Tears of the Broken (Dark Secrets)

by A. M. Hudson

  Tears of the Broken

  A Dark Secrets novel

  First Edition for epub

  Text © 2011 Angela M. Hudson

  Cover Image © A.M. Hudson, with thanks to Steve Ciupryk

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, stored in a retrieval system, by any means or in any form (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9871925-0-9

  Join the author on Facebook: Dark Secrets Series

  Or at www.darksecretsseries.com and on Goodreads

  To Mike, for all the love this book holds.

  TEARS OF THE BROKEN

  The tears of the broken are

  the Devil’s liquid when shed in darkness.

  Share them with the light,

  and they will become the rain on

  the pathway to freedom.

  Prologue

  Everyone has a secret, but when it’s bound by shame, we’re forced to live within the darkest circles of our crumbling masks, unable to find the light of the coming dawn, and forever locked in the shadows of our own regrets.

  When I was born there was no life in me, no light, only stillness. My mother, who knew the loss of a child too well, held me tight and kissed my tiny fingers. She traced lines over my lips and face as I lay breathless and eternally sleeping in her arms.

  “Her skin is so white, so soft—like the petals of a rose,” she told my father as he knelt beside her.

  “She was beautiful, like her mother,” he cried.

  “Goodbye, little one.” My mother kissed my cheek, and at the very moment my father took me in his arms, life suddenly reached into my heart. A breath passed before they could move, before they could dare to believe I was alive.

  The nurse came rushing back into the room and stared on in amazement. “Look.” She touched my lips as I wailed. “Alive, but her skin is as pale as the moon, and her lips, with the blood that flows through them now—”

  “As red as the rose.” My father smiled and pressed his cheek to mine. “She is the blossom of life—a miracle. She will prevail against all odds.”

  “Then she must be named accordingly,” the nurse stated as she took me from him and lowered me to my mother’s waiting arms.

  “Greg, we should name her Amara,” my mother said, “after your mother.”

  “That’s perfect,” he said. “It means everlasting.”

  “Amara-Rose,” Mother whispered. “My everlasting blossom.”

  Chapter One

  A soulless black butterfly, forever trapped in the form of smoke. When I look at her, that’s what I see. Everyone else has fallen for the lie, the charlatan, the innocent teenage girl whose life was changed by a single moment. Though the scars left from that lesson have faded and reduced to nothing more than a silvery reminder of her tragic past, she wears her blackest ones on the inside. She can’t hide those from me, because I know the truth behind this dark-haired beauty.

  Now, when I look in the mirror, she stares back at me as though we’re not one—as though our souls have been caught in some wordless battle for freedom. She is the familiar stranger beyond the glass, living the lie of the past, and I am here—in the torturous truth of the present. Everything I truly was inside has been left behind in a place I can never return.

  But I have to smile and show them that I’m normal, because if I don’t, they’ll see through my mask of innocence—and I can’t let anyone know what I’ve really become.

  That’s why I’m leaving the house today. That’s why I’m letting them do this to me.

  “Ara-Rose, hurry up. You’re going to be late.” That’s Vicki. She’s my stepmother. Not necessarily evil, but I still can’t think of her as a Mum. She’ll only ever be the woman who stole my dad away to America, and now they’ve stolen me.

  One big, happy family. Not.

  “Sure, Vic—uh, Mum. I’ll be down in a sec.” Okay, chirpy disposition in place? Check. Cheerful smile? Check.

  With one last glance at my reflection, I straightened the front of my dress, and the stranger did the same. Then, adrenaline and obligation pumped through me in a pulsing mix, forcing my feet to move forward and carry me to the corridor of inevitability.

  Step one on Ara-Rose’s road to recovery: new school.

  “Hey Amara-Rose.”

  “Hi Sam, but it’s Ara-Rose, okay? I won’t tell you again.”

  “Okay, Amara. Have fun at school.” He laughed as he ran past, down the stairs and out the front door before I could slap him.

  “Just because you’re younger than me, doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you, Sam.” The front door slammed behind him.

  “Nervous?”

  “Morning, Dad.” I spun around as Dad came out from his room at the end of the hall; he kissed the top of my head and stood back with an expectant smile on his lips. “Of course I’m nervous. I mean, why do I have to go, anyway? I was always ahead in class. Maybe I could—”

  “Now, honey, we’ve been through this. I know better than anyone what happens to young girls who don’t have an education. I don’t want to see you ruin your life before it’s even begun.” Dad looked down at me through soft eyes—a poor attempt at displaying sympathy, I think.

  “I’m scared, Dad,” I said quietly, looking at the ground.

  He clicked his tongue and took a deep breath. “I know you are. But it’s been two months. It’s time—you need to start getting on with your life.”

  “But what if I cry at school or if someone notices my scars?”

  “Amara-Rose.” Dad shook his head, staring at my disfigured face. “Honey, you are beautiful. The scars—” I flinched a little when he touched my cheek. “The doctor said they’ll completely fade, eventually, and for now—well, they’re barely visible. You’re still my beautiful girl.”

  He’s such a bad liar. My face crumpled under the fear of the impending doom.

  “Oh, honey, don’t cry. It’ll be okay. You’ll see. Hey—” Dad squished my cheeks between his hands. “Look, all the kids there are great. You’re going to love it, I promise. But you know that the hardest part of a journey is always the first step—and look at you, all dressed, lookin’ pretty, and you’ve got your little backpack. The hard part’s over now.”

  Hard part? No, that’s still well and truly in front of me. Lucky I didn’t wear mascara this morning or it’d be running down my cheeks right now. Guess I kinda figured there might be tears.

  Dad held me at arms-length and studied my face. “Would you like me to walk you to school—or I could drive you?”

  “Dad.” A frown replaced my pout. “It’s across the road. I’ll walk.”

  “I could walk with you?”

  “Yeah, right. That’ll really help me blend in, won’t it? I might even be lucky enough to get my head flushed down the toilet, too.”

  Dad laughed and hugged me again. “None of the kids there are like that. I think you’ll be just fine. Now—” he turned me toward the stairs and gave me a soft shove, “go to school. And don’t come home until you’ve been a normal teenager for at least a day.”

  “Bye,” I called unenthusiastically over my shoulder as I clonked toward the front door.

  Outside, alone, the emptiness of silence forced my lungs to draw a deep gasp instead of a long, slow breath. I hate this. I hate what they’re making me do. But if I don’t go, then they’ll never get off my back.
/>
  “Boo!”

  The sudden noise pushed my heart into my throat. “Sam, you little butt-head.” I dumped my backpack on the grass by the front porch and ran to the edge of the driveway after my pesky half-brother. “Come back here and I’ll make it quick.”

  “I’ll tell Mum if you do it, Amara.” He grinned and hid behind the car.

  “It’s Ara-Rose.” I stomped my foot.

  “Well, that’s a stupid name.”

  Sam disappeared behind a tree, and I squatted down with my face in my hands, tucking my dress under me so my underwear wouldn’t show. He’s so going to get it.

  “Ara-Rose, are…are you crying?” He touched my shoulder.

  Wrong move, little brother. I grabbed his wrist, followed by his arm, then jammed my shoulder into his chest—flipping him onto the grass in front of me. The air burst from his lungs with a loud cough and he rolled into a ball.

  “Call me Amara again and I’ll slap you.” I dusted off my hands as I stood up, then stepped over the pile of Sam and walked off.

  “You gotta teach me how to do that,” he said, catching up to me at the roadside of the corner block.

  “No way.”

  “Please?”

  “Never.”

  Sam stood beside me and nodded to the building across the road. “Bell’s gone, Ara. We’re late.”

  I looked up at him—all the way up. Sam’s taller than me, even though he’s three years younger, but when it comes to height, he got Dad’s genes. I was not that lucky.

  “It’s not so bad there, you know. People’re really nice,” Sam offered.

  I stood in a stunned silence, watching the flood of students file up the stairs across the football field and duck in through the double doors. “It’s ugly.”

  “It’s a school. What’d you expect?” He shrugged.

  “It’s brown.”

  “Nah—” his lips broke into a wide, toothy smile, “it’s brown and yellow.”

  “Thanks. I feel so much better.”

  “Could be worse—” he stepped onto the road, then stopped as his eyes focused on my pale, yellow dress, “—at least you won’t blend in with the ugly, yellow linoleum.”

  “That’s it! I’m going to kill you this time, you pest.” He ran away, squealing like a girl, though it sounded more like a bumblebee. “I used to run track, Sam, remember? You won’t get away.”

  He darted over the grass toward the school. “Yeah, well, you’re outta shape these days, big sister. Might wanna get some meat on those chicken legs.” When I grabbed his shoulder, his face lit with surprise as his hands formed a shield. “Oh no, don’t kill me, I take it back.”

  “Too late.” I laughed, punching him in the arm—which hurt my own hand more.

  “Ouch.” Sam rubbed his arm as I walked away. “You punch like a girl.”

  “I am a girl.”

  “Yeah, well, you owe me.” He caught up to me, grinning brightly.

  “Okay, enlighten me. Why do I owe you?”

  “Because I got you to school—without all the tears and fuss.”

  I stopped walking, smirking at Sam as he shrugged and disappeared into the building—now only a few steps away. In the distance, behind me, Dad’s little white house called me to return to its safe embrace. I turned away.

  So, now what? Okay, Sam helped me get this far, but I still have to get through the doors of the school and a whole day without anyone noticing me or asking me questions, and most importantly, without needing to ask where a bathroom is.

  Well, I guess the only thing to do is keep moving.

  The cement steps, leading up to the double glass doors, seemed unnaturally high and steep. I’m sure they’re not, but then again, I’m also sure all those people on the other side can’t see me down here on the grass—even if I do have a giant neon sign over my head that says “Hello, I’m new.” But in the real world—the world outside my head—I know they can see me.

  The morning sun caught the glass and reflected off it, leaving me blind to the probably very mundane scene beyond. I’m sure it’s all lockers lining both walls of a flat corridor, students laughing, punching each other and gossiping about mediocre issues, but for some reason, I can’t escape the feeling that someone’s curious, unwanted gaze is infesting my personal space.

  Nervously, with shoulders for earphones, I forced my Skechers onto the first step and traced the cement handrail with my fingertip. Then, as I reached the second step, the sun took a hike behind a cloud, leaving me feeling exposed with the sudden ability to see the exact scene I’d imagined on the other side of the vortex—or double glass doors.

  It looks…normal. Just a school. Plain and seemingly ordinary, yet terrifying.

  A pair of heavy black boots faced me from within The Beyond. My eyes wandered over the dark blue jeans above them, then flowed along the rolled-up sleeves of his black shirt, and stopped on the silver door handles where his head would be. He’s so still. Why is he just standing there—facing this way—when everyone else around him is moving?

  Is he…watching me?

  The boy stuffed his hands in his pockets and took one step toward the door. My heart skipped. Oh God, please don’t come over here. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, he stopped walking.

  See, Ara. There’s no way some tall guy—who I must admit, appears to be very hot—was looking at you. Unless he’s trying to figure out if he should come out here and shoo you off the property.

  Suddenly not so willing to carry me forward, my feet glued themselves firmly to the ground. Then again, the base of my shoes more likely just melted in the heat of the sun. I’ll just wait for him to move away.

  The boy took another step forward, but stopped suddenly, scooped his backpack over his shoulder and turned away.

  Thank God. Wiping the beading sweat from my brow, I rolled away from the handrail and counted each step I took, keeping my eyes on my shoes until I reached the top and saw another pair of feet facing me from behind the glass. I looked up from the ankles, right into her returning gaze. Great. She’s exactly the type of girl I stayed away from at my old school—pretty, with a blue ribbon tying her honey-blond hair into a ponytail. She has the typical bright smile and golden brown skin, and she is definitely looking at me. I already don’t like her. Okay, so it’s wrong to judge on first impressions, but she’s pretty and perfect, and that makes me nervous—and self-conscious.

  Maybe I should just go back home and hide under the stairs for the day.

  Oh, grow up, me—she won’t hurt you. She looks like she just wants to talk.

  Great, just what I need—a new friend.

  After a deep breath, I proceeded with the inevitable. The door swung open and the corridor enveloped me with its soothing, icy breeze. At least the school has air-conditioning.

  Then, the door closed, forcing me inside with a small whack on my bottom.

  “New?” The pretty girl asked in a kind of high-pitched cross between a pleasant and intimidating tone.

  The urge to rub my face and look away—pretending I didn’t see her—itched in my fingers. “Yup,” I replied, anyway. Way to go, me. One word down, the rest of the day to go.

  “Well, hi, I’m Emily Peirce. Class president candidate and,” she tilted her head into her shoulder and extended her hand, “captain of the cheer squad.”

  Well, obviously, unless you always walk around in a pleated skirt and a vest-like sweater. “Um. Hi. I’m Ara-Rose.”

  With introductions aside, my arms flooded with the sudden heat of fear. I’m burning inside, either that or there’s a gigantic frog stuck in my throat that’s actually made of fire. At least hi came out. One thing to be thankful for, I guess.

  “Ara-Rose?” She winced. “Maybe you should just make it Ara, you know, it’s kind of a mouthful.”

  But…I like my name. I smiled pleasantly, remembering that being normal means fitting in. “Sure. Just Ara’s fine.” And I’m a sell-out. Now I’ve dropped the Am and the Rose f
rom my name. What’s next? Maybe I should call her Em. In fact, that’s what I’m going to do. Well, maybe later, assuming we ever talk again after this one time.

  “So, I’ll take you to the office and get you a lesson plan, then show you to your first class?” Emily offered.

  “Sure, that’d be great.” This isn’t so bad—teen facade, that is. My hands are shaking and my knees are weak enough that at any moment I may just end up face first on the floor, but at least I can smile and look normal.

  That’s the funny part, really; as far as anyone here is concerned, I am normal.

  Emily led the way through the corridors and I let my mind wander in the ugliness of the décor. When I said this school was brown and ugly, I was wrong. It is, in fact, really brown and really ugly, and the sticky yellow linoleum looks nothing like my dress—thanks, Sam.

  But, for some reason, brown has always made me feel uneasy. I don’t know why—it’s not like a colour can hurt me, but it just makes me feel kinda…heavy. It’s better than black, though, I suppose, which is the colour my life has been surrounded by for so long now. I guess brown will be a nice change to the shade of misery and isolation. The stale yellow? That will take some getting used to.

  “Are you coming?” Emily asked from a few steps ahead.

  Right. We were walking, weren’t we? “Sorry. I kind of faze out sometimes.”

  “Do you have, like, a brain condition or something?” Emily asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you faze out. Is there a reason?”

  “Oh.” I laughed, for real this time. “No, just an over-active imagination.”

  “Well, you should fit in just fine here, then.”

  Great. Just what I want—to fit in. I think I’ll take sitting up the back quietly, by myself, followed with a side of leave-me-the-hell-alone-everybody, thanks.

  “So, you’re brave,” Emily said as we walked side by side.

  “I am?”

  “Yes. Starting a new school on the second week back after summer break. Everyone’s going to notice you. I hope you like attention.” She grinned.