free to go where I pleased, or do what I wished. Free to escape the heart break and the tears of my family falling apart.

  But in retrospect, this wasn't entirely true. I wasn't free. I couldn't escape these things. I could have gone to the moon and back and still wouldn't put enough distance between me and my hurt and memories to make them go away.

  I crossed the waiting room and plopped down on an empty bench. I dropped my head into my hands and sighed. What the hell was I doing?

  I was a spoiled rich kid from Manhattan and I was behaving like a spoiled rich kid from Manhattan. When things weren't going my way, I flew into a temper tantrum and ran away. Suddenly I wanted to cry.

  Had I come too far to go back? Was there a way of rectifying this problem without actually surrendering to my mother?

  I sat up straight and took several long, deep breaths. It was then that the idea dawned on me.

  I stood up and crossed to the departures board. I quickly scanned the departures board. In an hour and forty-five minutes there was a bus departing to Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  My parents were originally from there; it was where they had met and married. My paternal grandmother still lived there. Aside from my dad's funeral, I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I knew her as a very sweet, kind and loving woman. Surely she would understand. Surely she would take pity on me and let me stay with her, at least for a few months until I found a job and saved enough money to support myself.

  I wasn't too keen on living in Oklahoma. My mother always talked as if the place was full of inbred hicks and rednecks.

  Surely it couldn't be quite that bad. My mother was prone to hyperbole, especially when under the influence of drink.

  But my grandmother hated the city. And had I had heard her telling some people that she was planning on flying out of New York as soon as the funeral was over. She would definitely be back in Oklahoma by now.

  Could it really be that bad? Surely I could stick it out for at least a couple of months. I'd been through so much in the last few years with my father being sick, countless surgeries, and months in the hospital and watching my father deteriorate slowly. Surely Oklahoma couldn't be that bad.

  I made up my mind while waiting in line at the ticket booth. I got my ticket and went back to the concession stand. I bought myself a gross looking sandwich. I hadn't eaten in days, and I was so hungry I choked it down without too much thought.

  I chased the horrible sandwich with a can of diet soda and waited. I tried to distract myself, trying desperately to remember when the last time I'd eaten was.

  I remembered when we'd gotten the call from the hospital. I remembered when my mother had told me that my father had passed away. After that it was a blur. I remember losing the contents of my stomach in the kitchen sink. I couldn't remember eating anything after that, and that had to have been a few days ago. I knew the funeral had all been planned in advance; it was to be a private event ending in my father's cremation.

  I didn't remember much else. I remember standing in the funeral parlor. And I remembered people talking to me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. The names and faces and condolences were all one big blur.

  I toyed absently with the skirt of my dress. The skirt was decorated with hundreds of tiny holes and eyelet lace.

  I chewed at my lips and twirled my long dark curls around my fingers. My hair felt frizzy and messy. I needed a shower. I felt like my skin was covered in dirt and grime. I needed to brush my teeth.

  I pushed myself up from the bench and walked until I found the women's washroom.

  I slipped inside the heavy metal door and walked toward the sink. I turned on the taps and moved my hands under the stream of water. The water was freezing cold, and no matter how hard I turned the hot tap; all I could get was cold water.

  I splashed the cold water on my face, sighing. I felt slightly better.

  I splashed cold water up my arms and scrubbed briskly at my skin. I reached for the paper towel and dried my face and arms, discarding the used paper into the trash can.

  I placed my hands on either side of the sink a
nd leaned toward the mirror. I looked pale and mousey. My hair was a frizzy mess. My eyes looked heavy and bloodshot from days of crying. I looked exhausted, like I hadn't slept in months. I tried to remember the last time I had fully slept, but I couldn't remember that either. I shut my eyes and tried to think, but all I could see behind my eyes was my father's casket with him inside. I opened my eyes quickly and stared at myself in the mirror.

  I reminded myself that I needed to be strong. I'd come too far now to have a meltdown in the women's washroom at a Chicago bus and train depot.

  I had come too far to fall apart now. I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I turned the water back on and wet my hands, attempting to smooth down my now unruly curls.

  I decided that I had spent enough time in the washroom, so I turned away from my disheveled reflection and went back to the waiting area. There were people coming and going in all directions; a sudden burst of energy in an otherwise sleepy station.

  I checked my ticket for my departure terminal and decided to wait by the terminal to avoid missing my bus.

  Compared to New York City, Oklahoma state seemed like a barren wasteland. To some, the description of both places would be reversed. But New York City was and probably would always be my home. The glistening lights and the crowded streets felt normal to me. It felt like I belonged there. I belonged in the city with the towering, tall buildings straining toward the sky. I belonged walking along the gum-speckled sidewalks and the streets dotted with yellow taxis.

  In New York, there is always something to see. To some, the constant barrage of billboards, flashy cars, lights and window dressings would be mind boggling. To me they were a part of life. They were the everyday treat to the eyes that made New York unique.

  In this same sense, Oklahoma seemed incredibly boring. When I watched as the barren, flat plains of farmland pass by the bus window, my jaw almost fell into my lap.

  Instead of bright yellow cabs, there were huge bulky, beastly animals dotting the grasslands. Instead of tall, silver looking buildings, there were bright skies and large billowing clouds. Instead of window dressings there were large, all-encompassing trees that blocked out the sun for what seemed like an eternity.