SHATTERED POETRY
By Marita A. Hansen
Copyright
Shattered Poetry
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2016 © Marita A. Hansen
Editor: John Hudspith
Cover design © Marita A. Hansen
Cover Photography by
Coffee & Milk, Art-Of-Photo, and M-image photography,
and sourced from www.istockphoto.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: [email protected]
All characters, names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Shattered Poetry Poem
1 Clara
2 Dante
3 Clara
4 Dante
5 Clara
6 Dante
7 Clara
8 Dante
9 Clara
10 Dante
11 Clara
12 Phelia
13 Clara
14 Dante
15 Phelia
16 Clara
17 Dante
18 Clara
19 Dante
20 Clara
21 Dante
22 Clara
23 Phelia
24 Dante
25 Phelia
26 Clara
27 Dante
28 Clara
29 Dante
30 Clara
31 Dante
32 Phelia
33 Dante
34 Clara
Until I Met You Poem
Past Tense Poem
Author Note
About the Author
More Books by the Author
UK English is used due to the New Zealand setting.
All other variations are also due to where the book is set, as well as the characters’ cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. This is why some characters use different speech patterns from others.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who has helped me with getting this book published, especially my long suffering family for having to put up with all the time I spend on trying to make my writing career a success.
In addition, I would like to say a special thanks to:
John Hudspith – He’s edited many of my books, and is absolutely great to work with. I always feel that I’m putting my best work forward after he’s been through the manuscript.
Shattered Poetry is set in the year 2002.
It continues directly on from Broken English.
Broken English and Shattered Poetry
are part 1 and part 2 of the same story.
Shattered Poetry
My life is my poetry, my poetry is my life
A shattered collection of moments, filled with strife
Strung together, one line, one day at a time
Consisting of fractured melodies and broken rhymes
Or maybe it’s a collage of mistakes and regret
An avalanche of memories that I must forget
Like a pyramid of woeful sonnets stacked too high
Threatening to topple over when I cry...
Out for God, to erase the sorrow twisting my face
Like the author deletes words without a trace
When the narrative goes awry
Their imagination ruining the story...
Of a broken bipolar teenage male
Living in a tragic South Auckland tale
Condemned by the flow of a pen, the tap of a key
Drowning in a cursive sea...
Of written tears, cries, similes
Expressions, metaphors, and allegories
Describing a three-dimensional character
Printed across a white sheet of paper
That should be ripped out and thrown in the trash
Or dumped in a furnace and burnt to ash
Dust and decay, left to drift away
On a forgettable, bleak and windy day
1
Clara
Dante pulled out of me and removed his condom, the action snapping me back to reality. A reality that punished people for doing what I’d just done. I was an English teacher, a twenty-four-year-old married woman, who’d just had sex with her fifteen-year-old student. Though, he didn’t look his age. He was much bigger than me, his toned, almost six-foot frame dwarfing my five-foot-three body, so much so that he could easily pass off as eighteen. But he wasn’t, and now I was going to suffer the consequences.
He glanced around my tiny office, looking for a place to get rid of the condom. He went to drop it in the rubbish bin a few feet from my desk, which we’d just had sex on.
“Stop!” I barked, making him jump.
He turned to me. “Why?”
I averted my gaze, conscious he hadn’t zipped up yet, Dante still exposed below. Since it was a fundraising day at Wera High, he was dressed in a scruffy pair of blue jeans and a Bob Marley shirt instead of his school uniform, the casual clothes also making him appear older. He looked so good in them, or more accurately, he looked beautiful. No other word better described him than those nine simple letters. The sweep of his jawline, those cheekbones, his incredible lips, his dark eyes, his gorgeous crop of wavy black hair that framed his face so perfectly... But regardless of what he looked like, it didn’t excuse what I’d done with him. Nothing could do that.
Willing my hands not to shake, I grabbed a handful of tissues off my desk and thrust them out for him to take. “Tie the end of the condom and wrap it up,” I rasped out, my breathing still unsteady. The sex had been amazing ... the aftermath another story.
Dante did what I asked, dumping the tissue-wrapped condom into the rubbish bin. He then zipped himself back up, his happy gaze returning to me. Ashamed, I grabbed some more tissues and wrapped the knickers he’d ripped off me, intending on stuffing them into my bag. He snatched them out of my hand.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
I instantly flinched, the fear that someone could’ve heard me all too real. Only a wall separated us from my classroom, and although it was lunchtime, there was another office on the other side. I just had to pray that the teacher it belonged to was in the staffroom, where I should’ve been—instead of with Dante.
Dante gave me one of his cheeky grins. He had a whole repertoire of smiles, the boy full of mischief. “I like keepsakes,” he said, stuffing my knickers into his back pocket.
I went to grab them back, but he kept moving his butt. I backed him into the wall, trying to retrieve my knickers anyway I could.
“Stop trying to grab my arse, Mrs. Hatton,” he said loudly.
I shot away from him and rushed to the door, almost tripping over myself to check that no one had heard him. Luckily, the classroom was still empty, allowing me to breathe out a sigh of relief.
I spun around, growling, “Don’t say things like that, you could get me into a world of trouble.”
He laughed, “Like you crying out my name when you came?” His laughter stopped, his dark eyes shining wickedly under even darker eyelashes. “And you came hard.”
I swallowed, his words making my heart beat faster, creating a symphony of fear and guilt. If this got out, losing my job would be the least of my worries.
“Your em
barrassment’s making me horny again,” he said, misinterpreting my reaction. He grabbed his crotch, massaging it as he advanced on me, the boy sex on two legs. “I could go for another round—or two.”
I backed up into the door. “No.”
He placed a hand on the wooden panel and leaned his face down, so close I could feel his breath on my lips. “You sure ’bout that?” he murmured, looking like he was going to kiss me.
I jerked my head to the side. “Yes! So stop it.”
He jerked back, my reaction startling him. Confusion played across his features, then a dark shadow fell over his tanned face. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him. Even when he was angry, he was still beautiful, so much so that I wanted to forget about his age and give him what he wanted.
But I couldn’t.
“Let go of me,” I forced out.
“No,” he growled. “Only seconds ago you were calling out my name, now you don’t even wanna kiss me? What the fuck are you playing at?”
“I shouldn’t have let this happen, it was a mistake.”
He pushed away from me, his expression hurt. “I’m not a bloody mistake!”
I held out my hands, willing him to keep his voice down. “I didn’t mean you’re a mistake, I meant what we did was a mistake.”
“You came, there wuz no mistaking that,” he spat, his South Auckland accent growing harsher by the second. “You wanted me.”
I hesitated for a moment, trying to work out a way to handle the situation without aggravating him further. “It’s because I’m ... married,” I finally said, hoping that would pacify him.
The angry look on his face instantly dissolved, understanding settling into his features. “Like I said before, if you loved your husband you wouldn’t have done anything with me,” he replied, referring to the time I’d kissed him at a tutorial. Something I also shouldn’t have done.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the first tear breaking free—what he’d said, what I’d done—everything overwhelming me. I didn’t know how to deal with this.
“Oh, shit, don’t cry.” He placed a hand on my arm. “It’s okay.”
I didn’t think it would ever be okay again, but I couldn’t tell him that. He was too young to understand that having sex with him was something I should be ashamed of.
He wiped the tear from my cheek. “And no one else needs to know what we did. It’ll just be between you and me.”
I opened my eyes. “You told the whole class about Phelia blowing you,” I said, mentioning a student he’d been with. And he could do something similar to me. Panic started to rise again. This boy was now a loaded weapon, cocked and ready to fire, capable of killing my career, my marriage, and taking away my freedom.
“Phelia’s different,” he answered, his brow knitting together. “She wouldn’t go to jail for fucking me.” When I didn’t respond, too caught up in my panic, he continued, “I already told ja I don’t rat people out, that’s not who I am. I also know what it’s like bein’ locked away. I wouldn’t do that to you, miss.”
“Stop calling me miss,” I snapped, feeling like a lecherous old woman.
“What do you want me to call you, then?” he asked, now looking uneasy, a touch of worry clouding his features. He probably thought I was going to push him away like I did the last time. And he would be right. Because no matter how much I didn’t want to hurt him, there was no way I could avoid it. I just needed to let him down gentler this time.
“Call me Clara when we’re alone,” I said, trying to calm myself down, willing myself to calm down.
A smile wiped away his apprehensive look. “You wanna be alone with me again?” he asked, running a hand up my arm, his touch leaving behind a trail of goosebumps.
I jerked my arm away from him, upset with the effect he had on me. “No,” I said a bit too harshly, not having intended on it coming out that way.
His smile disappeared, his hurt expression returning. “Why? I said I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“It’s not that—”
“What is it, then?” he snapped, cutting me off. “Cos I’m starting to think you’re using me.”
“I didn’t use—”
“Yes, you did!” His face turned red, both anger and hurt warring across it, twisting his features into a hard grimace. “Actually, I used you too,” he spat. “I wanted to fuck you ever since I saw you that first day. And now I have, I can move onto all the other chicks who wanna bounce on my cock, which, by the way, is a fuckin’ long queue.”
I knew he was saying this to hurt me, although it was the truth, because he could get anyone he wanted, the boy beyond good-looking, as well as talented in ways he shouldn’t be. But I also knew he was saying it because I’d hurt him, his outburst the only retaliation he could use to get back at me.
I placed a hand on his arm, wanting to calm him down. “Please don’t get upset—”
“I’m not!” He jerked his arm away from me. “You were just a fuck. Nuthin’ more,” he growled, his reaction telling me he was lying. He liked me—and a lot more than I’d realised. I’d assumed he’d gotten upset the last time I’d pushed him away because I’d wounded his pride, but now, it was crystal clear his upset wasn’t over any misconstrued insult. It was because...
...he wanted me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing my apology wasn’t enough.
He sneered at me. “No, you’re not. You got what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt,” he said, his tone contradicting his words. “So, go back to your husband, Clara.” He reached past me and unlocked the door. “Just remember what we did when you tell him you love him. Also, remember whose name you cried out when you come.”
He pulled the door open and stormed out. I closed the door behind him and slid to the floor, placing my face in my hands, knowing my life was now in his hands.
2
Dante
I shot out of Mrs. Hatton’s classroom, crashing headfirst into Annabelle Aston. I fell on top of her, Mr. Aston’s niece crying out as she hit the floor.
I scooted off her. “Shit, sorry,” I said, helping her up. “You all right?”
She nodded and grabbed her bag. “Ye all right too?” she asked, her Scottish accent strong.
I went to nod as well, but stopped, not right at all, the fight with Mrs. Hatton making me squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck! I went from feeling like I was on the greatest high ever to crashing within seconds, the woman gutting me. All I’d been was a fuck to her, or more accurately, a fucking mistake. I’d thought for once, that maybe, just maybe things could’ve been cool with her. That she actually wanted me for me, not for what I could do for her. But she was just like all the other bitches who used me—only in it for herself.
Annabelle placed a hand on my arm. “Did ye hurt yerself?”
I opened my eyes and shook my head. “I’m fine,” I lied.
I spun on my heel and headed down the corridor, needing a toke before I lost my rag and did something I’d regret. A slow buzz in my head told me it wouldn’t matter even if I did lash out. Everyone expected it from me. I could punch the nearest locker, kick it until it caved in, and get barely a blink of an eye. Then the principal would give me a lecture, suspend me for a few days, then I’d be right back at it like nothing had fucking happened.
Rapid footsteps followed me, like a tap-dancing ballerina on speed. Annabelle appeared by my side, looking up at me with concern. “If ye no hurt, then what’s wrong?”
My mouth remained sealed shut, because if I opened it, a barrage of swearwords would burst free, the words already filling my head in multiple languages. But unlike Mrs. Hatton, Annabelle didn’t deserve them thrown her way.
“Ye can tell me anything, am a good listener,” Annabelle persisted, not getting the message I didn’t want to talk.
“Not interested.”
I sped up, hoping to lose her in the crowded corridor, the latter not helping my agitated state. Th
e end-of-lunch bell had drawn droves of students inside, making it harder to navigate the space, people getting in my way left, right, and bloody centre. A bunch of juniors scrambled out of my way, their expressions scared, probably because I looked like I wanted to bust someone up bad—which I fucking did.
Annabelle picked up her pace, doing her best to keep up with me, her bright orange hair brushing my arm. She was dressed in forest green jeans and a sleeveless white blouse, with a wavy frill on either side of the buttons. “Are ye sure?” she asked. “Talking can really help.”
“Talkin’ does jack shit,” I said, nearing the end of the corridor. Like with my counsellor. All Ms. Andrews wanted to do was talk about crap I’d rather keep in the past, the woman getting on my nerves of late. Not only had she upped my sessions, but she’d started delving into areas that made my skin crawl, questioning me about whether my stepfather might have touched me sexually. There was no way I was going to answer that. Which was why I’d missed my last session.
I jumped down the stairs and strode across the concrete quad, just wanting a spliff, needing a spliff, my hands shaking worse than a junkie in withdrawal. I rarely smoked at school, since the smell of marijuana was hard to hide, but I needed to calm down before I spazzed out on someone.
Students continued to look at me as though I had a neon sign saying PSYCHO on my forehead, everyone now giving me a wide birth. I ignored them and veered around the large cream-coloured gymnasium, the structure two stories high. Annabelle followed me, the girl harder to get rid of than nits.
I slumped down onto the grass and leaned my back against the cold wall of the gym, giving her an annoyed scowl as she sat next to me. “Why’re you following me?” I asked, dumping my bag on the grass. A dog barked on the other side of the fence facing us, the gaps between the wood giving me glimpses of a pit bull, reminding me of my two dogs.
Annabelle hugged her bag to her chest and turned her head towards me, her expression now nervous, if not a touch scared. I wondered whether she was regretting following me.
“Ye look like ye need a friend right now,” she said. “Actually, ye look like ye need a whole squadron of ’em.”
“What I need is to be left alone.”
Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2) Page 1
