A Graceful Mess Read online

  What? Is he spying on me?

  I don’t know who he thinks he is or why all of a sudden my blood is boiling from just from the sight of his truck, and then in the shadows I see him leaning down, hiding. Anger invades my thoughts. Why would he be hiding? And then a rush of raw emotions comes over me.

  Why doesn’t he want to see me anymore? Was there something I did? Was I not good enough?

  Maybe he had to trade me in because I wasn’t kinky enough for him. I thought things were good. We were friends – well, whatever we were, lovers – for a brief time, and the sex was the best of my life. Considering I don’t have much to compare it to, it was still good, for me at least.

  That’s it!

  I’m not going to be a prisoner to my own sorrow anymore. I feel like I am literality drowning in it. I have spent too many years afraid and in the silence of my own mind. Parker unleashed me, he made me whole again, and poof! Without notice, rhyme, or reason, he just abandons me. The old Grace would shrivel up in her insecurities and let it eat at her – not that I haven’t had a little bit of a pity party for the past few weeks – but here is my chance to get some answers. Marching over towards his truck I am caught off guard by two strong hands that grab my arms and hold me in place. My feet are no longer moving and I am being held by the devil himself. My throat feels tight as my breath catches. I don’t move as my eyes make contact with his face. A rush of memories overwhelms me as his smoky, whiskey scent fills my nostrils. His brown eyes hypnotize me, just like they did that night.

  I can’t scream; all I can do is whisper, “Brody?”

  His Adam’s apple moves up and down and his eyebrows frown, but he doesn’t respond. His grip gets tighter.

  Ten, nine, eight…

  He will not hurt me again. I am not that quiet, weak Grace I used to be. Parker made me stronger and made me feel more alive in the short time we have known each other than I ever have in my entire life.

  “I told you I would find you, Gracie. You think just because the baby is dead, our love died too? That it was that easy to get away from me?”

  “Let me go!” I twist and turn violently in his embrace trying to get away.

  “Help! Someone help me!” I scream as if my life depended on it, which it does. No one knows what he is capable of.

  It feel like hours pass as I scream for help in his arms. Those dark brown eyes, masked with such evil, peer into my soul. The same eyes that held me down, that taunted me. The eyes of the man who raped me over and over, before killing my child.

  Nightmares filled my nights for days, weeks, months after the incident. My parents decided it would be best if I saw someone, a therapist, someone who had a license to help girls like me: victims of sexual assault.

  I met with Sally for a long time. I felt safe in the nook of her four office walls. Brody couldn’t get me there, not even his memory. She felt if I could face the events of that night, I wouldn't be so scared anymore. Victims of assault will often suffer from some type of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Since I was almost eighteen, it was my parents' decision, and they supported Sally's recommendation. Sally was right. The cognitive-behavioral therapy brought back the events, and it made things worse. The images were more vivid than they ever were. Brody Hendricks raped me, over and over. I recall the day I had my hypnosis. Before that, I did everything to block out that night, but once the memories came back there was no hiding from them.

  Brody had come over. He said he had a romantic dinner planned and wanted to celebrate finding out the gender of our baby. Ever since I’d made the decision to carry the baby full term and then give it up for adoption, his demeanor had changed. We started fighting a lot, and he even got aggressive with me a few times. I never put up with it, and he almost always stopped, but that night he seemed excited. He knew the plan. Once the baby was born, it would be handed off. I couldn’t stomach the thought of ever having an abortion. I’m not against it; it just wasn’t an option for me. I remember him calling to apologize for being a jerk. He knew this was my decision, and said he supported whatever I wanted to do. I believed him, so I agreed to go with him to my parents’ hotel. He said it would be discreet and we wouldn’t have my brothers and parents around. The quietness sounded nice.

  We arrived at the hotel and things seemed normal. The room was decorated with candles and rose petals. He seemed very attentive to my needs. I was only sixteen weeks at the time, but my small body already had a bump. We ate dinner and laughed, and then he wanted to have sex. I remember I was really tired and told him I didn’t want to. I climbed on the bed and asked him to come lie next to me. It was like looking into someone’s eyes and watching them suddenly go black. The sight was pure evil; the sight of his anger radiating off of him still haunts me to this day.

  The mood in the air shifted when he knelt down beside me and said, “I love you, more than I love myself, but I would have loved that baby more. Do you know what children go through when they are adopted? One minute things are good, but then your fake family gets tired of you and you’re stuck in foster care until you’re eighteen. Do you want your baby being bounced around from house to fucking house with soulless part-time parents?”

  Anger filled the room as he spoke. His facial expression turned cold. I couldn’t speak. Did he really bring me here to scold me for a decision he said was mine, one which he said he accepted?

  “You are an evil disgrace and your actions sicken me.”

  It was then that the open palm of his hand connected with my cheek. I wish that was the extent of the thrashings, but it wasn’t. Brody beat me until I couldn’t move, and took me unwillingly several times, all the while shouting, “I’d rather the baby be dead than live in a shitty orphanage.”

  Finally, I just succumbed to his will. There was nothing left in me to fight him away. When I did muster up the strength, he penetrated me harder and deeper. There was blood everywhere. The sheets were soaked with red saturation and it was then, with the sight of the white cotton sheets turned red, I knew I was having a miscarriage. I read about them in my pregnancy books, but it hurt worse than I ever would have imagined. I don’t know if it was the pain of him pushing into me so roughly or the result of losing the baby, but the shooting pain in my stomach felt like a hundred daggers being stabbed into me. The reality was it was a small pocket knife that tore my flesh open. Now, I have a scar there – present and never fading. A scar that is a daily reminder of the night Brody raped me and attempted to cut me open.

  Tears and blood blurred my vision as he said, “I’ll kill the baby myself before I let you give him up. Do you hear me, Gracie? I will fucking kill this baby and you for making such a selfish decision and then I’ll kill your precious parents for supporting that decision.”

  It was like he was possessed. This wasn’t the Brody I met my freshman year of high school, but a malicious version of himself. He was a senior, about to graduate; he was also usually very sweet and loving. He treated me like a princess. I honestly didn’t know he felt that strongly about the adoption. He’d never mentioned it. Not once did he speak up, until that night. It was like he changed and wasn’t himself anymore. He was evil; nothing but pure hatred poured from his pores.

  Although Brody tried to mute my screams by covering my mouth, I was able to yell out a few times; loud enough for someone to hear eventually. An older couple that had checked in that morning called the police. I remember the knife feeling dull. Thank God because if someone hadn’t broken in and interrupted him, I know he would have made a bigger slit in my skin regardless if it was sharp or not. The small two-inch scar is big enough. I don’t remember much else from that night. My parents rushed me to the hospital where they confirmed I had lost the baby due to the trauma Brody caused my body. We filed a restraining order and charges against him. The day we went to the court hearing, is the day I stopped being me. The person who I became was numb to the world and was no longer living, for that matter, I was just there. He made me a prisoner in my own body. I was trau
matized and left vulnerable and miserable, so I just gave up and simply, existed, to a point where the pain and anguish of that night dictated who I was. The last I heard he was in jail.

  Suddenly a strong body pushes me away from Brody’s tight embrace. His arms loosen around mine allowing me to step away. It’s Parker who lies on top of Brody, holding him down. My voice shrieks in horror at the sight in front of me. No one knows what Brody is capable of doing. No one knows the evil that lives inside him. No one but me. Parker pushes off of him and rushes to my side and then my world stops. The shock of seeing Brody holding a small, black gun pointed in our direction freezes me in place. Parker holds me behind his back, staring death in the face, as Brody pulls the trigger. I hear Parker gasp for air.

  “Ahh…” he cries as his right hand lets go of me and holds his shoulder.

  Brody turns around and takes off down the street. People scream and call out for help as Parker’s body leans into my chest and then slides down my body. Tears cloud my vision and blood soaks my clothes. Bending down I use both hands to apply pressure to the bullet wound in his left shoulder. Blood pools around my legs.

  “Don’t die. Don’t die. Please, Parker. Please, baby, come on. Just stay with me!” I scream while attempting to hold down his shoulder while he moans in pain. “Someone call 911! We need an ambulance, please!” I beg to anyone and everyone who is standing in a circle around us. Minutes pass as my steadily beating heart pounds in my chest. All I can hear is the thumping.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Parker opens his eyes and shuts them a few times, and then he parts his mouth like he is going to say something. I lean closer to his mouth and position my ear so I am hovered over his lips.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers before his chest rises and falls one last time before his eyes shut and he succumbs to the pain.

  The loud boom of a gurney hitting the concrete startles me. I crouch down over Parker’s body thinking it’s another gunshot. Paramedics pull me away from his chest and load him onto the stretcher before wheeling him away. I have no time to protest and jump in the ambulance before the driver slams the metal doors shut and speeds off. Standing up I grab my purse and head into the direction of his truck. Jumping in, I see the keys are still in the ignition. Turning the key, the truck roars to life, and I speed off in the direction of the hospital thinking about the last words he spoke.

  He loves me?

  Have you ever been so scared of something that the thought of it happening takes your breath away? That your chest actually feels tight and your mind races as you gasp for air, praying “not now, it isn’t my time yet.” That is exactly how I felt the moment I made eye contact with the owner of the gun that was pointed at my chest. I wasn’t afraid of him, or even his gun, per se; I was fearful of losing Grace. Scared of the look he had in his eyes when he whispered something to her. Pure hatred poured from his pores and clouded the air around us, and then his finger pulled the trigger. If you've never been in a life or death situation, it might be hard to explain what actually happens. You can read all of the books in the world, or watch those Lifetime movies I’ve seen my mother watching too many times to count, but until you are staring death in the face, it is an indescribable feeling.

  Brody Hendricks is one fucked up sociopath.

  The sharp, shooting pain that shot up through my shoulder as the bullet pierced my skin was enough to make a grown man weep. I know it did me. The last thing I saw was Grace hollering for help. Tears and mascara were running down her cheeks. I wanted so badly to reach up and wipe them away, but I didn’t have the strength. My vision narrowed as my eyes closed and I drifted off.

  “Doctor, I don’t mean to be rude, but he has been asleep for a long time. When are you going to wake him up?”

  The sound of my mother’s voice echoes off of the walls. My eyes are too heavy to open, but I hear every word like they are being spoken through a microphone. The smell of clean, sanitized sheets is almost suffocating as my other senses work in overdrive.

  “Mrs. Porter, I can assure you this is normal. The anesthesia will wear off on its own. Like I said before, we were able to remove all the fragments of the bullet. Your son is a very lucky man. Please be patient and allow him to wake up on his own.”

  “I understand, doctor. But the wait is just killing me. He’s my baby…”

  The ache and distress in my mom’s voice is a tone I have never heard from her before. Sure she cried like a baby on my high school graduation and then again at my college graduation, but this weeping is different. Right now I can hear her gasping for air to fill her lungs as sobs escape her lips. No one else is talking, but there are sniffles and coughs in the distance.

  I wonder if Grace is here. I’m sure my dad would recognize her, but I hope he has enough sense not to blow my cover. She still doesn’t know about my “day job,” and I sure as hell don’t want her finding out here. Especially when I am lying unconscious and unable to explain things to her. If she doesn’t already hate me for pushing her away, I know that would definitely do the trick. My eyes still seem heavy, but the noises around me are getting louder. Attempting to move my fingers slowly, I am alarmed that they actually move.

  “Oh, Hank, did you see that? His fingers moved. Call the doctor!”

  I feel like I swallowed a sack full of tacks.

  “Water,” I whisper as the pain gets the best of me and causes me to seal my lips and swallow my own spit, just to ease the sting in my throat. I feel like I smoked a hundred packs of Reds, and I’m not even a smoker. One time Carson and I stole a pack from a bum at the park. We coughed so hard we thought we were dying. We both swore never to touch the things again, and we’ve both lived up to that pact to this day. But an outsider would think I was a chain smoker from the sound of my voice right now. My eyes are still closed as my head rests on the cotton pillow underneath it.

  “Water, water! We need water!” my mother hollers. My eyelids are still too heavy to open, but I can imagine her pacing back and forth like a chicken with her head cut off, shouting.

  “Here, here!” my father’s muffled voice shouts back at her.

  Parting my lips, I feel the rim of a plastic cup pressed to them. Someone pours a little bit of cold liquid into my mouth. The wetness filling my dry mouth makes me cough. Swallowing, I feel like the fire in my throat has finally been put out. Slowly I begin to open one eye. There are faces surrounding the bed, all staring at me with concern written all over them. The only person who isn’t here is Grace. My chest aches at the realization as my mind wanders to a million different places. Darting up into a sitting position in bed, I feel light-headed and my bandaged shoulder aches, but I need to look around the room. My head turns left then right. She isn’t here.

  Did he attack her after I blacked out?

  “Grace? Dad, where is she? Did he hurt her? Please, you don’t understand. I have to know she is okay,” I beg as a tear slides down my cheek.

  Whenever we’d face obstacles when we were younger my mom would always say, “When you feel too weak to stand, kneel.” If only I could crawl out of this bed, I would fall on my knees and pray. Not only for Brody to get what he has coming to him, but for my girl, my sweetheart, my Grace.

  My dad’s eyebrows frown. He swallows and then says, “Park, calm down, you just had major surgery and were shot, for Christ’s sake. She’s fine. Her parents met her here at the hospital. Then they all drove down to the station to make a statement. She gave me this.” Extending his hand to me, there’s a little, white piece of paper. I use the arm that isn’t being held in place by a blue and white sling as I unfold the small paper.

  Parker,

  I do not know where to begin and my heart is heavy with grief that you were hurt trying to protect me. I’m sorry I never spoke the words earlier. I’ve known them to be true for a while now.

  I love you, Parker Porter.

  No matter how little the amount of time we have known each other, I know what is in my heart an
d I want to give it to you. I am praying that you accept it and we are able to follow our hearts, because I know you care about me too. You can deny it and write me goodbye letters all you want, but you can’t get rid of me that easily.

  The police are making me go to the station to make a formal statement.

  He will pay. They will find him and he will pay. Please be okay. I need you to be okay.

  Your sweetheart for always,

  Grace

  Another tear makes its way from my eye and slowly runs down my cheek. I feel it hit my lip as my hand rises and wipes it away. She loves me? They didn’t catch him? So many questions race through my mind and my head feels cloudy. I slide back down in the bed and rest my head against the pillow. Surrendering to the lingering anesthesia pumping through my veins, I drift off to sleep knowing that she is okay, and that she loves me.

  My phone buzzes in my purse and my heart skips a beat when I recognize the name on the screen. Fumbling with the buttons, I slide the screen to unlock the phone and open my new text message. It’s from Carson. He says Parker is awake and has read my letter, but he is still pretty out of it and they are letting him rest. Instantly, I feel better. Hitting reply, I type a short message. I know Carson has been stuck in the middle of this, whatever it is, along with Ramsey and Maci, but I know he will relay the message.

  I have been so worried, sitting here in the police station not knowing what was going on back at the hospital. Only family was allowed in the room and, well, I am not close to that, so I sat alone worrying in the waiting room until my parents showed up with the police. They drove me down to the station to make a statement. Unfortunately, Brody was able to get away before the police arrived and his whereabouts are unknown. The thought of him out there, possibly lurking around every corner, plotting his next move, makes my stomach churn. He said he would find me, and he did. I don’t know how; I thought he was in jail.