by Brei Betzold
Radiant Point
Other Works by Brei Betzold
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
My Eulogy to my Husband
Contact Information about Addictions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Radiant Point
Copyright © 2014 by Brei Betzold
Publisher Brei Betzold
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. This edition has been copyrighted by Brei Betzold and any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. January 2014.
Edited by:
Nichole Strauss, Perfectly Publishable
Cover Design by:
Robin Harper, Wicked by Design
Interior Design and Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
My Misery Muse
Buy My Misery Muse on Amazon
Faith (My Misery Muse)
Buy Faith on Amazon
Tribal (My Misery Muse)
Buy Tribal on Amazon
Believed (My Misery Muse)
Buy Believed on Amazon
Painted Lines
Buy Painted Lines on Amazon
“Strength does not have to be belligerent and loud”
~ Russell Brand
This is the story of how I fell in love with my best friend. Jeron didn’t sweep me off my feet; there were no fireworks the first time we touched. What there was, was indifference that turned into friendship; then there was a deep seated friendship that slowly shifted into something more. He was my best friend, my lover, my universe.
We were both so young, and yet we weren’t. We learned early that life wasn’t always fair, and you just had to roll with the punches to survive. We understood sometimes you had to fight for something with your last breath, and other times you had to let it go for your own survival.
We both had demons in our past, some wrapped tightly around our necks where it made it hard to breathe. We thought we could fight them, overcome them for each other, for our family. We were a united front, strong, as long as we stood beside the other.
They thought they knew us, that they knew how our story would end. I was the good girl who fell in love with a bad boy; I thought I could change him. Only I never wanted to change Jeron, I loved him for all he was, and wasn’t. I knew his past, better than most, I trusted him when I let few in.
From the beginning I was told it would never work, we were too young, he was no good for me, and the list of nay-sayers only grew the longer we stayed together. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand their concerns, I did, and hell I even had the same anxieties. But there was one huge difference; they didn’t know Jeron like I did.
They saw what he projected, the inconsiderate, foul mouthed punk who lived in a trailer park. They didn’t see his softer side, the side that held my hand as my life seemed to break apart, the part of him that understood what it was like to wake up and realize that all you thought you knew was a lie. They didn’t know him, nor can they understand the part of me that’s missing now that he’s gone.
I often wonder if fate hadn’t intervened what would have happened. That thought scares me; the idea that never having Jeron as a part of my life hurts worse than the gaping hole he left inside of me.
The first time I met Jeron Price was when I was fourteen. At that moment I knew he was trouble, cute trouble, but still trouble. At that time my only goal was to get far far away from the life I was living. What anyone failed to tell me was that life never goes as planned. My only thought was that I would never turn out like my mother. A young single mother that worked constantly to afford a small, weathered trailer home, and we didn’t always afford that. The only life line I saw was college, my entire focus was college. So I ignored the taunts at school, I didn’t pay attention to the comments from adults. Instead I focused on school, worked hard, and studied even harder. That was my golden ticket, my way out of this life.
For a girl like me college was an illusion; I didn’t know anyone beyond my teachers who had achieved such a goal. My mother, while she did the best she could, had me when she was just a teenager herself. When the sperm donor left, she did what she had to, to make a life for us. That didn’t include a college education. I just knew that college would change my life, the books I read, television I watched, all portrayed walking on campus the first time as a chaotic, life changing event. I wanted, no needed, that event to happen for me.
After that first introduction to Jeron, I never really gave him a second thought. We’d pass each other of course, we were neighbors who attended the same small high school. He lived his life, if rumors were true, of debauchery and drugs, while I lived in the shadows. He was the epitome of a bad boy, and I was the shy book nerd; the two shall never meet except in one of those teen dramas that never paralleled real life.
What should have remained parallel lines intersected at a point in which my life irrevocably changed. I was at that stage of life where I just knew everything would be perfect, who didn’t believe that when they were seventeen? All my hopes and dreams would come true; I just had to work hard to achieve them. It was toward the beginning of my senior year, I could almost taste that golden ring. Things with my mom were strained, it wasn’t that she didn’t support me in my endeavor, she did. It was that I was living a dream she had long ago lost, she didn’t know how to help me achieve mine, when she had lost hers because of me. A gap was opening, I hadn’t really noticed it at this point, but now I see that what happened next only caused the problem to grow faster than either of us could have expected.
There was no way for my mom to afford the cost of college applications, or the other fiscal obligations that come with senior year. I always knew if I was going to do this, I had to do it myself. With that knowledge I started working at the local grocery store when I was sixteen. I saved everything I could, bought a cheap piece of shit car so that I would be able to get back and forth from school and work. My life was a selfish one, everything revolved around college, around my dream.
That was why I had only met my mother’s boyfriend once, and now I regret that I didn’t pay more attention then. When he showed up one evening while my mom was working late, I didn’t stop to think that his story sounded unlikely. I failed to notice the glimmer in his eye that would have frightened me if I had. No, I was seventeen and stupid; I let him in and told him he could wait for my mom, she’d be off work in an hour. I went back to my homework and ignored him. It wasn’t until I was sprawled on my stomach, my glasses flying off my face and he was breathing on the back of my ear that I realized what a horrendous situation I had put myself in. I
started kicking and screaming, trying to fight against him. Nothing seemed to make a difference. He pulled at my clothes while his knees dug into my back; I screamed until I was hoarse.
I knew what he was going to do, so I closed my eyes and screamed while I prayed, wished, pleaded that someone would save me. Just please save me. Then someone did; the front door was wrenched open and I saw feet rush toward me. I didn’t know who my saving grace was and at that point I didn’t care. All I knew was that someone was there and they were going to help me. The man’s weight was lifted off of me and I curled into myself crying, begging for my mom. Over my hysterical sobbing I could hear flesh hitting flesh, but it didn’t truly register. Nothing but the feel of his hands on my body, and the utter and complete terror of what just happened and could have happened, flashed through my mind. I felt dirty, sullied and all I could think was I wanted my mommy, she could make everything better. Only a small part of me realized life wasn’t safe, it wasn’t sheltered from the bad, and it was time for me to wake up and accept that.
I still do not know how long I lay on the floor in my mother’s living room crying before the police showed up, or how long it took for my mother to arrive. What I do remember is the look of horror on her face when she was told what had happened. Her arms embraced me fiercely while she sat on the floor and cried with me. I remember her kissing my hair over and over, whispering that everything would be okay, and even more clearly I remember thinking that no, nothing would ever be the same again.
After I had calmed down, I realized there were two men sitting in handcuffs; one was my would-be rapist, the other my savior. Through hitched breath I told the police what happened, and how Jeron had ran into my home to help me. When the police started talking about previous arrests and assault charges, I realized that they would do anything to arrest Jeron. I argued and screamed with the police, they couldn’t arrest him for protecting me. The entire time I screamed at the police, he sat there quietly watching, his hands cuffed behind his back, never uttering a word in his defense. He realized something I hadn’t, it didn’t matter to them what really happened, it didn’t matter he was my hero. To them, Jeron was nothing but a troublemaking punk and this was one more charge they could press against him.
I watched from our tiny rock-filled yard as the police put Jeron in the car and drove away while I was in hysterics, my mom once again clutching me in her arms. After he left, I was brought to the hospital where I went through a different kind of degradation. My clothes were taken, pictures of my naked bruised body were taken, fingernails scraped, body checked for pieces my assailant left behind. After repeatedly telling doctors, nurses, and police that I wasn’t actually raped, that Jeron had arrived in time, I was blessedly relieved to find that I wouldn’t have to get an internal exam as well. Through it all I thought of Jeron; where he was, how he was, and how did you thank someone for what he did for me?
I knew as I lay in that sterile room that this night would haunt me for eternity. The images of what would have happened if Jeron hadn’t come ran through my head. I hitched the scratchy hospital blanket over my head and cried. I cried for myself, I cried for the boy who had saved me. I cried for the life I knew was irrevocably changed.
After the attack, I hid behind the flimsy tin door of our trailer. Cowardly, scared, I was a disgrace to myself and women everywhere. We are taught by society two very different lessons, the first is that it’s always our fault, we were asking for it; the second, if you say no, then he should listen. Both ideas circled in my mind, how is it both our fault and not our fault when someone attacks us? Then realization came. I, Trinity Marie Seymour, the girl who dreamed of more, let this person, this less than a man, take pieces of her that weren’t his right to have. I realized that the shame wasn’t mine to bear, it was his. Only this didn’t make it any easier to deal with the fear that was bone deep, it didn’t stop the shivers when I walked into my living room.
You would think the sight of my living room would be enough to make me want to leave my sanctuary. Only I knew what awaited me outside that door. By now everyone would have heard what happened, and while I was mostly ignored in school, it was still high school.
I didn’t see Jeron again for a week; I later found out that he was released the next day. The first time I saw him, I wanted to run to him, to wrap my arms around him and thank him over and over. Instead I hid behind the curtain and watched him. Watching realization dawned that in all actuality I knew very little about Jeron, there were rumors, of course, there were always rumors. Only what did he do for a living now, who were his friends, I knew nothing other than he was my hero.
I hid and watched for him, he became an obsession. No, the idea of him became an obsession. Thinking about him, imagining him became an escape for me. It gave me something pleasant to think about. Imagining lives for him, answers to the questions I had, became a game to me.
The already strained relationship with my mother fragmented until we became two people who simply breathed the same air. I knew she felt guilty for the attack, that she blamed herself, and a piece of me blamed her as well. My stalking Jeron was an escape, an escape from nightmares, from my life.
After a week of gazing through the window to watch Jeron’s coming and going, I noticed something. I often saw him and his sister, Beth, but never his father. I knew he lived with his dad, so his lack of appearance baffled me. This caused me to watch even closer, and after the second week, still no sign of his father. Though I did learn that Jeron was leaving at all times of the day and night, he didn’t seem to sleep any more than I did.
In my third week of self-induced seclusion I was, of course, watching Jeron walking to his car. For the first time ever, his eyes flicked in my direction. Being the highly sophisticated teenager I was, immediately jumped away hoping that if hiding behind a wall would make him unsee me. My heart took off like a hummingbird in my chest; I took deep breaths trying to calm myself. There was no way he was looking in my direction, right, I mean why would he? When the knock against the window startled a small shriek out of me I knew my embarrassment was at epic proportions. Still I acted like a toddler, if I just didn’t see him none of it really happened, right? Jeron wouldn’t ever have to learn about my stalkerish behavior.
“Trinity you can’t hide for the rest of your life,” a low voice stated, “so get your ass back in school.”
I stood there petrified the humiliation of the situation made me want to curl up in a ball and die. A moment later I was flicking the curtain away and watched Jeron as he got into his car and drove away. It took another week before I left my hiding place, and I didn’t make it further than the stairs, much to my chagrin
After the failed attempt at normalcy, my life went back to the tiny metal box I lived it in. School started suffering, the homework that my teachers sent to me, untouched. My boss called to tell me that he couldn’t hold my job any longer. What was the point to it anymore, it wasn’t safe out there in the world, then again it wasn’t safe here either. Depression sucks at the soul, and when left unchecked hope is eaten by the dark fog that covers your life. “Get your ass out of bed, Trinity,” he growled from my door way. I didn’t know if he was really there or if I was in one of my few good dreams that quickly turned on me. He stalked into my room, ripped the covers from my body then scooped me up and walked down the hall to the bathroom where he none too gently dumped me into the shower. “Wash,” he barked then turned and walked out.
I’m sure I resembled an owl as I stood there blinking at the bathroom door, until I turned and did what my illusion ordered. When finished, I walked out to find Jeron leaning against the wall; he eyed me wearily before turning and walking into the living room. Jeron pointed at the small, scarred kitchen table where a bag of take out sat. Instead of rushing to obey, I just stood and watched, waiting because I knew what was coming. Jeron would turn into that man and leap at me; he would tear my clothes from my body and violate me.
Except dream-Jeron crossed his arms and glared
at me. “Eat Trinity,” he growled. I walked stunned, watching as I carefully skirted past him to the table. I sat and slowly removed the hamburger and fries from the greasy bag, my stomach rebelled against the idea of food, but under the glaring stare I found myself eating reluctantly.
When finished I began to realize that this wasn’t in fact dream-Jeron but real-Jeron, which caused me to become extremely nervous. “Why are you here, Jeron?”
“You’re better than this, Trinity, now get your ass off the rails and get on with your life.” With that pronouncement, he walked out the door.
“Thank you,” I mumbled as my door swung shut.
That was the day that I finally realized I couldn’t let what if’s and other’s define my life. It wasn’t what Jeron said that woke me up so much as someone pointing out what I was doing. I did not want to be this weak person; I did not want to hide away from the world. I was stronger than this, now I just had to prove that to myself.
It took me a month before reality of what I was doing was thrust upon me. After that I took control, there was no protection in hiding, only misery. I resumed school, worked harder than ever to make up for the time I missed. My grades weren’t going to be what they could have, and for that I only have myself to blame. The next goal was a job, which I found at a local bookstore. It was heaven on earth for me, I loved book, and being able to work amongst them was like coming home.
Stalking of Jeron still continued, just not as often. A part of me missed him, it wasn’t that we had any real interaction, but his presence soothed me. He made me feel safe, and the few interactions we did have, it seemed as though he actually saw me.
I’d only really seen him in passing since his intervention, so when I literally ran into him on my way to work, it disoriented me in more ways than one. Running late for work, and not paying attention to where I worked while trying to fish my keys out of my pockets I ran into what felt like a brick wall. I reached out and felt warm biceps under my fingers, and of course when I looked up they were attached to my obsession. Jeron’s eyes locked with mine and the breath left my body, his midnight blue eyes with a starburst of gold looked on with amusement and something more.
