by M R Field
Table of Contents
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
FRACTURES
© 2016 M. R. Field
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN-10: 0-646-96283-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-646-96283-2
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are coincidental. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All products mentioned in this book belong to their rightful owners.
I do not claim any of these products to be my own.
'Any song’s’ lyrics used are not affiliated with the author.
Edited by Lauren McKellar
http://mcstellarediting.blogspot.com.au
Proofread by Faye Gemmellaro
and Eva LeNoir
Formatted by Max Effect
www.formaxeffect.com
WHAT SOME BLOGGERS ARE SAYING ABOUT M R FIELD:
"M.R.Field creates a romantic masterpiece, and it reminds us of the chivalry that still exists somewhere." Komal Chandwani, The Library Whisp
M R Field is one of those rare stand out authors who writes amazing unique books that have you hooked from the first page. Grab your oxygen mask because you won't be coming up for air! – Lisa Sleiman, The Literary Gossip
"Everything M R Field writes is eloquent and emotive. Every word she writes drags you into her world and captures your attention until you've run out of words to read, leaving you begging for more" Bexxy, Desperately Seeking HEA's Book Blog
NOTE FOR THE READER
This book is set in Australia and has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.
Please remember, that the words are not misspelled, they are slang terms and form part of the everyday, Australian lifestyle.
If you would like further explanation, or to discuss the translation or meaning of a particular word, please do not hesitate to contact the author – contact details have been provided, for your convenience, at the end of this book.
To my beautiful nieces and nephew,
Always strive to be the best that you can be. You’re pretty awesome already, so it won’t take you long to get there.
I love you.
Love, Zia xxoo
“Know that I fought, Trinity, with every part of me, I fought.”
Love, M
TRINITY
Autumn, 2007
The soft wind kisses my tear-stained cheeks as I watch in hopeless silence as the mahogany wooden coffin lowers into the deep, dark hole. The purple ribbons that lace through the steel handles catch flickers of sunlight as the funeral staff lower the coffin down slowly. With each movement, my heart beats erratically against my chest. My eyes linger on the sprigs of lavender, yellow sunflowers, and red gerberas that sit on top of the dark wood. Flowers that often filled our house with their sweet scent are now a bitter reminder of what our house will no longer be. The ribbons lower as I clutch my mother’s memorial booklet to my chest, wanting to reach out and touch the casket just one last time.
My mother hated being in cramped places. My chest seizes in panic, only to release a harsh breath that thunders in my chest as the tears continue to fall. She’s so cramped in there. Is she cold? Uncomfortable? My father stands by my side, his arms draped tightly around my shoulders as his pain-filled sobs thrash against me. His voice, tinged with agony, cries out for his wife. Lifting the booklet, I stare at the photo taken during our last family trip together. Before our world turned to shit. Her windswept hair lay across her brow, and her deep blue eyes stared back into the camera as her wide smile tore through me, fracturing my thoughts.
“Another photo?” She giggles at my father. “Don’t you have enough, Felix? Take a photo of that tree or something. Now, that is beauty. Nature at its best.”
“Never, Harmony,” he replies. “Now, sit there and give me that smile, darl.”
“It’ll cost you a kiss.” She laughs.
“Eww, guys. Your only child is standing right here.”
“What’s your point?” My dad quirks his eyebrow at me. “You do realise, you got here somehow.” He winks at my mother, moving closer to her to steal a quick peck. I shake my head. Gross.
“Can’t wait for you to go crazy and gooey over a guy, baby girl.” She giggles, her lips barely apart from his.
“No way.” I cross my arms. “Now, can you take your damn picture?”
“Yes, ma’am! That guy will have to be able to deal with her feisty attitude too.” My dad raises the camera to his eyes as I raise my eyebrow at him, unimpressed. Whatever. Click.
That smile that stared back at me from the shiny booklet was all I needed on a bad day. After I struggled to get my designs to fruition, that smile made me believe I was worth something and could conquer anything. That smile brought warmth into a dark room. Now, that smile was becoming a memory. The face that remained was now descending into the cold, hard earth. The flowers are no longer visible, and I reach out into the crisp air. She’s too far away from me.
“No,” I sob, as the ribbon continues to winch her down. Breaking free of my dad’s grasp, I step forward to peer over the edge of the grave. Reaching its final destination, her coffin halts against the dirt.
“She’ll freeze down there,” I cry. I point to the casket. “Dad, she needs her afghan. Did you put it with her, or her scented candles? The ones for her headaches …” The soft lyrics of Eva Cassidy’s “What a Wonderful World” float through the air as I struggle to stay standing. This was not a wonderful world. Far fucking from it. My mother’s favourite song, taunting me with every beat of my broken heart.
My father’s musky scent lingers behind me as his hands grip my shoulder.
“Baby girl.” His voice cracks, as he pulls me into his chest. “She’s gone.”
“But, I wasn’t here …” I sob, the guilt building up in my throat. “I never got to say goodbye. Or tell her I loved her one last time. She didn’t hear me while I stood near her.”
“She knew,” he sniffs, his arm trembling across my front.
“I was too late. I’ll never forgive myself,” I whisper. Around us, the congregation moves to throw petals into the grave. The pastor holds the basket out to me and I gently reach forward and take a petal, my eyes filling with tears once again. My father loosens his arm from my front and moves to grab his own. I step closer to the mouth of the grave and raise the petal to my lips. I’m so, so sorry, Mum. I’m a selfish bitch and you deserved better. I clench my eyes shut for a moment and plead for forgiveness before my trembling arm lifts and the petal falls from my shaky fin
gertips. It lands against the cold, hard wood, and the moment of finality hits me like a baton to my chest. I wheeze and clutch my side, my legs bending, unable to take my weight as I collapse against the mound of dirt, my knees scraping against it. The pain tears across my skin, but I don’t care. Nothing is as painful as staring into my mother’s grave. I tremble, not feeling the cold but the despair that rips at my insides.
She is gone.
I wasted her last moments.
I will never forgive myself.
I’m a fucking coward.
The mattress rustles beneath my thighs as I clutch the stiff cream paper. With tremulous hands, I run my finger across my endearment, “baby girl.” With a deep breath, I unfold the crisp letter and begin to read.
My baby girl,
Oh, how much I would give to be sitting next to you right now. I know you’re hurting, my love; I can’t tell you how much it pains me, knowing that you are reading this letter. Leaving you with this breaks my heart. How does a person even begin? If I could, I’d write you a million letters, so you’d have one every day. But I can’t. I barely have the strength to write this one.
Know that I fought, Trinity—with every part of me, I fought. Sadly, my life on this earth took a turn that I didn’t expect. So, if my destiny is to be robbed from watching you grow and be …
A lone tear falls onto the page and splashes, stunning me for a moment. I snap my eyes shut and tightly grasp the crinkled paper, too pained to continue reading. Shallow breaths move up and down my chest rapidly, my heart beating to the sting of each word.
I can’t read this.
If I read this, it means she’s really gone. This is all I have left.
My shoulders shudder as I cry out, my fingers curling further into the paper. I open my eyes and begin frantically folding the letter closed. Running my finger across the page, I yearn for another moment with her. A sign of warmth to ease my cold heart. Send me a sign. Please, God, let my mother send me a sign. What the hell do I do now?
I glance up, and my reflection in my freestanding mirror stares back at me. My blonde hair is a frazzled mess, and I’m wearing a black knee-length dress that contrasts against my pale white skin. There’s a tear in my stockings from when I stumbled at the gravesite, too shaken to watch the petals falling on top of my mother’s coffin. She’s in that wooden box … alone. She’s all alone … She will suffocate … It’s cold … She needs me. She needs her candles, anything.
I blink as the trails of mascara stain my cheeks, while blue eyes filled with torment stare back at me. My soul feels drenched in misery, and I ache for my broken heart to break entirely, to take me with her.
I want my mum back. Please, God. Let me be with my mum. I’ll do anything.
A soft knock behind me sounds, and I turn to find Theo standing by the door, holding his sketchpad. His green eyes stare at me as his lips press together in a grimace.
“Hey.” I lick my dry, cracked lips. His shoulder pushes against the frame as he moves forward, his worried eyes running from my tear-stained face to my cut knee through my stockings. His long black hair drapes across his face, but his eyes are never hidden from me.
“Hey.” His deep voice is a caress to my ears as he moves closer.
My eyes drop to my lap, to the folded letter, and I bite my lip to stop the tears that threaten to fall. Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head when his hand cups my cheek and my body leans into his touch. We were close once, and my body craves his caress to be the balm for my aching heart. I miss him.
We linger in this moment, his touch calming me yet ripping me at the same time.
“I’m so sorry, firecracker,” he whispers as his thumb moves across my jaw. I sniff and nod, too determined to hold onto his touch as some means of selfish torture. I don’t deserve to be comforted today, especially after I was so mean to him.
His hand glides to my cheek and I move with it, losing balance for a moment before I right myself on my bed’s edge. Theo’s broad back is turned as he walks out to the hall and into the bathroom, leaving his sketchpad by my feet. Small tinkling of the water pipes is heard as he runs the tap.
Wordlessly, he returns with a wet face-washer in his hand and lowers to the ground at my feet. He gently places the cloth against my knee, wiping the caked blood away.
“You’ll need to disinfect this, but it will do for now.” His eyes raise momentarily to mine. All I can do is nod.
“I didn’t think you’d come today,” I said, afraid of my own voice. He stops and stares back at me, his brow rising slightly.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I …” I swallow the guilt that lies at the back of my throat. “Because I … kept her illness from you for ages.”
“I don’t think now is the right time to talk about that.” His jaw clenches as he bundles the washcloth in his fist before turning to toss it in the wash basket. I look away quickly, running my thumbs over my letter again, my eyes too ashamed to meet his. I didn’t tell him about her illness because I was jealous of his girlfriend, a fact that causes my stomach to tighten. My insides jolt in consecutive blows.
“I’m sorry.” My lip trembles. “All I can tell you is that I’m sorry.”
Theo bends to the side to retrieve his sketchpad before standing to turn and sit by me. We sit shoulder to shoulder, but the gulf that lies between us feels oceans apart. He rests the pad against his thighs and opens the black cover to pull out a piece of paper.
“I made you something.” The sheet glides across the booklet.
My breath seizes. An image of my mother so vivid, stares back at me. I reach out and run my finger ever-so-gently along the contours of my mother’s face. He has captured her sitting in her hammock with a book in her hand, smiling down at the pages. Her sunburnt orange scarf is tied around her head as if she’s some Arabian princess, while her slender arm rests across her abdomen. The book is raised close to her face as her eyes stare at it in wonder. The colours, the shading, all bring this moment to life. I stare at both curves of her shoulders, the smoothness of her neck, and I gaze, transfixed, as I lose myself in the beauty of her image. The skin at the back of my neck prickles as the realness of the picture surrounds me. I can feel her.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks as I marvel at the intricate detail he’s created. I glance closer and see the title across the spine of the book, Pride and Prejudice, and I chuckle. “When did you do this?” I ask, raising my eyes to his.
“Easter weekend. I came and visited her and couldn’t help it—I just wanted to capture the moment.”
Guilt tightens my heart. My eyes sting with envy. I was supposed to come home that weekend. But I’d been afraid to see her. I was afraid that I’d see her illness. Instead, I’d missed this. I missed her vibrancy.
“Thank you.” My lips tremble. “I should’ve been here but I was …”
“Shush.” Theo reaches around my shoulders and pulls me flush against him. “No more punishing yourself.”
I clutch his shirt and sob, aching for the moments I’ve lost with her and grateful that he is here all the same. Even though I hid her condition from him, he still managed to find out about it and be there for her. I rub my chest against his and listen to his heart palpitating. Maybe this is the sign. I wonder.
Moving back slightly from Theo, I gaze into his caring face. The face of someone that I had shared a deep friendship with, one that I selfishly pushed aside out of jealousy. Over a girlfriend. How fucking childish. But now, we are here, together, and for a moment I want to feel again. I want to feel anything but sorrow.
I shift slightly and move closer to him, watching his eyes as my face moves nearer to his. I stare at the lips that had been my first kiss, my first love before I pushed him away, and I want to feel that moment again. To take away the hurt and make me believe that this moment is right where I should be, as screwed up as it sounds.
“Theo,” I whisper.
An intense look comes over h
is face. I lean forward and just as our lips are about to touch, Theo jolts and moves back, knocking his sketchpad from his lap.
“We can’t,” he mutters, removing his eyes from me. “It wouldn’t be right, today.”
I shake my head, a hot blush rising rapidly across my cheeks as I stare down at the floor, too embarrassed to move. What the fuck was I thinking? I’m a selfish bitch. Again.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” I bite my lip and focus on the papers and photos that fell onto the carpet. My eyes narrow down at the photo that lies on top of my foot. I reach down, grab it, and to my abject horror, see a very naked Claire, who had been Theo’s girlfriend for two years, staring back at me. The same girl who had caused the rift between us, who had taken Theo away from me. The one who I could never live up to.
“What the fuck is this?” I screech, shaking the image in the air.
His long fingers yank the photo from my grasp. “It was taken for my life-drawing class. Claire now models in it.” His cheeks stain with a red tinge, but I don’t care that he’s embarrassed.
“You carry naked photos of your fucking ex-girlfriend with you? On my mother’s funeral day? What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“It fell out. This is my sketchpad I use at uni; we take the night course together. It wasn’t supposed to be seen. I was finishing the sketch this morning.”
My blood boils as I leap from the bed and glare at him. “Get the fuck out,” I roar, pointing to my door. “Get the fuck out of my house, and take the bitch with you!”
“Trinity!” My father storms into my room, breaking through my rampage. “What on earth is going on?”
“I want to be left alone!” I cry, the mortification of it all suffocating me.
“Trin, it’s not what you think—”
“Never again,” I seethe. “You will never make me feel like this stupid jealous idiot again,” I vow.
I stretch over to my bed and grab the sketch of my mother. With a furious growl, I crumple the paper in my shaking hand and tear it in half, the rage multiplying as my fingers continue to tear it into strips. I throw the strips into Theo’s face and sneer. “Did I stutter? I said, get the fuck out of my room!”
