Pieces For You Read online

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Pieces For You

  Copyright © 2013

  Genna Rulon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at Library of Congress

  ISBN: 0615928854

  ISBN-13: 978-0-615-92885-2

  Cover design by G. Relyea

  © Genna Rulon, 2013

  Cover Images Copyright

  Used under license from shutterstock.com

  To the women—the survivors—of violence,

  Your strength and perseverance are an inspiration,

  and a testament to the profound courage of your soul.

  I pray each of you finds your happily ever after!

  Since I refuse to speak, the big boss, Shelly, has given me a journal with a promise that I don’t have to share the contents, as long as I write down my thoughts each day. I’ve never kept a journal, but it seems to defeat the purpose of not talking.

  I am at The Phoenix Centre (TPC) for the next two months because I was brutally attacked. I know I’m here to “heal,” but I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see the pitying looks I know I would receive if I share my story. I don’t want to return to that night and relive the torture. If I don’t talk, I can try to pretend it didn’t happen. That it was just a nightmare I have yet to wake up from. If I open my mouth and say the words it becomes real, and if it’s real, then I can never escape it. Is it real if I write it down?

  Everyone here keeps tossing around the word “recovery” as if it is an achievable goal. Can someone recover from meeting the devil in person, being violated and beaten by him, and then left for dead? Is it possible to heal after being betrayed by the man who promised to love you, knowing his choices led to your destruction? Maybe some people can…maybe some of the girls here can…I just don’t think I’m one of them.

  They wheeled me into a group therapy session today. I would have objected, but then I’d have had to speak. They said I didn’t have to talk, just listen. I think they hope that listening to other girls who suffer like I do will make me feel less alone. What they fail to realize is I want to be alone. I don’t want to understand the other girls’ pain. I don’t want to bond with them or feel compelled to share the details of my attack or how I’m feeling. I don’t know these people and I don’t want to. I am sure they are all lovely—it’s not them, it’s me. I don’t want to be understood and seen. I want to disappear. If no one can see me, no one can hurt me.

  The hits just keep on coming. I had my first physical therapy session. What did cause me other than excruciating pain? I can wiggle my fingers and shrug my shoulder now. As if being emotionally crippled wasn’t cruel enough, I am physically crippled too. At least the physical wounds will heal, or so they tell me. I still can’t walk or use my left arm because of the casts, and my face continues to look like a boxer after a long, unsuccessful career. My doctors are thrilled with my progress. They act like I reinvented the wheel. I want to feel their excitement and hope, but all that is left is pain and numbness. I prefer the numbness.

  Word of my continued silence and lack of participation must have found its way to Shelly’s ears because she showed up at my door a little while ago. When she failed to engage me in conversation, she whipped out the big guns, reminding me of my promise to Everleigh to try, to participate…to get better. It was a hit below the belt—Shelly plays dirty. If I wasn’t on the receiving end of her emotional blackmail, I would have applauded her resourcefulness.

  So now I feel selfish and guilty, as if I’m not lugging around enough guilt-colored baggage. Beyoncé doesn’t even travel with this much luggage for crying out loud. As much as I hate to admit it, Shelly is right. I made a promise to Everleigh and I will keep it…even if it kills me.

  I spoke today. Shelly’s guilt trip proved impossible to shake. I owed Everleigh so much for taking care of me when my parents wouldn’t. I have never broken a promise to her and I didn’t want to start now. I thought about how much it would mean to her if I actually told her I was okay and that I was getting better. Maybe if she heard the words she would worry less and be able to start living her life again. So I did it. I spoke. Nothing monumental—I asked someone to pass the coffee at breakfast. The room fell silent for several seconds before everyone resumed their conversations as if nothing unusual occurred. I was grateful they didn’t make a big deal about it. I knew it was a big deal, but I didn’t want any additional attention. I’ll admit, it was nice to be included in trivial conversations. It made me feel less alone. And my conscience is no longer nagging me…that is a small weight lifted.

  I shared today in group—really shared. I’ve been participating since I resumed speaking two days ago, a few comments here, a fact there, but nothing specific…nothing too deep. I planned to continue that way until they finally released me out into the world, but my life rarely goes according to plan.

  A new girl came this week. She’s really young, maybe fourteen. She shared about her rape, dissecting everything she did wrong, why it was her fault, and how she didn’t fight back hard enough. God, she broke my heart. Her tears were like a knife in my chest. I knew that pain…I’d lived it…I was still living it. But she was so brave, letting the truth and pain and tears pour out of her with such raw honesty. This girl was practically a child—I didn’t want her to feel alone or to blame herself, so I opened my mouth and let my story spill out. All I could look at was her big brown eyes, filled with compassion, understanding, and…relief. So much damn relief. Relief that someone understood and had experienced the same hell. After group she came over and hugged me, the first physical contact I willingly allowed with the exception of Everleigh, and I was okay. As I left the room, Shelly nodded to me from the doorway and mouthed the words ‘I’m proud of you.’ I was proud of me too, and for the first time since the attack, I had a second of happiness. It was gone before I could even fully appreciate it but it was there—the promise that I might be able to feel joy again someday.

  I met with Shelly and TPC’s head physician today to discuss my pain management plan, as well as my difficulty sleeping. I want off all pain medication because I’m scared of becoming dependent like some of the other girls. I’m not judging them, everyone’s recovery is different; I just don’t want to fight an addiction along with everything else. I legitimately needed the narcotics to deal with the pain until this point, but now Motrin keeps my pain at a manageable level. Both Shelly and the doctor supported my decision, but there was one issue t
hat had us gridlocked.

  The pain medication helps me fall sleep, which has been an epic struggle. Every time the meds wear off, the nightmares come, and I relive that night in gruesome detail. I can hear the leaves crunching beneath my body, smell his overwhelming cologne, hear his sick laughter, feel his hands on my skin…Every. Single. Time. I wake up a shrieking, sweat-soaked mess—hysterical and irrational. It doesn’t matter how tired I am, I can’t fall back asleep because I am afraid of the terror that awaits me.

  The doctor keeps insisting I need to take medication that will force me to sleep. She says I need the rest to continue to heal physically. She tried to scare me into agreeing by explaining that prolonged sleep deprivation would negatively impact my physical and psychological recovery. But I’m adamantly against taking sleeping pills. My mom pops Ambien like candy to help her sleep. The woman can’t sleep without them, and she doesn’t remember anything that happens while she is under their influence. She sleepwalks and has whole conversations that she doesn’t remember the next day. I refuse to depend on drugs that could leave me vulnerable while I sleep. No. Thank. You.

  Shelly tried to find a middle ground, suggesting a low-dose anti-depressant to help me sleep and combat the effects of the night terrors. We spent over an hour debating before I finally convinced them it was my way or the highway.

  I will not bend on this. I know millions of people take them with success and that’s great for them, but I know myself. Pay me now or pay me later. I’d rather face the nightmares now and learn how to deal with them. Fortunately, in the end I got my way. My body, my choice.

  WooHoo!

  I got my casts off today. In celebration, we took physical therapy poolside and I was able to do my exercises in the water. Olga, the gigantic German therapist (I couldn’t make this up), worked the shit out of my arm and leg. I think she may be a closet sadist because every time I grimaced in pain, she smiled. I am trying not to focus on how much flexibility and range of motion I’ve lost. It’s not permanent…or at least that’s what they keep telling me. I even took baby steps while holding onto the side of the pool—all by myself. It was a small victory, but it felt huge. The weight of the casts and being confined to the wheelchair were constant reminders of what he had done, as if he could reach across the 3,000 miles separating us to retain his hold on me. When the plaster was sawed off, it felt like his grip had been pried free, too. I was so relieved I cried like a big, fat baby—I had no idea the weight I had been carrying, both physically and emotionally.

  When I shared these feelings in group, Shelly suggested we celebrate. I had no idea what she had planned, but when we all gathered on the beach, she lit a fire in a huge barrel and handed me the pieces of my casts. Then I understood. I threw each piece in with deliberate slowness, imagining each as a bond no longer tying me to him. I watched as they withered and burned, disappearing to ash. It took hours before they were all gone, and when they had finally dissolved in the flames, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  There is still so much that needs healing (inside and out) but I’m no longer tethered to him. I am free, and for the first time I know it deep in my bones. He may have beat me, scarred me, shattered me in a million pieces, but I’m not under his control anymore…now I get to decide.

  I’m so freaking excited!

  Everleigh and Hunter arrive today…not that I’ll get to see Hunter (no boys allowed at TPC), but I feel better knowing he’s here for Everleigh. I’ve missed her so much. As wonderful as all the girls are here, it’s not the same as having your bestie/almost-sister around. There is no one in the world I trust more than Everleigh. I hate that I’ve been missing all the exciting new-relationship gossip about her and Hunter. Even though we speak several times a week, I still feel disconnected being so far away. I need the comfort of someone who has known me my whole life—who knew me before. It’s irrational, but I need proof that someone who loved me before can still love me now. I’m realizing how much that asshole took from me—my choice, my power, my sense of security, and worst of all, my self-worth. The therapists tell me these feelings are normal and common for rape victims. I’m starting to believe them—intellectually—but it doesn’t stop the feelings.

  It also doesn’t help that my parents only came to visit me once in the hospital while I was still in a coma. They haven’t even tried to contact me since I awoke. They were never candidates for parents-of-the-year, but their complete abandonment during the worst time in my life hurts. Are they just self-absorbed and incapable of love, or do they blame me for what happened? As if I don’t already blame myself enough.

  I need to see Everleigh. I want to spend a little time with her just being normal; sitting around in PJs, eating ice cream, and watching a movie while painting our nails. I’m craving that simple, familiar routine...any proof I’m still me.

  I walked into breakfast today and the room fell silent. I thought something happened behind me to capture their attention so I turned around to see, but there was nothing but empty space. I guess I was the attention grabber. It took me a minute to figure out why they were staring, then I realized—I got dressed for breakfast. I’ve been wearing clothes every day (of course), but this morning I actually got dressed—today I wore my Sam clothes. I wasn’t sure how to interpret their silence, and then it began…catcalls, hoots, and whistles. There was an entire room of women cheering my transformation. Geeze, I didn’t think I looked that bad before. Okay, that’s a lie. I looked like shit before. I had broken every fashion rule I previously lived by, wearing baggy t-shirts and yoga pants as if they were acceptable attire for public viewing.

  I told myself that the comfy clothes were practical for physical therapy, but in truth, I was still trying to fade into the background. Last night I realized something. By forcing myself to break my cardinal rule against wearing loungewear in public, it was just one more way he was still controlling me. I decided to dig through a suitcase of clothes Everleigh packed for me and planned an outfit for the next day. Once I was dressed, I felt another small piece of myself click into place.

  Of all the pieces of the Old Sam, I might be most grateful to have regained the fashionista shard—it’s one thing to feel like shit; there is no excuse to look like shit, too.

  Over the past few weeks, Shelly has been taking several girls off-premises to help them ease back into the real world…and men. The girls who went on the “field trips” have been at TPC for a while and are showing “marked progress.” I am happy to say that includes me!

  Today we went to the mall and I was in heaven. According to Shelly, it’s the perfect location to start becoming desensitized to large groups of strangers, and the attention of men. I was thrilled to have a chance to shop with the excuse it was for therapeutic purposes; it takes the sting out of looking at the credit card bill at the end of the month.

  We were all sitting at a table in the food court, sipping coffee and comparing purchases, when a group of twenty-something guys approached our table. We must have looked like a perfectly ordinary group of girls hanging out at the mall, open to pick-up attempts. The guys failed to wow us with their played-out lines, bragging about their expensive sports cars and listing their various attributes. A few of the other girls were visibly uncomfortable, but the guys were not taking the hint. Shelly tried politely to end the conversation, subtly encouraging them to leave, but they were not picking up what she was putting down.

  With a mix of frustration, shock, and humor, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I sweetly advised the guys that while I was sure they were very appealing to most women, they zeroed in on the one table that had no interest in hooking up.

  Clearly unhappy with my dismissal, the spokesman said, “What are you, a bunch of lesbians or something?” As if not wanting them could only mean we didn’t want any man. Ha! I tried to do it the nice way with no success, so I decided I’d do it the Sam way.

  “No, we aren’t…but with the lines you’ve been using, I bet at least half of us are debating t
he merits of switching teams. Congratulations, you just witnessed the birth of a new flock of lesbos. Good job, boys.”

  As the group walked away—calling me a “bitch” under their breaths—the girls applauded. I took my bow before returning to my lunch with a smile on my face. It was a good day. Not only did I spend the day in public with only minor discomfort, but also I got to shop, break out some sass, and school a group of inflated egos. However, the main reason for the smile still painted on my face was because I stood up to a group of big-ish guys, without fear they would hurt me. I was brave today. I said ‘no’ and they listened. They may have called me a “bitch,” but that was the worst thing that happened…I’ve never been so happy to be called a bitch in my life.

  Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m going home. I’m excited and fucking terrified.

  After two months, I’m leaving here stronger. I’ve conquered most of my panic attacks and anxiety. I’ve learned to accept that the devastating horror I endured was beyond my control and no fault of my own—I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t ask to be hurt, I didn’t invite the abuse, and I sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to me. It had nothing to do with me—it was him. He was the problem, he made the wrong choices, and he was the one to blame.

  It took me a long time to stop looking for an explanation for why it happened. I now understand how counterproductive it is to search for reason in a senseless act of violence; it only leads to an endless cycle of blame and ‘what ifs.’

  When I finally stopped asking myself ‘why me,’ I was able to focus on finding the small joys life still held. It‘s become a healing game for me, always searching for the little blessings hidden in the mundane. Sometimes I share them but often hoarding for myself the little hidden treasures others have missed. It’s silly but it allows me to find beauty in a life that seemed to turn against me for a time. I’ve also found the humor I thought I lost. I regained my comfort in expressing thoughts flitting through my mind without censoring myself—in other words, I discovered the pieces of Old Sam that were inappropriate, irreverent, and overshared…god, I missed her.