Whispered Pain

by Ashley Fontainne

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Ashley Fontainne

  Other Titles By Ashley Fontainne

  1. Questions

  2. Wicked Weather

  3. Prepping

  4. Life Changes

  5. Painful Truths

  6. Reality

  7. Connecting the Dots

  8. Difficult Choices

  9. Saying Goodbye

  10. Plan B

  11. Silencing the Voices

  About the Author

  Praise for Ashley Fontainne

  “I absolutely love this woman’s style and plots. Have to read anything and everything she writes. Awesome talent! Thanks, Ashley Fontainne, for creating such memorable works!”

  ~ Janelle Taylor, New York Times bestselling author

  “Ashley Fontainne proves with ‘Number Seventy-Five’ that she’s a talent to watch.”

  ~ Raymond Benson, author of The Black Stiletto series

  “Ashley Fontainne has written her best and most compelling book to date. A multi-layered thriller with strong characters and emotions that grab the reader from page one to the shocking ending. Murder, betrayal and lies bind a Southern family in a very Fatal Agreement.”

  ~ Elaine Raco Chase, bestselling author

  “A gritty, realistic, deftly crafted novel, ‘Ruined Wings’ is a simply riveting read from beginning to end…a significant, relevant, and highly recommended addition for personal reading lists, as well as community and academic library collections.”

  ~ Midwest Book Reviews

  Other Titles By Ashley Fontainne

  The Rememdium Series/Sci-fi/Post-Apocalyptic:

  Tainted Cure – Book 1

  Tainted Reality – Book 2

  Tainted Future – Book 3

  Tainted World – Book 4

  The Magnolia Series (written with Lillian Hansen):

  Blood Ties

  Blood Loss

  Mystery/suspense novels:

  Fatal Agreements

  Night Court

  Empty Shell

  Suicide Lake

  Number Seventy-Five

  Eviscerating the Snake Trilogy:

  Accountable to None

  Zero Balance

  Adjusting Journal Entries

  Paranormal/suspense:

  Growl

  The Lie – soon to be the feature film Foreseen

  http://www.foreseenmovie.com

  Dark Comedy:

  Marriage Made Me Do It – published by HarperCollinsUK

  Drug Addiction/Recovery:

  Ruined Wings – soon to be the Docu-drama ‘Ruined Wings’ watch the trailer

  at https://ruinedwings.com/

  Poetry and Short Stories:

  Fine as Frog Hair

  Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman

  Stay up to date with new releases, movie news, and more! Sign up for

  Ashley’s newsletter at http://www.ashleyfontainne.com

  1

  Questions

  What does it mean to be alive? It’s an age-old conundrum with various answers. Some are universal. To touch, taste, smell, see, hear and feel. It might be the gentle fingers of a mother, stroking the soft skin of her newborn. Or, is it the taste of a sumptuous meal on your tongue? What about the smell of summer rain, freshly mown grass, your lover’s scent? Maybe it’s drinking in the vibrant colors of the sky at sunset, or the shimmering moon as it peaks over a snow covered mountain. Perhaps the answer is joyous squeals of children’s laughter as they play without worry, still cocooned away inside naiveté. Experiencing a moment of pure ecstasy when you climax, or the soul-crushing sorrow when you lose a loved one? The rush of endorphins flooding your body while bungee jumping or skydiving.

  I could go on and on, but you get my drift. Being alive is all of those things, and a host of numerous others. What one person considers living may be the stuff of nightmares to another, but in the end, it’s all about breathing. Blood flow…Heartbeats…

  Sensation.

  Consciousness.

  Awareness.

  Reasoning.

  Synchronicity.

  Why, are you wondering, do I pose such a loaded question? To stir debate? Engage your brain cells? Force a deep conversation about life in general?

  Oh, no, nothing so lofty. It’s quite simple, really. I just want to know. Want to feel. Want to see.

  Want to anything again.

  Because I’m lost, wandering, disoriented, disjointed and distorted. I’m no longer associated with anything. The sensations of all senses elude me. Mere blips of faded memories tumble around me. I can’t recall how it felt to be kissed or hugged. What a belly-laugh was like. How boredom felt. Bone-weary tiredness. Nothing. I feel…nothing.

  Anticipation.

  Nervousness.

  Grief.

  Energy.

  Regret.

  Oh, did I fail to mention why?

  Because I’m no longer among the living. At least, I don’t think I am. To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I don’t remember my name, my age, or even my sex. I don’t feel. I can’t smell. I hear, but sounds don’t register emotional responses anymore. I see, but it’s all in muted grays, no vibrant colors.

  Dead.

  Lifeless.

  Dull.

  No sense of time, space, awareness. I just…float. Yeah, float. Like a weightless cloud drifting through the limitless universe. No purpose. No destination. No set trajectory. No rhyme or reason. I don’t know where I am, how I arrived at this point, this numbed state. Ebony nothingness has swallowed me whole. I’m not sure of anything.

  Can you, will you, help me? I need to know. Want to know. Have to know. Who am I? Where am I? How do I escape this black void?

  Help.

  Please, help me.

  I’m begging you…

  2

  Wicked Weather

  Winton Brewer sighed and stared out the small window. He thought about rubbing his tired eyes but didn’t, worried it would make them burn more than they already did. After exposing them to the frigid temperatures for the past eight hours, Winton was surprised his contacts weren’t stuck to his eyeballs.

  He almost smiled while he took in view of the streets of downtown Little Rock. The blacktop was covered in piles of pristine, white fluff. Postcard-quality fairyland, fit for a Christmas card or oil painting. The streetlights bounced off the icy canvas, making the light even more intense. The slushy, slick indentations–made from the tires of the onslaught of cars full of panicked drivers only hours ago–were no longer visible. The rare winter storm belched and spewed the heavy, wet snow for hours, causing drifts to pile up to a foot in some places.

  The residents of Central Arkansas, horrible drivers on sunny days, deplorable in harsh weather, were unaccustomed to driving in the slippery mess. En masse, they fled their offices and homes when the first few flakes appeared. They rushed to their nearest convenience stores in droves. It seemed like all of the population had been ingrained with strange ideas about what to do when a snow storm arrived.

  Ransack the aisles in a rabid quest for milk and bread—it’s what everyone did. Even sweet Amy sent him a text when it first started. Amy said her nursing class was canceled, and she was on her way to pick up milk and bread from the store, wanting to know if he needed anything.

  He had chuckled at the text. Sent a reply, stating no, he didn’t need anything and for Amy to be careful.

  After working the first accident, Winton worried about his girlfriend of six months. The anxiety grew in size as the snow continued to fall. When Amy texted and said she was at Winton’s apartment–all snuggled under the covers and waiting for him–he smiled. For some odd reason, it was at that precise moment Winton knew he was in
love with Amy, and once they both finished school, he would pop the question. He would enlist the help of Amy’s older sister, Lita, to pick out just the right ring. Amy loved everything Lita loved, including her career choice as a nurse, so whatever design Lita liked, so would Amy.

  Winton grew up in Oregon and had only been in Arkansas for a few years. He wondered if urgency to hit the grocery store like a pack of ravenous wolves had always been part of the southern mindset, or if it was some newly planted idea by the marketing machine of Walmart. All he knew for sure was the moment the meteorologists started using words like “chance of snow” and “potential winter weather” in their forecasts, the entire state seemed to run out of milk and bread within hours. It made no sense to Winton. Milk and bread? He wouldn’t want to be stuck inside for an undetermined amount of time and try to survive off milky toast. Winton preferred real food, like steak, potatoes and cornbread. His stomach growled at the thought of food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was almost five thirty at night.

  The dispatch radio at Turnage Wrecker Service was quiet. Finally. From the minute the first delicate piece of frozen liquid fell from the sky, the activity level had been off the charts. He worked twenty-three accidents on Interstate 30 and another seven more on the side streets leading out of downtown. It only took one stupid driver to flip out when the back end of their vehicle started to squirm and all hell broke loose. That driver then slammed into another freaked-out driver in a chain reaction, replayed numerous times on the slippery roads.

  He laughed inside his mind, thinking about all the whining and complaining of the local insurance agents, parading their tired, worn-out faces on TV as they promised their clients to do everything to make their worlds right once more. How hard they worked to sort through all the claims and get cars back in running order. Two years ago, when a smaller storm hit, that’s what they had done.

  After the blustery weather this time, Winton knew it would be even worse.

  Winton’s anger flared for a split second. He’d been the one freezing his family jewels off. The howling winds whipped the shards of cold snow in his face while he loaded up the dented hunks of metal and fiberglass to the back of his wrecker. Unlike some fat, lazy office workers–all cozy and warm inside their cubicles–whose only work injuries might be carpal tunnel syndrome. It was sort of nice letting his anger kick in because it helped warm his frozen blood.

  Winton slumped in the rickety office chair and ignored his coworkers. They stomped around the warm office, snow and patches of ice flung in all directions while they shook off the cold.

  He had homework to finish. One more semester and he would be done with school. Winton chuckled to himself as he flipped open his math textbook and began to work the problems out on the stiff paper in front of him. Had the weathermen been wrong–which they were more often than right–Winton would be turning in a blank math paper and receive a big, fat zero in class tomorrow. Winton hated math. He’d already finished all his other homework–including his English essay on his thoughts about sexual abuse in A Rose for Emily—with ease and a smile on his face.

  Math was another story. It was like studying ancient hieroglyphics every time Winton looked at the equations in front of him. So, at least some good came from the mess outside. It gave him some extra time to pop a few brain cells while trying to digest the problems.

  He couldn’t wait for the last semester to be over. Degree in hand, he could start applying for teaching jobs, rather than freezing his balls off in the winter, or sweating bullets in the summer. Winton had seen enough death and destruction–bodies mangled and bleeding, appendages missing, heads pulverized beyond recognition, inside twisted piles of metal–to last him two lifetimes. Teaching high-school kids would be less traumatic and, hopefully, not invade his dreams like his current job did.

  He tipped his mental hat to the cops and paramedics who worked the gruesome accident scenes time and time again. Thankfully, the latest bout of winter weather only brought fender-benders and a few bruises.

  Winton only had the chance to work out three quadratic equations before the radio sparked to life. He cringed when the office manager, Nanette, responded to the police officer reporting the traffic accident. Two victims had just been extracted from the wreckage. The vehicle would require the lowboy since the car was demolished at the scene.

  Slamming his book shut, he almost collided with another driver, Frankie Harper, as they scrambled to gather their gear and bundle up. Once outside, faces down in an attempt to block the wicked air, they fired up the truck. The accident was only five miles from their location and the bright headlights danced across the shimmering snow as the heavy wrecker lumbered through the quiet streets. Not another vehicle in sight.

  Winton’s throat tightened when he pulled up, the headlights from his truck illuminating the scene in front of him. The first thing he noticed was the spattering of red all over the crumpled hood of the BMW, the windshield shattered. The mound of snow in front of the car was no longer white.

  It was blood red.

  Winton swallowed the bile in his throat, wishing he was back at the office, working on algebra.

  3

  Prepping

  Angie admired her swollen belly in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. Motherhood was a term she wasn’t sure would ever be applied to her life—and here she was, smack dab near the end of the second trimester. Boobs the size of watermelons, feet so swollen they looked like blocks of wood, and a sketchy memory.

  She was thankful the horrific morning sickness had passed, but it had been replaced by bouts of cravings for the same food for weeks. At least she didn’t hunger for pickles and ice-cream, or some other odd food combination. Her latest kick was burritos and cheese-dip for lunch and dinner and yogurt, oats and blueberries for breakfast. The thought of eating anything else make her stomach queasy. Angie wondered how much longer the food choice would last and what the next few weeks of culinary delights her body would crave

  If someone had told her fifteen years ago she’d be carrying a child, Angie would have looked at them like they were aliens. Of course, the same thoughts and feelings had been part of her psyche regarding marriage. All of her negative emotions associated with marriage and motherhood disappeared when Drake Benson burst into her world ten years before.

  Angie’s slender fingers moved with a slight tremble as she caressed the taut skin. She reached over and grabbed the almond butter off the counter, squirted out a handful and rubbed it over her stretched tummy. She tried not to wince when her fingers grazed across the thick, dark stretch marks. Angie loved everything about being pregnant, except what it had done to the skin around her stomach and ass, along with bouts of what Drake lovingly called “pregnancy brain.”

  She stretched her sore muscles. The exercise routine was getting harder and harder to complete as her midsection increased in size, but Angie was determined to keep herself fit. Besides, it was good for the baby. Every time she did yoga, the relaxation calmed the future soccer star inside her. This was the first day back to her regular yoga workout, and Angie sure felt it. All the effort and struggle would be worth it, though. It would make the delivery much easier, and though Drake never said a negative word about her changing body, on occasion Angie noticed the displeasure behind his eyes. She could see through the mask of excitement and heard a twinge of concern sometimes in his sugary words. Her husband worried his wife’s once sexy body would never be the same.

  Oh, stop it, Angie! Drake is just as happy as you are. The hormones running amok inside your bloodstream are making you imagine things!

  Though she never said a word to him, or anyone else for that matter, Angie worried about her figure too. Hell, ever since the stick turned blue, she worried about everything. Angie was pushing hard on forty’s door, and her life prior to carrying a child in her womb hadn’t exactly been lived with the utmost care. There had been too much wine, too many late nights out with Drake, schmoozing would-be clients. On her feet for twelve
-hour shifts at work. It all had taken a toll on her body. Angie shook her head to rid herself of the thoughts. Silly, hormonal-induced concerns full of shallow, useless worries. Like Drake said: pregnancy brain. A life was growing inside her, a beautiful miracle made by two people in love. Parenthood was right around the corner and Angie was letting old fears she tried to hide for years get to her.

  It didn’t matter if Drake wasn’t one-hundred percent on board about being a father. How could she expect him to be? He didn’t have the bond yet. Their child wasn’t wiggling around in his body, keeping him up at night while he or she practiced kicking extra points. Their connection would happen when the little one arrived. Angie smiled at the memories of the late-night ritual Drake started the minute she told him the good news. Right after they climbed under the sheets, he would rest his head on her abdomen and have a conversation with their child. At first, it was only short, sweet and to the point things, but as her belly grew in size, the one-sided conversation did as well. Each night, Drake would tell their baby a bedtime story. He would end the ritual by planting a gentle, goodnight kiss on Angie’s navel when finished. It was downright adorable and made Angie tear up almost every time. Drake Benson, the tough-as-nails lawyer, was going to make an excellent father.

  The morning ritual completed, Angie finished dressing and headed to the kitchen to fix breakfast and take her prenatal pills. It was strange to be at home. After her bleeding scare almost two weeks ago, even though her obstetrician gave his blessing, her father and mother insisted Angie stay home another week. Well, her mother insisted. Her father only nodded his head in agreement, occasionally spouting out medical terminology about the dangers of spontaneous bleeding during pregnancy, the possible causes and potential remedies. Angie didn’t put up much of a protest. As a nurse, she was well aware of the dangers. Always the doctor, her father kept his cool. However, her mom fawned and cooed over her like Angie was a sick child. Her mom stayed at the house for four full days. She insisted Angie remain in bed and waited on her hand and foot.