Damaged But Not Broken

by Hearts Collective

  “Good night,” I say curtly and turn away.

  “Paige, wait,” Riff slurs. “Come have a drink with us.”

  “I’m fifteen. No thank you.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. That’s no way to act. We’re you’re guests and you should entertain us.” Billy is getting belligerent now.

  My heart is pounding, and I turn quickly and start down the hall towards my bedroom. I want to get into my room and lock the door.

  “Not so fast!”

  I shriek as I feel Billy’s rough hand on my wrist.

  “Let go!” I scream.

  “Feisty,” he murmurs. He’s close enough that I can smell the stench of beer seeping from his pores. I gag.

  Billy starts dragging me towards the living room and I kick him in the shins, but he’s too strong. He nods to Riff who quietly pulls the sliding glass door shut.

  “Now be a good little girl and stay quiet,” Billy says.

  “Fuck you!” I spit, which only angers Billy as he tosses me onto the couch.

  “Daddy!” I scream, “Daddy!”

  But the slider is closed and he’s passed out cold.

  “Stop!” I shriek, kicking and fighting as Billy climbs on top of me and holds my arms down over my head.

  “Christ, Riff. Hold her down for fuck’s sake.”

  “No!” I scream again, my heart pounding as I try to fight the two men but they’re too big for me.

  Terror seizes me; real, cold terror that I’ve never known before. This will not end well. I am completely and utterly helpless.

  I don’t give up; I still fight and kick the best I can, I continue screaming but my voice goes hoarse quickly.

  The next half hour is a blur of words, sounds and pain.

  The sound of Billy’s fly unzipping, the metal teeth dragging.

  Riff’s deep chuckle.

  Billy’s gasp of pleasure as he invades me.

  My choked cries of pain and utter despair.

  Billy’s thick voice moaning, “Oh fuck, she’s already wet.”

  My wrists aching from Riff’s vice-like grip.

  Then shuffling and more holding down as Riff repeats the process and Billy restrains me.

  They leave me there on the couch, my sundress torn and bruises blooming across my skin.

  My dignity, self-respect, and naive innocence gone.

  I’m not sure how long I lay on the couch, but when I finally sit up I notice that my dad is still passed out on the chair outside.

  Overwhelming hate and rage well up inside me.

  He was there the whole time. He was supposed to protect me. I never want to lay eyes on him again.

  I begin sobbing uncontrollably and run blindly into my room, the area between my legs throbbing with pain. I find a sweater to throw over my torn dress, grab my purse and stuff my cell phone and two fifty-dollar bills from my cash box inside.

  Staggering, I rush out to the garage and get on my bike. It’s only a ten-minute bike ride to the train station and somehow I make it even though I’m crying the whole way, barely able to see past my tears.

  I have to sit in the station until nearly five am to get a bus to Bristol. It's the longest five hours of my entire life.

  As I leave the Nashville city limits, I vow that I’m never coming back to this fucked up place.

  TWO

  Paige

  Present Day

  I’ve lost track of time again, and my momma’s pounding on my door reminds me that I need to wear a watch.

  “Coming!” I yell.

  I place my guitar gently back in its case and snap it shut. I hurry to my door, and unlock the three locks, chain and deadbolt. The landlord just loved me when I had him put all these locks on my door, but he didn’t complain after I explained the cause of my paranoia - and handed him a Benjamin for his trouble.

  My momma stands in the hallway, beautiful as ever, smiling at me as she patiently waits for me to undo the chain.

  “Hi sweetie,” she says, kissing me on the cheek and sweeping in to my apartment. I close the door behind her and fasten all the locks again. When I turn back around my momma is already in the kitchen, placing containers in my fridge.

  “Mom,” I groan, “You don’t have to keep bringing me food. I’m twenty-eight you know. I can cook well enough.”

  My mom raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe not a soufflé ," I admit, "but I can cook. I can survive.”

  My momma leans into the fridge and pulls out a white Chinese food carton, and a foil takeout container.

  “You can’t just live on take out, honey. You need real food. And I didn’t make all of this. Grandma made some too.” She says, with a concerned look.

  Grandma, my momma’s momma, is seventy-seven and just as sharp and witty as ever. I can just picture her bustling around her kitchen, cooking for her poor single granddaughter who still hasn’t learned to navigate a stove properly.

  “I bet Grandma loved that,” I mutter.

  “Oh, she did,” my mom says cheerfully. “She even threw in some recipe cards.”

  I roll my eyes. Of course she did.

  “Paige, did you forget I was coming over?” My momma’s observant eyes rove over my messy hair, t-shirt and sweats.

  “No. I just lost track of time." I admit. "I was playing music.”

  My mom sighs; the kind of sigh like she doesn’t know what to do with me.

  My entire family is baffled by my current lifestyle. I went to college for business, but once I got a job in my field, I realized it wasn’t for me. So I went back to my true love - music, and I’ve been trying to find a way to make a career out of it for the past five years.

  I pieced together a few odd jobs – waiting tables two nights a week, singing two nights a week in a bar, teaching guitar lessons to children and working three mornings in a coffee shop. It wasn’t the best-case scenario but I was able to pay my bills.

  Barely.

  “Honey, I just wish you could get a break. I know you’re talented, but you’re wasting away here in Bristol.”

  I give my mom a pointed look and I can’t hide the hardness in my voice. “I’m not going anywhere else to pursue music.”

  “I love having you nearby, but what’s left for you in Bristol? You play the local places. Why not go to New York then?”

  “No one wants country music in New York!” I say, throwing my hands up in the air.

  “That’s right. People want country music in Nashville. A mere three hours from here.”

  “Don’t go there, Mom,” I warn.

  If anyone knows that I’ll never return to Nashville again, it's my momma. I don't know why she insists on stirring the pot.

  “Honey,” my mom says in that kind of voice that makes me want to cry. “I don’t like it anymore than you do, but it was thirteen years ago. You need to put the past behind you. If this is your true dream, then you need to follow it and face your fears in Nashville.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper, feeling my eyes well up with tears.

  “Just think about it,” she says, patting my back.

  I know she’s not saying the rest. I know my father would help me if I asked. All I have to do is say the word and he would put me in touch with the biggest people in the business. He would fall all over himself trying to help me now.

  I would probably be a sensation overnight...That's how desperate he is to have me back in his life.

  But my momma knows better, she still harbors hatred towards him too. She's only kept in touch with my father infrequently at best.

  My momma and I spend the rest of her visit cleaning out my closet; she was always good at those kinds of things. After she leaves, I can't help but think about what she said about my music career. The truth is, she's usually right.

  I haven’t been back to Nashville since that summer when I was fifteen. I stopped speaking to all my old friends, and they eventually gave up on me. I try to block out any memory of that town the best I can.

  Well, ac
tually, I went back once the year after it happened because I had to testify in court against my attackers. But I don’t consider that a real visit back, I literally stayed in a hotel in the suburbs and only left the room to appear in court.

  That was also the last time I spoke to my father, if you consider it speaking. It was more business-like and in the presence of a lawyer as I had to rehash every awful, terrible detail of what those two monsters did to me.

  I can’t ever forgive my father and he knows that, whether I’ve spoken the words out loud or not. I heard his drinking had gotten worse afterwards, but a small part of me feels smugly satisfied – that’s what he deserves after he left me on my own that night.

  I realize that my thoughts are turning too dark and I try to practice what my therapist has taught me. I take deep breaths, re-direct my thinking and envision something that makes me happy. I remind myself of all the ways that I am brave, and I tell myself that I am no longer a victim.

  Sometimes it all feels like a bunch of crap.

  When redirecting my thoughts doesn’t work, I opt for a glass of wine instead. I can thank my father again for my need to watch my drinking. I know that I have addict blood in me. I’ve always been very careful to only have a drink or two at a time and usually the thought of turning into my father is sobering enough.

  I won’t ever let myself get like him, but I still know that possibility is a there, a cancer waiting to grow inside me.

  Luckily, my crappy mood is gone when I wake up the next day, and I have the entire day to myself before I’m scheduled to play a set at High Notes, a big music bar in Bristol.

  ~~~

  Hours later, I walk into High Notes, dressed in my favorite pair of blue jeans and a silky purple top. My blonde hair is smooth and styled to perfection and I feel great. The regulars are happy to see me and I tell myself that this is all I need. People that come out to see me, willing to pay to watch me play and possibly buy a CD if I make one myself.

  Who am I kidding?

  At nine o’clock, I step out to take my place, alone with my guitar. Sometimes I get a few guys to play back up for me, but tonight it’s just the guitar and me.

  I always liked music as a kid, and I knew that my dad helped others make music. But it wasn’t until I returned to Bristol for good, that I really began to fall in love with music. It’s hard to explain, but it helped fix what had broken inside me. I taught myself acoustic guitar, and I discovered that I could sing.

  So naturally I threw myself into my music; I don’t remember much of my junior or senior year in high school because I was so focused on honing my talent.

  Music gave me something to focus on, something I could control, it gave me a voice again, and it helped me forget about Blake.

  Well, I never really forgot about Blake but it helped ease my heartbreak. I’ve learned that some things are just too painful to revisit and are better left in the past.

  I didn’t date for the rest of high school, I was too afraid to have anyone touch me. Just the thought of it made my heart race and my palms sweat. I managed to have a boyfriend or two in college, but I could only become physical if I had been drinking. It’s no surprise those relationships didn’t work out.

  As I settle into my stool and play a few chords, I shake out my head to clear it. I’ve come a long way and I’m not going to sink back into thoughts of things that happened thirteen years ago.

  I take a deep breath, and start my song, letting the music pour out of me. My hands know to play the right notes, and I close my eyes as my voice fills the room. I don’t open them until I’m halfway through the song, and what I see nearly stops me cold.

  There, three rows back and dead center, sits my father. It’s like seeing a ghost and it takes every ounce of me to not grab the sides of the stool for support. I somehow manage to compose myself enough to get through my set. No one in the audience would have known about the emotional turmoil going on inside my head.

  I smile and bow, grinning as I wave at the audience, and walk offstage on wooden legs. I slip into one of the back rooms to stow my guitar, and my hands are shaking as I gulp down an entire bottle of water.

  “Paige, is everything okay?” Mikey, one of the bartenders asks.

  “Oh, sure, I’m fine,” I lie, as I take much longer than necessary packing up my few small belongings.

  “Oh okay. Well, you sounded amazing like always.”

  I smile and thank him. Mikey is nice and I’m sure he wishes we were more than friends. He’s always eager to help me, and giving me a drink and telling me how great I’m doing.

  One time he had too many drinks after his shift and asked me why I don’t date anyone. I was vague, and he got this sweet puppy-dog look in his eyes and promised that he would take good care of me and treat me right. Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t broken inside, that I was able to give nice guys like Mikey a chance.

  I take my guitar and try to mentally prepare myself before I walk out into the bar. Sure enough, there’s my dad waiting by the door. Even after all these years he knows me well. He knows that I would head straight for that door, not caring about him sitting in the audience.

  I walk mechanically across the room and his eyes catch mine. While it’s my dad for sure, he looks different. Older of course, but haggard. The years have not been kind to him. You can still tell he’s handsome in a rugged kind of way, but not the kind of handsome he was back when he was married to my mom.

  “Paige,” he whispers as I approach. Now it’s his turn to look like he’s seen a ghost.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. I can’t hide the hostility or the coldness in my voice.

  “I had to see you. You’re Momma has told me for years that you play music and I just had to see it for myself. I miss you so much, honey.” He chokes on the last word.

  This is pure hell, his voice evokes all kinds of childhood memories, and part of me wants to throw myself in his arms again and be Daddy’s Little Girl once more, but there’s another part of me, a harder part, that wants to vomit at his feet.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.” I say, standing my ground.

  “Please, honey. I had no idea you could sing like that, no idea you could play. To think that my little girl has that kind of talent inside her,” he doesn’t finish his thought, but only shakes his head in wonder.

  “I’ve got to go, Dad,” the word feels foreign on my tongue, “it’s been a long day and I have an early shift tomorrow.”

  My dad looks wounded. “You used to call me Daddy,” he says softly.

  “Yeah, well that was before my innocence was ripped away,” I spit back.

  He recoils as if I slapped him, but the words are out and I’m not taking them back.

  “Paige,” he pleads, his voice gruff with emotion. “There aren’t words for me to convey how I felt about what happened, how I still feel about what happened. Those demons will never let me go and I pay everyday for what my drinking did to you that night. I let my little girl down.”

  “Don’t,” I warn him, I can’t take much more. It’s too much to stand here and talk to my dad about what happened at his house that summer.

  “Please, Paige. I would do anything to make it up to you. I want a relationship with my baby girl. Can’t you find it in your heart to let me back in your life? I’m not asking for forgiveness. The Lord knows I don’t deserve it, but I can’t lose you forever. I’ve already lost so much time with you.”

  “I can’t do this now,” I say, my voice breaking.

  “Please, talk to me honey.” But my dad can see he’s losing me. “I’m going to stay in town another night. How about you come by my hotel when you’re finished working tomorrow? Please. We can talk.” He pauses when I don’t respond. “I’m staying at the Hampton Inn. Room 413.”

  “We’ll see,” I say and before he can say anymore, I push past him and step into the warm air outside.

  It’s summer. I wonder if I could ever return to Nashville, especially in the sum
mer.

  ~~~

  I don’t get much sleep because I’m too busy tossing and turning and thinking about my father showing up in Bristol. I show up at the coffee shop with dark circles under my eyes, but Lily, my co-worker is smart enough not to say anything.

  I would almost call her my friend, but I don’t think I can. I think you’re supposed to hang out with friends outside the workplace and I’ve never done that with Lily. I shouldn’t be surprised, because I haven’t ever managed to keep any friends.

  I considered calling my mom to ask her advice about what to do with my father, but I know what she would say. She would tell me to go see him, to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  My mom’s daddy died when she was a little girl so I know she always felt like she had missed out on something special. I think that’s the only reason she has tolerated my dad after what happened to me. She didn’t want me to lose him forever.

  As my shift comes to a close, I’m still hemming and hawing about what to do. I think this is one of those pivotal moments in my life and I’m scared as hell. I feel like I spend so much time being scared and I’m so damn sick of it.

  There, that's it, I've made up my mind. I’m tired of being scared, tired of fearing everything, tired of nothing happening to me in this damn town. Before I lose my courage, I head over to the Hampton Inn and find myself knocking on room 413.

  “You came,” my dad says when he opens the door. He looks genuinely shocked and I almost feel guilty.

  I don’t say anything and walk into the room. My dad guides me to a small table with two chairs and motions for me to sit down. He walks over to a mini-fridge and pulls out two bottles of root beer.

  My favorite.

  Or what used to be my favorite. When I was fifteen.

  “Thank you for coming. Thank you so much Paige.”

  “I’m not really sure what I’m doing here." I admit. "I’m not sure what you’re doing here either.”

  My dad takes a deep breath and a big swig of his root beer.

  “I need you to hear me out Paige, and I need you to not interrupt me. Can you do that?”

  I think for a few seconds, and decide that I’ll try. I nod.

  “Okay, good. Thank you. You see, I know these past thirteen years have been hell for you. I can’t even imagine. And I would never, ever compare my pain to yours, because I know that your pain is far worse. But I’ve been in hell too.