Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  Better Than This

  Tia Souders

  Better Than This

  by Tia Souders

  Published by Clean Reads

  www.cleanreads.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  BETTER THAN THIS

  Copyright © 2018 TIA SOUDERS

  ISBN 978-1-62135-732-2

  Cover Art Designed by AM Designs Studio

  Contents

  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

  About the Author

  Untitled

  1

  Two days. That’s the length of a hospital stay after your father lops your finger off with a kitchen knife.

  I remember the morning clearly. Maybe I always will, or maybe the memory will fade with time and be as unimportant as everyone wants me to believe…

  The scent of rain and decaying leaves wafted through the open windows. Cool air whipped inside, diminishing the stench of burning oatmeal from the kitchen. I hurried into the room, my guitar case slung over my shoulder and pressing into my back. I glanced up at the clock and grimaced.

  Running late. Again. Fabulous.

  I’d hear it from Mr. Neely for sure. Time is of the essence, he’d say. And as usual, I’d just nod my head and take his chastisement in good measure. How could I argue with him when the single most important day of my life approached?

  I skirted the kitchen table and made a beeline for the side door, head down and chin pressed to my chest in the hopes of escaping unnoticed.

  “Shoot!” my father yelled. He yanked the pot off the stove, one I imagined contained the charred remnants of his breakfast based on the hint of smoke and scent of burnt carbs singeing my nose.

  Moving to the window opposite me, he waved a towel, maniacally trying to hasten the foul air outside. I took this as my opportunity and darted to the refrigerator and grabbed the first thing I saw. A carton of strawberry yogurt would have to suffice since there was no time to be choosy. The longer I stayed in the kitchen, the more I risked a confrontation with him or my mother.

  I crossed the kitchen to the back door and reached for the knob when the piercing sound of shattering glass made me jump. A guttural moan followed, and it was all I could do to grit my teeth and round the corner into the living room.

  My mother lay on her side, her legs splayed, an empty, broken bottle of some form of spirit at her feet. When she rolled over, pieces of glass stuck to her skin.

  I covered my nose, noticing the spot of vomit beside her inert form. My eyes watered at the fab puke-alcohol combo that seemed to be my mother’s daily choice of perfume. Eu de Mom, I supposed.

  I spun on my heel, wanting nothing more than to get out of there. The little detour wasted another precious minute.

  I took a step forward and nearly bowled over my father, whose gaze rested solely on Mom. He moved around me, and I breathed a sigh of relief until he cleared his throat. “Samantha, I need to speak with you for a moment. In the kitchen.”

  Wincing, I turned. I knew better than to ignore him. Years of lessons-learned told me he wouldn’t go away if I did, and I’d wind up missing practice with Mr. Neely entirely. Still, evading him was worth a shot.

  “Um, I’m good thanks. Gotta get to school and all,” I said as I tapped my imaginary watch, smirk firmly in place.

  I watched as he knelt down beside my mother and started cleaning up her mess. Oblivious, she moaned and rolled over, blinking like a newborn babe, but my father acted like the state she was in was totally normal. Just another day at home-sweet-home.

  Turning his gaze to me, he nodded to the kitchen. “Nope. Kitchen. Now.”

  How did he manage to come off as righteous while cleaning his wife’s puke? Some talent right there.

  I brought my fingers up to my pounding temples, wishing I could be invisible. Most times I was, unless he wanted something. But today, I needed out of there. I needed my guitar. I needed to play in that moment more than I needed to breathe. Music would push the image of my mom from my mind, the scent of her from my head, and the knowledge that mornings like this were normal. My normal.

  For a moment, I debated sneaking out, making a run for it. But a lecture would ensue, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  Sighing, I followed him into the kitchen. The strap of my guitar case dug into my skin with each step, a reminder of the time and how I didn’t have any, but I sauntered over to the counter like I hadn’t a care in the world. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my black skinny jeans. The worst thing I could do was show him I had something I cared about waiting for me. He didn’t need leverage.

  “What?” I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at the clock.

  This had better be fast.

  He tossed a bag of glass and soiled paper towels in the trash can and moved to a cutting board on the island. “I wanted to let you know that I’m signing you up for a class this summer at the American Banking Institute. The one I mentioned a few months back. It’ll be good for you. Build some knowledge before you start working for me.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks. It was only October, yet he had my summer all mapped out. My summer. My last one before college—or wherever I went off to.

  “I already told you I’m not doing it. I won’t work there, and I’m eighteen now. I can make my own decisions. You’re wasting your time, so you can just take your little class and—”

  “Sam! I suggest you choose your words wisely.” He narrowed his eyes at me before turning his gaze to the counter in front of him.

  He snatched a knife out of the drawer in front of him and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. Slicing through it, he halved it in one clean swoop.

  Scoffing, I leaned back against the counter as he continued, “This isn’t up for debate. You’ll have to get used to the idea.”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t happening, but the argument could wait. All I wanted right now was to feel the smooth contours of my guitar in my hands.

  My chest ached with need as I thought of my fingers on the strings, the vibration of music sinking home into my fingertips, into my bones.

  I waved my hand in the air. “Fine. Whatever. I’ve gotta go.”

  What happened in the seconds following this exchange blurred into a single moment.

  My mother crashed into the kitchen, knocking over the wine glasses nestled on the hutch. Mumbling something incomprehensible, along with accusations that someone rearranged the furniture, she stumbled and fell. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the raised knife poised again above the apple.

  My father said I shifted my hand on the island, distracted by my mother. A totally pla
usible explanation—if it were true.

  My eyes widened as I stared down at the halved fruit, now drenched in my blood. The pain came in startling, pulsing waves until my entire hand felt as though it was engulfed in flames.

  My heart threatened to crash through my chest, as I struggled to comprehend what happened. I vaguely recalled screaming in the background. Where it came from, I’m still unsure. Possibly me, or my mother. I barely noticed my father’s panicked voice as it rang in my ears, nor did I feel it when he squeezed the dish towel over my hand.

  I don’t recall moving. I don’t remember speaking or moaning in pain. All I remembered is the sight of the blood-stained cloth shifting, noting the missing finger, and thinking This is my fretting hand.

  2

  The plaster in the ceiling had several tiny cracks in it—hairline fractures in a bleak, white, textured sky. I stared at them like I’d stare at constellations, searching for meaning or patterns unseen. I studied them for hours, as if within them I might find answers I long ago gave up searching for. Like, why me? I gave up that particular question years ago when I realized there were no answers good enough. There was no secret formula to life, to people and the things around them, no hidden meanings. Everything just… existed.

  Since they rolled out the red carpet for me in the ER this morning and gave me my very own room in this disease-ridden crap-hole, I’d found anything and everything to focus my attention on other than the stiff wrappings on my left ring finger. The ones that hid my stub. I had no idea what lay beneath the gauze—I had yet to experience the honor of seeing for myself—but from what the nurses told me, I am now the proud owner of a one-inch digit. But I won’t think about what is left of my finger. It might be enough to push me over the edge.

  If the butcher knife severing off my digit wasn’t bad enough, there was no chance of reattachment—it wasn’t even worth trying—because the finger had too much damage from the ice my father stored it in. Morbid, I know. Just for the record, I’d rather be dead than have anything happen to my hands.

  Tough luck for me, I guess.

  Someone rapped on the door to my room—probably the nurse. Since the doctors and staff determined nothing could be done to save my finger, someone had been checking on me continuously. Eyes clouded with pity, worry lines creasing their brow, they stood at my bedside and asked questions while I lay mute. They were probably afraid of a lawsuit. Don’t want the finger girl to leave the hospital and jump off a bridge or something. That would just be bad business, not to mention one giant malpractice suit. I guess I should be grateful. It could be worse. They could transfer me to the psych ward.

  The door creaked open. Still, my gaze remained on the ceiling.

  “Ugh. It smells like sick people in here. I hate hospitals.”

  I recognized the unmistakable soprano tone instantly and turned to see my friends enter, all four of them piling in the tiny, sterile room as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Shut up, Lauren.” My boyfriend, Derek, glared at her before stepping in front of them. Leading the pack, Lauren, Faith, and Ron trailed behind him.

  Derek’s dark hair gleamed from too much product under the harsh lights, and as they walked up to my bed, I couldn’t help but notice how out of place they all looked—Derek with his brow and lip piercing, Faith with the purple streaks in her hair, and Ron with his long, greasy locks. Lauren was probably the only one security wouldn’t look twice at. With her long blond hair, perfectly applied makeup, and blue eyes, she looked every bit the “all-American” girl.

  “Hey, babe.” Derek leaned toward me for a kiss, and I had to force myself to hold steady, not to turn away. When he brushed his lips over my lifeless ones, I took the opportunity and slid my injured hand under the thin blanket. He pulled away a moment later, and because I knew a smile was impossible, I settled on a compromise and erased the scowl from my face.

  “You guys didn’t have to come. You could’ve just seen me in school.”

  “It was Faith’s idea.” Lauren nodded toward Faith, who waved, fluttering her fingers, a timely reminder of how I was now one short.

  Ron flicked his long bangs out of his eyes, then nodded toward my arm and the hand pressed as far under me as comfortable. “Sucks that it was your fretting hand. I mean, if it were just your right hand then who cares? You can strum and pick without it.”

  Faith nudged him in the ribs, whispered something at him I couldn’t quite make out, then said, “You’ll adjust, Sam.”

  “Maybe, but not soon enough.” Lauren’s gaze bore into Faith. “I mean, I don’t think she’s going to be playing our normal stuff anytime soon. Or at least not killing it.”

  Bingo! Now I knew why they came to see me. Not because they were concerned. They wanted to see how bad off I was. My injury was a threat to the band considering I was an integral part of the group. With our plans to leave for New York City after graduation, my missing finger meant a setback. Were they thinking of replacing me? Did it even matter? Little did they know, I never intended to go with them. Sure, I had planned to go to New York but for something altogether different. A dream more important to me than life itself.

  Juilliard.

  Just thinking about it constricted my chest until it ached. With auditions only six months away, I had to get used to the idea I was going nowhere.

  “Maybe she could adjust to playing right handed?” Derek suggested.

  “Not so easy, man. After years of playing, a lot of people find no luck in adjusting that way. Especially not in only a few months,” Ron said.

  Faith rolled her eyes. “Just because you couldn’t do it doesn’t mean Sam can’t.”

  “Oh, snap!” Derek heckled, bringing his hand over his mouth.

  “You guys are acting like she died. I mean, it’s a finger, not her whole arm. She’ll be fine.” Faith crossed her arms over her chest and turned her attention back to me, as though she really believed what she just said.

  I wanted to be grateful—she was the only one yet to write me off—but I wasn’t. I listened as the minutes passed and my friends discussed my fate as a musician like I wasn’t even present. Eventually, I curled up on my side and closed my eyes, blocking out the sound of their arguing. I wondered if they’d notice, until sometime later I opened up my eyes to the scent of greasy meat and realized I must’ve drifted off. A burger sat on the tray next to my bed, along with some other white gruel I was afraid to name.

  My stomach pitched. If I had been hungry before, I certainly wasn’t anymore.

  I pressed the call button for the nurse and asked her to take the tray away.

  “Your father called,” she said. Her soft gray eyes moved as her gaze searched my expression. “He’s leaving work now and will be here in a bit.”

  I said nothing. Just stared at her.

  “While I’m here, I need to change your bandages with fresh ones.” She moved to a cart I hadn’t noticed and grabbed a pink bin. Pushing the blanket aside, she lifted my arm and rested it on the rail of the bed.

  I turned my head away as she began to unravel the soiled bandage.

  “Now, you’ll need to do this every day to make sure the wound stays clean. Don’t worry though, I’ll show your parents when they come. They can do it for you.”

  Little did she know my mother would be too drunk, and I was not letting my father anywhere near my finger. Not that he would offer to change the bandages for me anyway. I couldn’t remember a time when he did anything but chastise me. I had been on my own for most things parental for years now.

  I tried to ignore the stinging sensation as she worked and instead focused, once again, on the cracks in the ceiling.

  “Sam, the staff has noticed how distant you seem to be. I understand this will be a bit of an adjustment, but you’re going to be okay. It’s just a—”

  “Finger?” I snapped, and for a moment the sound of my own voice startled me, maybe more than it had her.

  The nurse’s eyes widened and she
opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Thanks for the reassurance,” I said, and I wished I could pull my hand away from her, but she wasn’t done yet, and I sure didn’t want to deal with my mutilated appendage. When I spoke again, I softened my voice. “I’m well aware it’s just my finger. I’m sure I’ll be fine, just as everyone says.”

  “Is playing the guitar what’s bothering you?”

  My eyes searched her face. “How did you know I played? Did my father tell you?” Surely my friends hadn’t said anything, unless she overheard.

  She frowned and hesitated before shaking her head and returning her attention to my hand “You came in clutching it in your arms. Your guitar. You wouldn’t let go of it. The doctors had to tear it off you.” She covered her mouth with a gloved hand as if the words had slipped out on their own accord and she wished she could shove them back in. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

  She moved away from me, taking the bandages with her, as if the image she left me with wouldn’t give me nightmares, as if the conversation hadn’t even taken place. “Do you need anything else before you go, Samantha? Something to drink before your father gets here?”

  Shaking my head, I rolled away from her. The image of me hugging my guitar case to my chest, like a mother would her infant, froze in my mind. And when I could think of nothing else, I wondered if it would haunt me forever.

  When my father arrived a short time later, he touched my side and called my name, but I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to sleep. Through his talking to himself, murmuring something about my mother startling him, about the knife slipping, and even through his tears, I pretended to sleep.