Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers)

by Susan Griscom

  The Beaumont Brothers

  Susan Griscom

  Amber Glow Books

  Susan Griscom

  www.susangriscom.com

  http://swblog.susangriscom.com

  Kindle Edition

  Other works by Susan Griscom

  The Whisper Cape Series

  Whisper Cape, Book 1

  Reflections, Book 2

  A Secret Fate, Book 3

  Also by Susan Griscom

  Allusive Aftershock (A young adult novel, 2013)

  Brief Interludes (A collection of short stories with a twist)

  Erotic Interludes (An anthology by S.M. Griscom & Anabel Blue)

  Published in the United States by Amber Glow Books.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Beautifully Wounded is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This story is not meant to be used as a self-help guide for domestic violence victims. All people, places, and events are a figment of the author’s imagination. If you or someone you know is a victim of such crimes as domestic violence or abuse, please seek professional help. There are many organizations available that provide safety, support, and many are able to give the victim a fresh start in life.

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Griscom

  Formally published as The Fawn

  Amber Glow Books

  AmberGlowBooks.com

  www.susangriscom.com

  Edited by Michael Leah Olson

  Cover designed by Susan Griscom

  ISBN-13: 978-1497596139 (Paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1497596130

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About Susan Griscom

  Chapter 1

  Lena

  He opened the front door. Rusty hinges creaked in the otherwise stillness of the night as he entered our dark, two-story home. No one could have slept through the sound of the door slamming behind him, or the thump of his footsteps on the stairs as I pictured him lumbering his way up to the bedroom where I supposedly slept. He swore with dissonance, and every bone in my body stiffened as I squeezed my eyes so tight they hurt. When a thump, followed by a clang resonated through the house, I visualized a picture crashing to the floor, glass shattering as it toppled to the bottom of the steps—the one and only picture of us on our wedding day, no doubt. Troy was drunk, again. I knew he would be—knew it when he left earlier that evening. I’d come to learn it was an ugly habit with him most nights. I stared up at the dingy white ceiling of our darkened bedroom, tainted with water stains from a leaky roof. A sliver of light from the street lamp peeked through the window and illuminated a slender line across the wall. I stayed still as a corpse, breathing shallow and praying he was drunk enough to just pass out.

  My body involuntarily stiffened when he tumbled on top of me, groping at my breasts, forcing his hard slobbering lips against mine. I forced myself to go limp; my rigid body would only make him mad. I stopped breathing for as long as I could to ward off the stink of booze and cigarettes emanating from his pores and from his hot, sour breath. A vile tincture accumulated in my throat and I fought back the urge to vomit.

  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always like this. There was a time I enjoyed being with Troy, when making love was something special, something exciting. But not now, not like this. There would be no titillating foreplay here, no show of affection. Not from him, that wasn’t his style, at least not anymore. His style was brutal, self-serving, and revolting.

  I tried not to flinch or look surprised as he ripped my thin nightgown down the front, exposing one of my breasts. Any show of negative emotion might set him off in the wrong direction.

  “Get rid of this fucking thing.” The demand slurred from his throat. With a sickening laugh, he tugged the cotton away from my body and tossed the shredded material to the floor. There was no point in refusing him. That was something I’d learned the hard way. My face would fare better if I just surrendered to his disgusting sexual assaults.

  My underpants were next to endure his rough, impatient hands as he tugged them down over my feet. I doubt they even made it to the floor. They’d become lost somewhere in the sheets.

  There used to be a gentle, caring man behind those dark blue eyes—so blue they always reminded me of what I thought the deepest part of the ocean looked like. Now, I only thought of the darkest part of hell—where the fire burned everything to black embers before it moved on.

  He stood up, fumbled with his zipper, and stumbled while pushing his pants down. I lie there naked, trying my best not to shiver or show fear, trying so, so hard to keep the tears from flowing. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at him. I ordered myself to lie still—to make my mind go somewhere else—then I could tolerate the loveless act that was about to happen, as I’d done so many times before. I searched my mind for that time not too long ago when sex with this man was welcomed, a time when I felt special and loved. Oh, I still felt special—a special kind of punching bag if I didn’t do what he told me to do.

  He practically fell on top of me, the length of his body smothering mine. Stillness forced on me, I ordered myself not to cry out from his heavy weight, knowing any type of complaint would make him violent. The fact that I couldn’t seem to take in a full breath of air helped keep me quiet.

  “Now, that’s better. Oh, yeah, baby,” he groaned in my ear, slurping wet, boozy lips down my throat as he shoved his not quite hard erection into me, rocking back and forth.

  It amazed me that he could even get the tip inside. The smell of booze on his breath tonight was heavy, and I wondered if he’d finish before he grew frustrated and angry.

  It didn’t take long for his fury to escalate into blind rage. Cursing, blaming me for not arousing him enough. “You frigid bitch! Show me some affection you stupid cunt!” In his outrage, he backhanded me across the face.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I always was. I didn’t cry out, didn’t shed a te
ar. I’d become numb, I think, because if I did cry or scream, he’d only beat me more and yell at me to shut up. However, this time, I found my apathetic response wouldn’t work either. He slapped me again and then dragged me up by my hair, tossing me to the floor. “Get out of my bed you worthless slut. Who you been fucking so you don’t want me anymore? You have somebody better than me out there?”

  I was too stunned to answer, so he kept on shouting, “Right, ain’t nobody gonna wanna fuck an old has-been like you.”

  It didn’t matter that I was only twenty. My body and my spirit were broken beyond repair, damaged, and I felt as old as his accusations. He stood staggering over me and laughed, one foot on either side of my legs for balance as he reached for himself. I honestly thought he would urinate on me just to show how little he thought of me. He’d done it before, and said I wasn’t even worth the piss of a dog. But luckily, this time he just grabbed both my arms and yanked my limp body to my feet.

  “You think you can get a better lay than me? You’re mistaken. Nobody else will have you. Nobody else wants you. You’re a stinking dirty whore! That’s what you are.”

  In the past, I would have begged him to stop, but these days my mind numbed more and more with each assault. It wouldn’t make any difference if I answered him or not, it would always be the wrong answer. Staying silent was safer. It made him mad, but it didn’t give him any more ammunition. Usually.

  He laughed again before spitting in my face, and then I felt the bone of his knuckles crack against my upper cheek—or was that my bone that cracked? Then he threw me against the wall. The back of my head slammed against it, and a traitorous groan escaped from my throat as I collapsed. This time, I thought, he just might kill me. He kicked me in the stomach, and again in my side, before he staggered away to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure which hurt more: my face, my stomach, or my ribs.

  The sound of him urinating gave me reprieve from his wrath, and I decided to try to make a run for it. I honestly didn’t know if I’d even make it down the stairs, but I had to try. My legs shook, and every inch of my body ached. I made it to the top of the stairway and had a death grip on the railing for fear I would lose my balance and tumble down the long staircase. The hallway behind me, as well as the stairwell before me, seemed almost invisible in the darkness since Troy hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights before staggering upstairs. I didn’t even try to locate the switch to illuminate my way. I’d take my chances in the dark, not wanting to alert him to my whereabouts. Barely able to stand, I stumbled my way down to the small kitchen.

  I struggled to find the strength to stay on my feet and gripped the counter, leaning against it for support.

  “Lena, where the fuck did you go?” he called out as his heavy flat feet thumped down the stairs.

  Panic clouded my mind. I needed to get out of there. If he found me standing here, he would surely kill me for not staying put.

  I’d saved money, but as I looked down at my naked body I knew I couldn’t just run out the door. If he caught up with me, the jealous rage at the sight of my naked body outside would only send him into an even angrier fit. And I couldn’t leave without my stash of money.

  I glanced around the kitchen. The white laminate counters bare and neat, not even a knickknack or speck of dirt on them per his strict rules. I could have grabbed a heavy pan and hit him over the head, but I didn’t think I could walk across the room to where we stored them in time, and quite frankly, I didn’t have the strength to wield a heavy enough blow to knock him out. I turned, still grasping the counter, and yanked open the drawer beside the sink. My fingers latched on to one of the small steak knives as he called out again, startling me, his voice not far away. Panic rose, and the rush of adrenalin secreted into my veins as I clutched the knife tightly in my fist. The solid weight of the black plastic handle in my grip felt reassuring, yet terrifying. I ran my fingers down the sharp edge of the blade with my other hand, feeling the jagged edges. My body seemed to move in a dream state or a B-rated horror movie—waiting for the serial killer to come closer—close enough for me to plunge the blade into him. Did I have the courage to do it? If I didn’t, he would kill me. He rounded the corner as I turned back around, my shaky hand hiding the blade behind my back.

  He weaved his way across the room, his hands fanned out to his sides as if to embrace me, his head cocked to one side, a slight curve to his lips; a rare attempt at a tender gesture.

  “Come on, Lena. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” His sudden mood swing didn’t surprise me. I knew it was just an act to get closer to me so I would let my guard down, then he could strike me again or get close enough to choke me to death.

  I didn’t move though. Couldn’t move. My arms were still behind my back, one clutching the counter for support, the other around that black plastic handle. His hands groped my shoulders and he squeezed his fingers against my skin.

  “You shouldn’t have left the bedroom, Lena. Now I’ll need to punish you.” His body wavered and he studied me with bloodshot eyes as if deciding what to do.

  Shove it in, my mind demanded, as rage simmered behind those blue eyes. Then his fingers moved to my throat, squeezing tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and pulled the knife around. I thrust it into his gut in the same manner as he had thrust into me a few moments before, cold and brutal. Only I added passion—a passion of hate.

  His warm blood oozed over my knuckles. He appeared shocked that I had actually stabbed him. I let go of the handle, leaving the blade stuck in his abdomen.

  He gazed at me with wide, shocked eyes. “Lena? Baby, why?” He clutched at his stomach where the plastic stuck out. Blood oozed between his fingers and stained his white shirt. Then his knees buckled and he sank to the floor. “You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you for this.”

  Chapter 2

  Lena

  I stood rigid as a pole before I realized what I’d done. He fell onto his side, his hands covered in blood, a pool of red spreading under him.

  Willing my legs to move, I shuffled my way around him and then ran. I snatched my purse that hung from the closet door handle and grabbed a coat from the coat rack by the door. I shrugged it on as I ran out, stopping only briefly to run to the side of the house and dig up the money I had buried in the ground about five inches under a small boulder.

  I grabbed the keys from my purse and ran to the SUV. I didn’t even think about where I would go, I just started the car and shoved it in reverse. I fishtailed out of the driveway after turning the car around and spinning the tires as I tore out onto the street. I raced down the interstate heading south out of Medford. I had no particular destination in mind. I didn’t care. Tears soaked the collar of my coat as they dripped from my cheeks. As I swiped at them, I wondered how I could possibly have any left. I’d thought they would have dried up by now. My tears gave the streetlights a halo hue as if being viewed through waxed paper. The way the lights on the Christmas tree appeared when I squinted my eyes tight; a distant memory of something I liked to do during much more pleasant times in another life.

  It was three in the morning, and the absence of other cars on the street gave me some reprieve. No one was out at this hour. God, I wished I wasn’t. I looked down at my bloody hands that gripped the steering wheel of the SUV—Troy’s blood.

  “So much blood,” I mumbled. How had I managed to grab the knife from the kitchen drawer and stick it in him? It was still a blur, his fingers choking the life out of me—he was twice my size, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe.

  For weeks I’d prepared to leave him, planning to go before things got too bad. I’d saved money, hid it away, but did I have enough? It didn’t matter now. I’d waited too long. I’d waited, and it got far worse than I’d ever imagined.

  As I clutched the collar of the tan trench coat with my clean hand, I thought about how I should have stopped to wash my hands, should have put on some clothes. Thank God I’d left my shoes in the SUV y
esterday, a habit I’d gotten into after ruining several pairs over the last year in our rain-soaked, muddy driveway. I was stark naked under my coat, but all I could think about was getting far away as quickly as possible. Running all the way upstairs to put on clothes seemed too risky. He would have killed me this time. If I hadn’t stabbed him, he would have killed me. I’d taken a huge chance running to the kitchen when he’d left me beaten to a pulp on the floor of the bedroom to relieve his bladder. I barely had enough time to get downstairs and grab the knife.

  I glanced in the mirror as I drove—my left eye was starting to swell and turn an ugly shade of purple mixed with black and blue. I reached up to rub at the pain on the back of my head only to find a huge bump. That bump must have happened when my head collided with the wall. The ensuing headache would surely need something more than a couple of ibuprofen. How many times did he strike me this time? I lost count after the second one. I prayed that he hadn’t broken any ribs, the pain in my side was excruciating. I needed to pull over somewhere and wash, possibly ditch the SUV. That was the plan I’d had swirling around in my brain for the past three months. Dump the SUV, take a taxi to a used car lot, and buy a cheap car with the cash I’d saved. And maybe he wouldn’t be able to track me.

  I merged onto Interstate 5 cutting off a guy in a red Honda Civic. He swerved to the other lane and gave me the finger. It was still a couple of hours before rush hour, and I hadn’t anticipated any traffic.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I squealed out through the closed window, and then I white-knuckled the steering wheel and forged ahead. I glanced at the gas gauge. “Crap, only half-full.” After about three hours the needle teetered on empty, and I pulled off the freeway to a service station.