Broken Souls

Prolouge 1 - Her Story

The day I killed my father was the beginning and the end of my life. I can still remember the sound of the sirens blaring and the loud bang of the door being kicked down. I still remember the feel of the cold tile mashed against my cheek after being tackled and having the bloody knife pried from my fingers.

I can still remember what the cold plastic of the fold out chair felt like against my thighs as I sat in the police station. I remember how the red lipstick smeared across my court appointed lawyers coffee-stained teeth as she told me how lucky I was that the case was ruled self defense.

I didn't feel lucky.

Honestly, I didn't feel anything at all.

I was sent to a foster home three states away in the mountains of Colorado. The foster home was a huge cabin snuggled into the lush green, forested woods. The most beautiful place i'd ever seen became my own personal hell. While the courts deemed me not guilty, the universe still felt like I had a debt to pay, and this place was gonna see to that. It's easy to remember the look of disdain on the faces of the inhabitants of the foster home because they never stopped looking at me that way.

Dean. The name of my tormentor. He hated me from the moment I got there all the way up until he phased out the system and left for college.

At seventeen, he was only four years older than me but he pretty much ran the place. I couldn't even deny the unmistakable presence of power that radiated off of him, demanding your full attention whenever he walked in a room. He was always the tallest one in the room, and had an intimidating physique because he worked out constantly like he was training for something.

Whatever he told them to do, they listened. He told them to be mean to me, so they did. He told them to hit me, so they did. He told them he hated me, so they hated me too. The adults put there to "protect" me did the same.

I never screamed for help or tried to stop it. I took every punishment they dealt out because when Dean hit me, I finally felt something. No matter how much it made sense to hate him, I couldn't. He didn't know it, but he was giving me something I needed. I guess I felt like I deserved to be punished too.

Every bruised lip, every black eye and cracked rib felt like a relief from the nothing I felt inside. His piercing stormy, dark grey eyes hidden under his overgrown dark hair looked like they were waging a war behind them. Some part of me felt like he needed it too.

When he left he told everyone to continue my torture but that they couldn't hit me, that only he could, but he never came back.

He took away the only thing that made me feel. So like an addict in need for a fix, I went out looking for something to ease the pain. I started fights that I knew I wouldn't win. I made enemies with every hot head in school. Picked every argument I could in hopes I get my fix. My addiction got me expelled from high school my junior year. I didn't even bother going back to the foster home. With nothing but my backpack and the five bucks I had on me for lunch money, I became homeless.

A year later I'm working as a shot girl at small bar in Denver. The manager pays me cash under the table since I'm still seventeen. Luckily puberty gave me all the peaks and curves I'd need to confuse people long enough they don't ask questions.

I made just enough to rent out a closet sized room in a shitty neighborhood. I barely made enough to live but I didn't care. I barely even wanted to live anyways. Death seemed like the only thing I had to look forward to in a life like mine. I've contemplated suicide more times than I can count but what stopped me was the pain. Once I start to feel the pain a small sprout of hope grows within me. If I can still feel the pain, maybe I can feel other things too.