Can't Be Broken Again

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Hi you guys! Well this is not my first story sad to say, BUT I am very proud to say this is my first Wattpad story! I am very excited for critics to read because that's only going to make myself a better writer. Love all who review this for me. Now I am using a real place as my setting and it was recommended by a new found friend named Cammi-Sue. If you guys haven't checked out her work you should. She's really an amazing writer.

NOTE! THERE IS SOME GRAPHIC IMAGING IN THIS CHAPTER. I WILL PUT AN * WHEN IT GETS THERE. ITS UP TO YOU TO READ.

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"Come on, Mom," I groaned as I turned around putting my head into my hands. My mother had been taking me to every shop in the mall for the past four hours! Granted I did get some really cute Jesus sandals, but now she was trying to shove me into every dress she came across.

"Stephanie Marie Jackson!" She growled warningly, "If you do not, and I mean if you do not, open this door this instant I will cut off your cell phone and take away the internet at home...." That was a threat that I took very seriously. My cell phone was a way for me to survive these torcherous trips to the Westfield Mall.

I took one last look in the full lenght mirror in the Hollister store we were in. My dirty blonde hair was up in a pony while a few loose tendrils hung down outlining my face. No make up was anywhere in sight unless you counted the light coating of light pink lipgloss that was on my lips. My friends were jealous of my perfect skin. I had never once gotten a zit of any kind which made me happy.

I twirled a little too see how the dress my mom had picked out flowed. It was a spagetti strap white dress that was sinched at the waist and flowed out in a cute skirt that seemed to glitter in the light. I had a baby blue jacket on that stopped halfway down my back and tied around the front. As I slid into my light brown cowgirl boots the outfit seemed to complete itself.

"Steph?!" My mom called out sounding a little more pissed off than she was earlier. I knew that after she saw this dress on me she would sober up. It was a perk of being an only child. It was just me and my mom these days. My ass of a dad ditched us when I was a year old. I was "lucky" he stuck around that long. He sent alimony every week, but I honestly just hoped he kept the hell away.

My eyes were trained at the floor as I opened the door. I knew what my mom's eyes would look like. She would have this teary eyed expression as I twirled for her.

She took a sharp breathe and slowly let it out, and I looked up to meet her eyes as a blush crept up my face. There was no doubt my mom was going to squeal like a teenage girl. Jamie Lynn Jackson was a teenager at heart and nothing more. She was my best friend when I had none, and that was why I loved her so much.

She had blond hair like me, but it didn't have my brown streaks. I had gotten my slim figure from my mom too along with my deep brown eyes. We could be twins if the age difference made it so apparent that we weren't. The only thing that I had that was from my dad would be my smile. It was big and true and had a meaning to it.

"Well?" I asked as she just stared at me a moment longer before she let a few tears leak out of her eyes. Alarm and concern immediately registered in my head as I rushed to envelope her in a hug, 'Mommy? What's wrong?"

Her arms wrapped around me and gave me a squeeze before pulling away, but keeping me only arms length as she took in the dress again, "Your growing up way too fast young lady," she whispered.

Before a word could escape my lips she shoved me back into the dressing room, but not before warning me "to have another one on" before she came back. Gotta love moms, right?

After another hour in Hollister, I made my escape........ But that did not last long. She ended up dragging me into the Cinnabon store before it closed. Mom knew that a cinnamon roll was like a drug to me. The icing was seriously my favorite thing about the roll. Yes the cinnamon  was amazing itself, but the icing was sweet and sticky and made a bun a bun.

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