by Lowe, T. I.
Coming Home Again
T.I. LOWE
Also by T.I. LOWE
Lulu’s Café
#1 Bestseller in Women’s Christian Fiction
Goodbyes and Second Chances
Bestseller in Contemporary Christian Romance
~Dedication~
I dedicate this book to anyone who has lost themselves.
Hoping you will be found soon.
In memory of those who were unable to be found.
17.7 million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.
—National Institute of Justice and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
33% of rape victims have suicidal thoughts.
13% of rape victims will attempt suicide.
—2002 National Crime Victimization Survey
Copyright © 2015 T.I. LOWE
All rights reserved.
All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design - www.indiecoverdesign.com
Dancing With the Devil
I lost myself. Where did I go? Can I find myself? I just don’t know…
This is the most perfect evening, on a perfect seashore, with a perfect man. Everything. Is. Perfect.
The gentle lull of the ocean, complemented by the velvety white beach, emits a natural calming effect, and I greedily breathe in the peace. Tilting my head slightly, I regard the tranquil ribbons of silver moonlight, showering over us in spectacular bands, in awe. A delicious shiver evoked by the cool night air caresses my body and dances with the soft, gauzy layers of my evening gown to its own melody. I feel beautiful and feminine with my hair spilling in indulgent curls down my open back.
Loved… I am loved.
Contentment settles over me as I admire this stunning being accompanying me tonight. Sultry, crystal-clear eyes watch me possessively in the cascading moonlight—observing my every movement. His unbuttoned white shirt undulates in the light breeze, beckoning my attention to the exposed, well-built form of his chest and the marvelous flat plains of his abdomen. My focus trails all the way down to the dangerously low-riding black tuxedo pants, which seem to be grasping just barely to the V of his lean hips. He is exotic, and I am unable to do anything but openly appreciate him. The heat of his stare engulfs me as my gaze begins a long, slow journey back to that beautifully sculpted face, where I see approval in his eyes. He relishes in being admired, and I want nothing more than to do just that. My hands sweep through his thick, dark hair, testing the silkiness of the texture as our bare feet leisurely kick up the powdery sand while we dance. I feel safe, cherished, and completely desired.
An addictive tingle ripples through me in sheer delight when he finally wraps his arms around me and pulls our bodies closer. Resting my head on his strong chest during this unending dance, I listen to the even and restful beat of his heart. The sound of it is like a perfectly orchestrated lullaby, and I am spellbound by it.
As the enchanting lullaby plays on, this magnificent man tilts my head with his gentle hand and studies my every feature. He slowly leans down and warms the sensitive skin along my neck with his soft lips. He whispers praises of how perfect I am, how he desires only me, how I am the most perfect rose he has ever seen. Then, when I feel that my heart cannot take any more anticipation, he rewards me with a kiss that I have longed for all night. The kiss begins as light as a faint whisper fluttering over my lips—gradually building as he gently nips at my bottom lip, teasingly. He presents his lips to mine for a kiss so full of desire and urgency that it reflects the passion along my body in flickers of warmth.
We continue to dance and to love for a long, beautiful spell. The intensity grows until it is overbearing and I start to feel curiously odd, as if some alarm demands me to protect myself. However, I can’t grasp how or why to do that.
His taste grows from sinfully sweet to bitterly sour, causing me to gag against his mouth. Panic ricochets violently over me as I push away, but his gentle hands have become uncomfortably tight. I find myself trapped in his grasp. Sharp stings attack my back as his nails penetrate. I try to cry out in pain and terror but I am being suffocated from his lips overwhelming my own. My lungs burn and squeeze as I fight against the attack until he abruptly ceases the torture. Confusion blurs my understanding and I try unsuccessfully to blink it away. As I look up to question why this majestic man would do such a thing, a piercing fear slices through me. My companion is gone, and an ugly beast has taken his place.
Terror engulfs me from the vulgar transformation. His glowing skin is now tarnished with sickly, rough, brown patches and is scored with unhealed scars oozing grotesquely. Those delicate hands that caressed me tenderly just mere minutes ago have now turned into hideous claws. His scaly talons strike out and tear my beautiful gown savagely into shreds. I am frozen in the sand by fear and cannot escape or protect myself. Violent tremors are the only movement evoked from my body.
Suddenly, he begins pushing and pulling at me in some type of horrendous dance. Every touch riddles my body with searing burns and throbbing blisters. A muted sob vibrates from my throat as I take in the thick blood slowly seeping down my bare thighs in wet streams. More confusion riddles me at the sight of my long brown curls scattering over the sand. Panicking, my hand flies to my head and I can only feel scaly, bald patches.
Hated… I am hated.
I scream out in anguish, but no sound arises from my mouth. I have no voice.
Defeated awareness cinches my stomach, causing rancorous acid to scorch my throat as I realize dancing with this beast will have a deadly consequence. His clear eyes have spun to a vicious red and now he watches me in a revolting way—making me feel dirty and repulsive. He is growling out with laughter at me. Mocking me.
I tear my gaze away from his revolting form to search for help but only discover the moon bleeding a scornful shade of scarlet and the inky-black ocean crashing against the shore in a bitter attack, wave after wave. Even the powdery sand has turned on me and is now pricking and tearing the soles of my bare feet. I study it in bafflement and find it to be shards of glass.
Angry… Everything is angry.
Lightning slashes hatefully through the sky and thunder screams in aggravation as I mutely beg for help. Please someone. Please save me. Please…
I’m trying to pull my arm out of his grasp when I realize it has withered to resemble a dead vine. More attempted screaming. Still no voice. I’m in agony, and my heart is beating in an erratic pattern so intense it pounds harshly in my ears. Surely, I will die in this beast’s arms. I even beg death to claim me. I need relief. I need this to stop. Now! I’ve danced a dance with death, yet only excruciating pain claims me. I can find no relief.
I continue my attempted screams in agony, voiceless, until finally the volume begins to slowly rise in my vocal chords as I’m released from the nightmare. Suddenly awake, I bolt up in a sitting position in my bed, shaking in a cold sweat. I hold myself tightly to discourage my trembling and rock back and forth.
It was only a dream… It’s okay... He is dead... He can’t hurt you anymore… It was only a dream... He’s dead… He can’t hurt you anymore… It was only a dream…
Chapter One
Dear Friends,
It would be an honor for you to join us for a
Night of Fabulous Food
And a Celebration of Friendship
On the Evening of…
Dear Friends,
I would like to apologize for
not being able to carry on. Please forgive…
The Evening’s Menu
Smoked Gouda Canapés
Watercress and Endive Salad
Lobster Stuffed…
My earthly possessions are few but should belong to…
Dessert Menu
Fresh Strawberries and Dark Chocolate Mousse…
I cannot fight the demons any longer…
With the ghosts of failures past and the demons of my history dancing nonstop today, nothing feels right. My mind is such a terribly confused place. All I want is some peace, and offing myself seems to be the only way to obtain it. I beg the demons to hush up! Focus, Savannah. Reluctantly, I pull the dinner invitation back on the screen, hiding the suicide note underneath so I can try once again to focus on the planning.
Tucked away in the den of my beachfront condo, I slouch at the desk with my eyes continuously sweeping from my laptop screen to the dreamy views of the Atlantic Ocean outside my window. It’s early, and the sun has just begun its morning meeting with the sky. Warm rays are glistening off the ocean waves so serenely. This is the same alluring ocean I grew up loving, but it is a great deal farther north from the beaches of South Carolina. Rhode Island’s coastal water never seems to warm enough for leisure hours in the surf for my southern blood except for only a short window of time each summer. It’s satisfying enough for me to just be able to see the beauty of the majestic creation anytime I see fit. I give the view a little bit more of my attention, but with a sigh, I place my focus back to the computer screen. Focus, Savannah.
Another dinner party should be a breeze for me by now. I should be excited, right? This is what successful CEO wives pride themselves on accomplishing with perfection. Right?
I don’t mean to sound so bratty, nor do I want to be difficult. Honestly, a fancy dinner party hostess I am not. I’d rather have a tooth pulled over getting all fancied up and serving fancy food. Glancing down at my comfortable loose-fit jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt, I cannot help but chuckle. Sure, I have a closet full of fancies, but they are not me.
Who am I, exactly? It’s a question I have to ask myself a little too often. Today, my answer would be a resounding, “I haven’t the earthliest idea.” I’ve lost myself at some vague point along the way and am having the hardest time tracking down that elusive being.
If you ask my mother, she would gladly tell you that I am a stubborn, smart-mouthed procrastinator who rarely follows through with anything.
Don’t listen to her!
Well…she may be right, just a little. The only thing I am sure about is God made a mistake. Yes, He did! I was a mistake, and my mother would agree. I’ll explain later. Maybe… I’ll try to get around to it. You might need to remind me, though.
The broken record of I’m lost…I’m bored…I’m worthless…I’m confused…is on a repeat and won’t leave me the heck alone. I’m at my wits’ end with myself, and that is why I’m wrestling with the decision to just autopilot another stupid smile-until-it-hurts dinner party. Or, should I just bite the perpetual bullet and write the dang suicide note already?
Overwhelmed. I’m so overwhelmed...
As I rise from the desk, my anxious legs drag my body in a nervous pace around the den. I skim my hand along the back of the plush couch as I pass it while thoughts of a nap flicker. I don’t sleep well, no matter if it’s day or night. I abandon the nap idea by the couch and pace some more. As I take a deep, cleansing breath, the rich aroma of coffee assails me. I glance towards the kitchen. Maybe a third cup. No. This idea is dismissed as well. My insides are already jumping and hopping in a restless torment, and more caffeine will only make it worse. I wring my hands to smooth the trembles out. It’s not working.
“Argh!” I yell, trying to relieve some of the built-up frustration. I wish I could take a break from myself. I could really use a break…
With this thought, my eyes glance back over to the computer where the hidden document calls out to me. Just hit print. You can do it…
I sort of have the suicide planned out. I should probably keep this to myself… Yes… No… Okay. I’ve gone as far as to purchase three bottles of sleeping pills. They are tucked away in the back of my vanity, waiting patiently. I don’t sleep well, so I thought this would be the perfect way to go. A nice, deep sleep sounds heavenly. My eyes grow heavy and my mouth waters for a pill right this very moment. Fatigue weighs down on me so heavily; I have to plop on the couch. My eyes drift shut but too many demons attack in the darkness of it, so I have to pry them back open.
I demand my focus to shift toward the silver picture frames littering the coffee table with hopes of pulling up a good memory, but my eyes land on a poor choice. It’s of us in our small aluminum boat. It’s the very same boat I plan on taking out as far as I can in the ocean before popping the pills. I don’t want to stain our home with the memory of my death. Lucas doesn’t deserve that. My sweet husband deserves better than me. Most days, I can almost talk myself into taking that boat ride but, of course, I’m a procrastinator and keep putting it off.
With all this nonsense whirling around in my confused mind, I’m thinking a quick walk down the coast is in order. I just want the demons to stop dancing for a while. Maybe I can outrun them for a spell.
Easing back over to the computer, I hesitantly delete the suicide note and save the invitation instead. I feel good about this decision for now. As I power down my laptop, the phone begins to taunt me with its annoying ring. I’m not much of a phone person. Chitchat isn’t my thing. As I glance at the hour on the wall clock curiously, I have no idea who would be bothering me this early in the day. It’s not quite seven in the morning. I catch a glimpse at the number displayed on the phone and it nearly sends me right back to composing my suicide note.
Caller ID can do that, as I’m sure you know.
The area code is from a region located about five states south of me and has sent my will to live crashing down. Talk about perfect timing.
~ ~ ~
Forcing myself to head towards the one place I have avoided for the past several years, all I can think about is how it’s going to feel to come home again. Home is the wrong word. Personal hell is a better description. Why would someone willingly go back to a place such as this? No other way around it, I suppose.
Home is Bay Creek. It is a small touristy town located on the eastern coast of South Carolina. You have the indulgence of the warm, sandy beaches and the unending view of a vigorous ocean. The appeal of nearby farmland and the sleepy little beach town makes for many an ideal place to settle down and raise a family. Not for me. It holds too many nightmares. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I escaped with not so much as one glance back. But look at me now—Savannah Monroe, a terrified twenty-eight-year-old girl heading home again.
Before I can wrap my mind around what’s happened, I have packed my bag and am heading towards the most colossal challenge of my life. Sliding into my car, I poise the keys towards the ignition. “Come on Savannah. You have to do this.” Before I can change my mind, I cram the keys into their slot and twist the car to life. Taking a deep breath, I put the car in drive. With trembling hands, I pull out into traffic with a churning combination of determination and trepidation to begin my unexpected trek home.
I hope you don’t mind too terribly that I’m sharing my story with you. You seem like such a polite listener, and honestly, I think it’s time. Well, I guess we best be on with it.
Chapter Two
As the miles pass by, the interstate becomes a haze of memories, and memories are such a tricky thing. You can try to distort them and even try to completely forget about them, but it’s hopeless. They are what they are, and you just can’t get rid of the dang things. Sometimes I find myself drifting back in time and have to slam the door on it quickly. Nothing is ever accomplished digging around in the buried past. That’s what my grandmother always said. She said it could only cause more hurt, and I can assure you I have had my fill of that mess.
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Unfortunately, there is no holding the past back on this day. So much is awaiting my arrival, and my heart keeps urging me to prepare. Panic starts to creep up on me with the first signs of sweaty palms and fluttering heartbeat. I begin taking long, deep breaths to try to push the unease away. I don’t have time for this today. Before I can totally lose it, my phone comes to life and snaps me out of the attack. Tamping down the anxiety, I reach for my phone. Please, don’t be any more bad news.
Checking the Caller ID, I find this number not so scary, and my finger easily presses ACCEPT. “Hey. Don’t be mad.” Guilt of leaving abruptly washes over me. “I don’t have any other choice.”
“You always have another choice, love. You know I would have gone with you.” The pity is clear in Lucas’s voice. It’s a quiet voice that is incredibly strong. “I love you.”
“I love you too. I’m gonna have to call you back later. Right now I need to focus on driving forward.” I don’t wait for a response. I hit END on the keypad and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. All he would have had to say is come back to me, and I have no doubt I would have obeyed. Today, that cannot be an option.
Maybe one would think I’m overreacting to my past. Maybe I am. I’ll probably share more of the past later, so you can be the judge. I mean, who really thinks happy thoughts about their past? Heartache, embarrassment, regrets—these are part of a past’s makeup, right? This is what I’ve told myself many times, but I don’t believe it for one minute. Do I blame the usual suspect? Absolutely! I blame my mother. Jean is at fault, and there is no changing my mind on the matter. So please don’t even try.
