by Ella Miles
“No,” Jarod answers.
I’m not dead. I almost feel like crying at that, but I don’t. I’m still alive, and as much as I wish I were nothing, I still have hopes and dreams. My dreams are no longer shiny and pleasant. I hope to be dead.
“She’s broken,” Jarod says.
What? Broken? I’m not broken. Am I?
“Broken.” The word travels through the men like a ghost of a whisper. Each mutters it, not sure that it is true until he gets a chance to speak the word himself.
Broken.
I’m not broken. I feel no different from before. My wounds might be worse, and I might die if I don’t recover, but I’m not broken.
Never.
But one by one they test the word themselves.
Broken.
Broken.
Broken.
Each time they say the word, I begin to believe it myself more and more.
I’m broken.
They finally broke me.
This is what it feels like.
“Does that mean…?” one of the men asks tentatively.
“Yes, we can go home now. Our job is done,” Jarod answers.
What?
Their job was to keep me until they broke me. That makes no sense.
What are they going to do with me now? Are they finally going to kill me?
No.
They won’t. Otherwise, Jarod wouldn’t risk his life to keep me from killing myself.
Men start filing out of the room, and for once the heavy rock of the boat begins to return to a gentle sway as mother nature agrees that she has broken me, and there is no reason left to keep tormenting us with her wrath.
I feel a blanket go over my skin.
I want to fight it. I don’t like it touching me. I’ve yearned to be touched, to be comforted, to feel a soft, warm blanket for years. But now that I feel it, I hate it. I want it gone.
But I don’t have the strength to say anything or even remove the blanket from my body. I’m a frozen corpse.
Jarod looks down at me grimly. “You’re broken,” he says almost like he’s trying to convince me I am.
I’m not, comes the tiniest of voice. I’m not broken.
I know Jarod sees the defiance in my eyes. It’s the only thing I can give him to show how wrong he is. Any other time it would be enough for him to fight me and try again to break me. He knows he didn’t truly break me, so why is he saying it.
So they can go home.
The men had one job: to break me. For years they failed in their task. None of them thought the task would last this long. The storm shook up more than just me. They all thought they were going to die. They want to go home. I just don’t know what they are going to do with me.
Jarod leans down and whispers in my ear, “You’re broken, now you’re free.”
12
Kai
Home.
I never thought I’d be returning home.
I thought I would die at sea.
But here I am, lying on a park bench in baggy shorts and a T-shirt.
I look homeless.
That’s because I am.
Miami isn’t my home anymore.
It hasn’t been my home for over three years.
I’m not sure it was ever really my home, even when I was living in Miami. The trailer I inhabited with my father barely ensured I had a bed to sleep in and a roof to protect me from the rain. Most of the clothes I owned had holes in them. And my belly was never fully fed. Although, I would go back to that time in a heartbeat.
Back then I wasn’t really starving. Back then I’d never experienced pain or understood loneliness. Back then I wasn’t completely alone. Sure I only had my father and Mason, my best and only friend. I felt lonely, but I wasn’t really. I didn’t understand the word until recently.
Loneliness isn’t about being alone. It’s about realizing you have no one. No one who loves you. No one who misses you. No one who even cares to talk to you.
It’s what leads you to be so desperate as to talk to the spider in the corner of your room like they are your best friend. Then you talk to your shadow. Then you start talking to yourself like the little voice inside you is another person and not yourself.
It’s when you realize no one will ever talk back; no one will bury or mourn you if you die. That’s when you understand what true loneliness feels like.
I slowly sit up, as the sun burns my now pale skin. I haven’t seen the sun in years. I used to wear a tan year round, but after spending three years locked in a dark cave, the hint of sunlight scares me. I will blister immediately if I don’t find shelter.
I don’t remember coming back. My last memory is falling asleep on the lumpy bed on the yacht. It should have felt like a luxury; instead, it felt too soft to fall asleep on. But the pull of exhaustion made me sleep, despite the lack of comfort I felt lying in the five hundred count sheets.
I don’t remember getting dressed.
I don’t remember leaving the yacht.
I don’t remember the swaying stopping.
As I sit up, I realize the swaying truly hasn’t stopped. Maybe I’m still on a boat after all? This is all some dream. I used to dream about Miami a lot that first year. I tried to remember what the sun felt like even when I was cursing it for causing me to sweat so much. This is a dream.
I stand up, and the ground shakes.
Shit.
I grab the back of the bench to steady myself.
The ground seems real enough. Grass tickles the bottoms of my feet.
I stare down at my bare toes. I may have gotten dressed, but I’m not wearing any shoes—not that I want shoes. I can’t remember why people would ever want to wear such things.
I take a step, and the texture of the grass is intense. It tickles and itches the bottom of my foot.
So their feet don’t have to feel this, that’s why people wear shoes.
One more step, and I let go of the park bench. The ground still shifts back and forth, and I’m sure I look drunk as I walk, but I don’t care.
It’s early in the morning, and other than a few early morning joggers and homeless people, there isn’t anyone around to judge me.
I keep walking, slowly at first, and then my steps become more regular as I get used to the wobbling. I know the way without thinking. My past has been buried for years, but now it blasts back into my consciousness as if I was here yesterday.
I don’t take in my surroundings as I walk; the sounds and noises would overwhelm me if I did. Instead, I let the sounds of the cars honking and whizzing by drift into the background. I don’t focus on the grass, or sand, or sidewalk changing under my feet, making it more difficult to walk with each change in the terrain. I keep my eyes down, so I don’t have to register the bright sun or the vibrant colors all around.
All I want to do is make it to the trailer and lock myself up in my room for days.
Finally, the trailer appears in front of me in the same place it’s been parked for almost twenty years. It never occurred to me, as I walked over here, that father could have moved or sold it.
The ratchety old door creaks open, and I realize the door still doesn’t latch properly. My father never fixed it.
And then, as if my thought of him called him to existence, my dad stands at the top of the three steps that lead up to the door. Enzo kept one of his promises to ensure my father stayed alive.
We both eye each other, standing tall and stiff. Neither of us breathes. We just look. I don’t have to speak to tell him what I’ve been through the last three plus years. He can see every mark and hand that was ever laid on me. If he thought I ran away from home, that doubt has now been pushed away.
I’ve changed completely; he looks the same.
If there were ever a time where we would react differently than our usual, unaffectionate selves, now would be that time. But that isn’t who we are. We don’t do hugs. We don’t do warmth. We may love each other, but we don’t stoop to such weakness. It’s not who we
are. I doubt my father even hugged me when my mother died.
I can’t remember ever hugging this man.
I don’t know how long we stand just looking at each other. It could be seconds or hours. My ability to comprehend time was taken from me, along with my body and sense of worth.
Finally, my father moves. He takes the three steps down the stairs and stops in front of me.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” his voice cracks.
I agree, I shouldn’t have.
I don’t speak though. I don’t nod. I just let his words fill me.
Is there a tear in the corner of his eye?
No, that can’t be. My father doesn’t show emotion, ever. He doesn’t cry.
But yet, I think that’s precisely what he’s doing.
And then he’s gone, walking away from me. Our reunion is over.
“Kai? Is that you?”
Mason.
I turn and look at the boy I grew up with. Even he hasn’t changed much. His body is a little thicker, his hair a little longer, his voice deeper. There are a few thin lines around his eyes I don’t remember before, but otherwise, he looks exactly the same. He’s the same boy I’ve been friends with since I was five.
I should speak, reassure him, because he looks like he’s seen a ghost. And after he realizes it’s really me, he will see the bruises, the scars, the broken bones. He will see how frail I am and then he will lose it.
He’ll rush me to the police or the hospital. I’ll have to answer questions I never want to explain.
I’m not ready to speak. I’ve talked plenty of times, mainly to myself, but talking right now feels like opening myself up to let someone in again. And as much as that person should be Mason, I can’t.
He hasn’t changed, but I have.
And a part of me hates him. For not finding me. For not preventing me from being taken. For not saving me.
Mason and my father were the only people who would have missed me. My father could barely feed himself. I don’t blame him, but Mason has money, resources, connections. He loved me. He wanted more from me. He could have found me.
“Jesus, it is you.” Mason runs toward me with open arms threatening to engulf me.
His fingertips barely touch me, and I wince, taking a step back. The light touch feels like fire against my ice cold skin.
“Christ,” Mason curses as he runs his hand through his long blonde surfer locks.
My eyes turn downcast. I can’t watch him realize what happened to me. I can’t take his empathy, his concern, his anger. He has no right to feel any of those things!
“What happened?” he asks.
No answer.
“Kai? You can talk to me. I won’t hurt you.” His hand brushes against me, and I jump out of my skin.
I can’t. You can’t touch me, I shout inside.
My eyes meet his, telling him to stop with a sharp glare as a dog would warn a stranger thinking of coming onto its property.
“Okay, no touching. Can I drive you to a hospital or police station?”
I freeze. No.
“Kai? A doctor should see you. You could have broken bones. I will pay for everything.”
I do have broken bones, you idiot.
Slowly, I shake my head no.
He sighs.
“Okay, I won’t push you. Let’s go inside though. Maybe after a bath and food, you might reconsider going. I could even have a doctor come to you if you prefer.”
Mason puts his hand out, offering it to me like a crutch to walk with.
He thinks I’m weak, maybe I am? But I don’t want his or anyone else’s help.
I ignore his hand and walk to the stairs and then enter the dilapidated trailer.
I take a deep breath, and everything returns—the smell of bacon and coffee, my father’s usual breakfast. The stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and bad decisions hangs in the air.
I don’t hear Mason behind me, but I’m sure he’s followed me into the trailer. He’s never come inside, not once in all the years I’ve known him. I was always embarrassed of my home. I didn’t want him near it; now it doesn’t matter.
Mason may think we have a future together if he doesn’t already have a girlfriend. I glance behind me, spotting his left hand. No ring. He’s not married, but he could be dating.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t have a future. And anything I do from here on out won’t involve him.
Mason slowly moves by me to the single bathroom at the back and then returns a moment later.
“I started the water for a shower. I wish there was a tub to soak in, but a shower will have to do for now,” he says.
Shower.
How long has it been?
I reek, I’m sure, but I can’t tell anymore. This is how I smell, like rotting flesh and death.
“Do you want help?” his voice shakes a little as he asks.
I shake my head. I’m not even sure I want a shower, but I want to be alone. I spent years yearning for someone to talk to, and now that I have someone, I want nothing more than to hide away by myself.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
I don’t answer. I should eat, but my stomach no longer cries for food. It’s used to surviving on nothing. It doesn’t matter if I eat or not.
I walk past Mason and head into the tiny bathroom. I pull the door closed and strip the dirty clothes off my body. The shorts were so baggy. I’m not even sure how they were staying on my body.
The steam begins to fill the small room, and it draws me to the water.
Water—my enemy, my friend, my everything.
It reminds me of the ocean and angers me that I never got the end I wanted. I’m alive when I shouldn’t be.
I step into the small corner shower. I don’t bother to pull the curtain closed as the water drips down on me in thin streams. There was a time when I thought the water pressure wasn’t enough, certainly not enough to wash the shampoo out of my hair. But now, it's too much. It feels like it is dumping on my head, the same as it was the night of the storm on the yacht.
The warm droplets are too hot for my icy skin, and I immediately want to retreat. But that means facing Mason again—something I’m not ready for. So I force myself to stand under the heavy stream.
I don’t use shampoo or soap. I don’t try to remove the caked on dirt, sweat, or filth. I just let the water do the work.
Time passes, again, I don’t know how long. But eventually, I turn the faucet off. I let the water drip from my hair down my skinny frame. I’ve always been thin, but now I can see every bone in my body. I should have curves; instead, I have protruding bones.
There is a towel lying by the sink, and I use it to dry off before stepping out of the bathroom and then walk to my bedroom.
Sleep; I need sleep.
I fall onto the bed in a heap still wet, but it doesn’t matter. The bed feels too soft. I’m not going to be able to sleep on it, I realize instantly.
“I made you soup.” Mason steps into the small room. “Oh my god! I’m sorry, I should have knocked first.”
He stops and shields his eyes.
I look around the room, confused by what he is shocked and sorry about.
It takes me too long to realize I’m naked. The towel that was wrapped around me has fallen open. My nakedness doesn’t bother me, but it does Mason.
So I reluctantly wrap the towel around myself.
Mason peaks from behind his fingers and then straightens to bring me the bowl of soup he prepared and a cup of tea.
“I wasn’t sure if you could handle more than soup, but if you can keep this down, I can get you whatever you want to eat.”
I look at him with big wide eyes. Food. He would get me anything, anything I craved. Doesn’t he realize I don’t crave anything anymore?
Mason sits on the edge of the bed next to me and holds out a spoonful of the soup to my lips. I look down at the cup of tea he sat on the small end table. I take that instead
, lift it to my lips, and drink slowly.
He sighs in exacerbation and sets the bowl next to me.
“I will do anything to help you, Kai. I don’t know what you’ve been through. I don’t know who took you or what evil you’ve experienced. But I...” He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Kai. I have since we were five. I’ve just never had the courage to tell you. Not having you all these years, thinking you ran away and never called was hard. Realizing the truth is harder. I love you. I will never stop loving you.”
His words should comfort me. Make me stop feeling so alone. They don’t. I don’t feel anything anymore. All I feel is numbness.
So I don’t speak. There are no words to say back. And if I speak, he might ask questions I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to talk about what happened. I don’t want to see a doctor or a therapist.
His eyes travel over my body again. They slowly meet my eyes.
Broken.
He thinks I’m broken.
He sees my frail, ruined body. He thinks my spirit has been crushed; my heart ripped out of my chest. My soul trampled on.
I’m not broken, I say inwardly. I can’t be broken. I swore they would never break me.
He doesn’t hear or see that though. All he sees is a broken doll he thinks he can fix.
I don’t need fixing. I need answers.
This is who I am now. I need acceptance.
I finish my tea and then eat some of the broth soup before I pull the covers up and close my eyes, pretending to sleep.
Mason eventually leaves me alone in the room and shuts the door.
Finally, alone.
I stand out of the bed, letting the towel drop, and curl up on the carpet floor. Even that feels too soft.
I want cold.
I want ice.
I don’t want comfortable and warm.
But the floor is better than the bed. And my body is too tired to find a better, harder bed.
So I sleep.
The next morning, everything happens again.
Mason is still here. He must have slept on the recliner. He feeds me. He encourages me to talk. He talks. He tries to get me to shower. To eat. To go to a doctor.
The only thing I do that makes him happy is eat.
Otherwise, he looks at me with pity in his eyes. He winces when my bones creak. He swears when he sees new bruises. He tries to take care of me, but it’s not what I want.
