The Ties That Bind Us: (The Ties Duet Part One)

by Danda K.

  The Ties That Bind Us

  (Part One)

  Danda K.

  Copyright © 2021 Danda K.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  The Ties That Bind Us (Part One)

  Editor: Brandi at Notes in the Margin

  Proofreader: Molly at Novel Mechanic

  Marissa Shaw

  Cover Designer: Graphics by Stacy

  Formatting: H.L. Swan

  Photo: Deposit Photos

  DEDICATION

  To Ozkan, my destiny.

  Thank you for loving all of me, even the parts that aren’t easy.

  ____________

  For those who get knocked down, please don’t stay down. You’re stronger than you know.

  You may be caught in stormy weather, but that doesn’t mean it rains forever.

  “Even

  After all this time

  The Sun never says

  To the earth,

  ‘You owe me.’

  Look

  What happens

  With a love like that,

  It lights the whole sky.”

  -Hafiz

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Prologue

  Cameron (5 years ago)

  From the couch in the living room, my father yells, “Grab me a beer outta the fridge while you’re standing there doing nothing!”

  I grab him a beer and place it on the end table where he’s sitting. I head back to the kitchen so I can continue doing “nothing” and pack my school bag with whatever food I can find for the day.

  People say high school is one of the best times of your life, but it can also be the hardest.

  For me, it’s nothing but hard. It’s not my grades that are the problem, though; it’s the atmosphere. Not only are high school kids exceptionally mean to skinny girls with frizzy hair and glasses, but they’re even meaner when those girls have a mouthful of braces.

  Sounds pretty typical, right?

  Nope.

  Because usually, a parent recognizes their child’s crooked and spaced out teeth when they’re much younger. And most parents are eager to get it fixed for them. They also take them to all of their yearly check-ups with their preventative doctors.

  But nope, not mine.

  My mother waltzes into the kitchen, wearing her pink silk robe swishing against her knees. The front is open, exposing a matching silk nightdress. Her dark brown hair is already perfectly straightened and reaches below her chest. With my back to her as she grabs a mug from the counter, I hear that subtle twang in her voice as she asks, “Where are you going this early?” I roll my eyes as I throw my recycled bottle of tap water into the front pocket of my bag.

  “It’s the first day of school.” I hear a hmph from behind me as she struts her way around the small kitchen island. Somehow, even at seven in the morning, she still manages to look stunning.

  Well, on the outside, at least.

  You can tell she’s aged by the subtle crow’s feet around her eyes before she plasters herself in makeup. Regardless, she still looks younger than she is. She dresses the part, too. It’s not surprising that she managed to get my father to marry her within a year of their meeting. She claims she was born and raised in Brooklyn. She also claims that the slight accent she carries is Greek, but I have my doubts.

  Her olive skin glows in the sunlight streaming in from the window. She raises one of her thick and perfectly plucked eyebrows at me when I add an extra banana to my bag.

  Defensively, I tell her, “They’re rotting…you won’t even eat them if they’re bruised.” She shrugs and ties a knot in her robe, the silk fabric now conforming to her thin frame. The slight pouch on her abdomen might indicate that she had had a child, but it’s obvious it wasn’t difficult for her to lose the baby weight.

  She checks the ends of her hair when she says sharply, “I’ll be working all night tonight, so don’t expect me home.”

  There’s a shocker. I give her a thumbs up and continue getting my supplies in order. She heads back to her bedroom, waving me off over her shoulder.

  As I’m tying up my boots, I hear my father yell, “Another!” I stop what I’m doing and grab him another beer from the fridge.

  I walk over and hand it to him this time.

  Without taking his eyes off the television, he snatches the can out of my hand. I spot the discoloration on the couch from the time in seventh grade when I accidentally spilled his beer while dusting the end table; that wasn’t a good day.

  Not only did he lock me in my room with no food until the next morning, but he also offered a few blows to my ribs after he forced me to clean the floors.

  As was typical, my father focused on the areas of my body not visible when clothed. The only reason he didn’t hit me before I cleaned the floors was that he wanted them done correctly.

  I’d like to say my father wasn’t always this way, but it would be a lie. He never wanted me, and my mother acts like I’m a burden and don’t exist.

  Now that I’m a teenager, she doesn’t really care if I can stand on my own two feet or not. Little does she know or care to know, I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember.

  It’s that lack of concern for my general well-being that is the reason I’m starting eleventh grade sporting new braces. Luckily, I only need them for a year. My parents finally had to cave, but only after several CPS visits and the school counselor calling to give them an ear full on my physical appearance, mental state, and lack of social etiquette.

  In other words, they were sure I was being abused, but they’re fighting a system that’s beyond broken. Unless a parent is caught red-handed, the abuse will continue until the child escapes and runs off on their own. Or worse, stays and actually attempts to survive it each time.

  M
y parents decided braces would be the best route. With state insurance, they pay nothing for any dental visits, and a dentist was also the least likely to ask questions about bruises since they only focus on the mouth. So, they show the school they are “on top” of taking care of me while continuing to hide the fact they’re regularly sucking the life out of their very own flesh and blood.

  Growing up in Brooklyn is something most people write rap songs about. A lot of the greatest rappers were born and raised here. I shouldn’t know this little fact though, because I’m not allowed to listen to music. What Mom and Dad don’t know won’t hurt ’em, though.

  Or, in my case, me.

  I love music. I love music so much that I risk sneaking my best friend Camilla’s iPod Touch in and out of my house unnoticed every day. I like all types of music: rap, rock, pop, and country—even the occasional dreaded techno. I don’t have a preference for what I listen to as long as I feel it.

  And these days, music is all I can feel.

  It’s also why my biggest dream is to own a music store. Some say it’s pointless, given the time we live in. They’re probably right, but it’s the one thing I dream about: Owning a small, quiet store where people could come in and look for all types of music. From CDs, to vinyl, and even music sheets to learn from⎼ it would have everything for music lovers, right down to a small sectioned-off area to be used as a makeshift studio.

  The saddest part about my dream is, deep in my subconscious, I feel like I chose it because I knew it would fail. Stores like that are no longer in demand with all these streaming services and live playlists you have access to. Maybe I chose this dream because I knew it wouldn’t work, and I needed something other than my feelings of uselessness and insignificance to be the reason for failure.

  Shaking off my thoughts, I walk towards the door and pick up my bag. I stand there a minute with my hand on the doorknob, glancing over my shoulder to look at my father lying on the couch, drinking the beer I gave him.

  Never a hello or goodbye between us.

  ◆◆◆

  The walk to school is only about ten minutes from where I live, so I don’t mind it as long as the weather is decent. Today the skies are clear, and it’s warm. As I walk, I can feel beads of sweat forming on my neck from the sun already beating down on me.

  I have my earbuds in, and I’m listening to my favorite songs so I can tolerate the outside world. It’s quiet on the street right now, just some store owners opening up shop and lifting the metal gate from the front of their stores.

  I turn a corner, and my high school comes into view. Crossing the street, I turn off the iPod and place it in my pocket. Instantly, my guard is up, and I prepare myself for what my fellow classmates might throw at me.

  “Hello? Look alive, Cam!” I hear Camilla’s voice in front of me.

  No, I didn’t choose her as my best friend because our names can both be shortened to sound the same. She chose me, actually.

  Right now, she’s clapping her hands and standing by the steps to the entrance of our school. My best friend is around 5’6” and beautiful. Her long, dark blonde hair flows in waves. Her skin always looks tan and dewy, and her makeup on point. Her lively green eyes are a stark contrast to my dark and dull brown ones.

  She’s sporting her usual ripped knee jeggings, red Converse, and a white tank top under the grey cardigan I got her for her birthday. I had to collect over fifty pounds of cans to afford it, but she’s my best friend, so I didn’t mind.

  For once, my father’s nasty habit sure came in handy there. Not that I would ever tell her that.

  While I’m skinny like her, I’m also pale, with the frizziest dark brown hair that Camilla always tries to tame and brush for me. She tries to give me “makeovers” whenever I’m able to sneak over to her house after my mom is gone and my dad is passed out for the night, but I refuse.

  And I like my glasses, believe it or not... just like I like my secondhand Docs, my baggy t-shirts, and my skinny jeans. It doesn’t draw any attention to the scarred body I try so hard to hide from everyone, including her.

  Camilla is really popular. We met by chance at a CVS where she was looking for makeup, and I was buying myself bandages to cover my newest bruises. She asked me which color lipstick would look best on her, and I had to do a double-take. I looked all around me to see if there was someone else she would have been talking to.

  When I decided it must be me she wanted advice from, I shrugged, confused as to why someone like her would even acknowledge me.

  I went about my business, and she announced she decided to buy both. She continued to talk to a still silent me and somehow convinced me to hang out with her at a local Starbucks not far from the pharmacy. She continued the conversation with herself and declared me her new best friend over coffee.

  That was freshman year. Now, here we are, in our junior year.

  The popular, beautiful girl and her weird, quiet, introverted best friend.

  The friend I’m sure everyone assumes she pities. And no matter how much she tries to get me to join her regular group of friends, I physically can’t. Not only because I don’t trust anyone besides her, but her “friends” are the biggest douchebags to me. They act nice and say hi when I’m with Milla, but only because nobody wants to upset one of the most popular girls in school.

  That would be the second quickest way to commit high school social suicide.

  The first way to commit social suicide? Being me.

  The second she leaves, their asshole switch would turn on, and they’d begin the name-calling. Back then, I’d flip them the bird and tell them to fuck off, and for the most part, ignore it. But recently, things have turned physical.

  I haven’t told Milla anything, though. Not because I was scared of what they would do, but because I didn’t want to burden her with my bullshit. They were pros at feigning innocence anyway.

  And it’s not like they did it when anyone else in the school with an actual beating heart could see. Sometimes it was in the bathroom stalls, sometimes after PE when I was left cleaning up all the weights.

  I mean, let’s face it, the abuse is something I’m used to. So, being the creature of habit that I am, I continued to take their digs and jabs and brush off as much as I can. The rest is stored in that deep, dark hole inside me where I keep all my other painful experiences.

  The place my dad is the sole contributor of.

  Camilla grips my arm, wraps it around hers, and begins to walk up the steps, entangling me with her. Fluffing her hair on one side, she says, “Did you know there’s this handy little message that pops up on phones when we’re wearing headphones? It warns us that listening at a high volume can cause irreparable hearing loss.” She points her pink manicured finger in the air. “And it’s not just a theory. It’s science.”

  Taking the earbuds out, I sigh, “Luckily for me, I don’t have a fancy phone that can tell me the future like yours can.” I eye the latest iPhone she has. I wave her iPod in her face and continue, “I like the element of surprise.”

  I wasn’t even listening to anything...I just like to keep the earbuds in as a KEEP AWAY sign to any and all who are not my bubbly, blonde best friend.

  She rolls her eyes. “Suit yourself bitch, but it’s gonna be hard to listen to any of that music you love so much without your hearing intact.” She side-eyes me and smirks, knowing she got me there.

  Okay, maybe she does have a point. I usually do listen to my music extremely loud.

  It drowns out the world.

  It drowns out my thoughts.

  “Anyway...” she continues, turning in front of me, staring me down, and placing her hands on my shoulders. She gives me a little shake like she’s trying to infuse me with her cheery attitude.

  When she lets go, she blurts out, “I’m so excited to start junior year! The beginning of school’s the best. Finding out your classes, which friends you’ll be with, and finally getting the chance to sit up front in Mr. Sodo’s biology class to sta
re at that perfect ass all period...” She shoulder-bumps me. “You should be excited, too!”

  Insert gag emoji.

  I stare at her blankly. “You’re hyper and enthusiastic enough about junior year and Sodo’s ass for the both of us, trust me,” I deadpan and slide to her right to walk past her.

  She puts her hand over her heart to fake insult. “I’m not hyper! I’m optimistic!” With a sing-song voice, she continues, “This year’s gonna be a good one!” She catches up to me and intertwines our arms again.

  I huff out a breath. “Uh, yeah, maybe for you. Miss ‘I went on a date with Shane McHarris,’ the most popular quarterback in the entire high school.” I let out a long sigh, batting my eyelashes like it’s just so dreamy.

  She counters, “Nooooo, my fickle, quiet, antisocial best friend. It’s going to be a great year for both of us!”

  It wasn’t until she was gone, and I was left there defenseless, that it happened.

  The first shove into the locker.

  Followed closely by the stares, the name-calling, and the judgment from the vultures she calls friends. It was then I knew how wrong she really was.

  Because optimism is for girls like my best friend.

  Optimism has no place in the world for an underdog like me.

  One

  Cameron (Present day)

  Sunlight streams through the slits in my dark grey bedroom curtains, piercing me right in the eyes. Groaning, I raise one hand to cover my face from the rays while I reach for my glasses with the other. Once I get them on my face, I grab my phone, checking the time. 11:33 a.m. Just as my mind churns over how I slept so late on a Wednesday, I hear it.

  Nothing.

  No sounds from the TV, no grunting, no snoring, and no movement outside my door. There’s nothing besides the kids playing outside, enjoying what’s left of their summer in September.