Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  But right now was not one of those times. He’d slipped and fallen into that dark mental pit of his. I could tell. I knew what he wanted me to do. He’d made me do it before, when I was younger and felt too weak and scared to protest.

  No more. I was stronger now. Playing sports, getting my ass clobbered out on the field, out on the court, toughened me up. I could take his ass if I wanted to. We were the same height. I hoped I’d gain a few inches on the asshole. Then what would he do?

  I wanted him scared of me like I was once scared of him.

  “Sit in the chair over there, Willy.” He waved a hand at the worn, pale green chair that sat in the corner of his bedroom. The chair supposedly once belonged to my mother.

  The only evidence that remained in our house proving she existed. There aren’t any photos of her. He’d torn them all, burned them. Destroyed them, destroying her and my memories of her completely.

  “Don’t call me that,” I said through clenched teeth, hating the nickname. Hating the name in general. It was his name. Aaron William. William Aaron was mine. Fucking sucked, being his namesake, even though our names were swapped.

  I planned on changing it someday. Giving myself a name that belonged only to me, never to him.

  “Willy,” Sammy called, tilting her head back like she was howling at the moon. Dad laughed and rolled her over so she was on her back, his hand on her tit, his mouth on hers for a brief moment before he lifted up and stared at me.

  “Get in the chair.”

  “Fuck you,” I told him.

  “Get. In. The. Chair,” he commanded, his voice low and threatening.

  “Come on, Willy. He just wants you to watch. He told me you like to watch,” Sammy said, giggling when he pinched her nipple to shut her up. But she wouldn’t shut up. She started cackling like a witch and he squeezed her hard, rolling over on top of her, his hand on her mouth. She started to scream beneath his hand, the sound muffled, and I took my opportunity.

  “Fuck you,” I growled again before I turned and fled, running into my room across the narrow hall and slamming the door behind me. I turned the lock and threw myself onto the narrow bed, my heart pounding, the roaring in my ears making it so I heard nothing else.

  I stared at my door handle for a long time, waiting for it to start to shake, for him to pound on my door and demand I let him in. He’d done it before. Countless times. When I was smaller he’d grab me by the neck and lead me back into the room, forcing me into the chair.

  Forcing me to watch.

  Everything inside of me burned and I grabbed my pillow, clutching it tight. I hated him. I hated my mother for leaving me with him. Why didn’t she take me? Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to cry. I’d cried enough. It was finally time to toughen up. I was too old for the crybaby shit.

  Three more years. I had three more years of school and then I’d graduate and run. If I couldn’t get into college, I’d go straight into the military. The navy. Something like that. Anything to escape. I wasn’t scared of anything out there.

  I was too damn scared of what could become of me if I stayed in here.

  I lay on my bed clutching the pillow to me for a long time, my body tense, my muscles so rigid they ached when I tried to move. Finally I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion slowly take me over.

  He never came to my door.

  That was the last time he asked me to watch.

  Are you going to watch?

  I stare at the text message from my sister, my fingers hesitating above the keys. How should I answer? If she tries to invite herself over, I’m going to have to turn her down. I don’t want her with me tonight. I don’t want anyone with me.

  Are you?

  I send the message and wait for her reply. I’m hiding out, scared of the media’s reaction. Tonight, after the show airs, my life has the potential to change completely. It’ll be a repeat of what happened before, when we turned everyone away, when we told them we didn’t want to talk. That we refused to talk.

  In the years since, there have been so many theories about what happened to me. I was a runaway. I asked for it. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be his sex slave. I was desperate to escape my strict parents. I hated my life. I was a sullen preteen looking for fun. I was a fucking whore who deserved everything that happened to me. I was a dirty cunt who liked to suck dick.

  Every single one of those horrible lies had been said about me, spread all over the Web. There are videos on YouTube devoted to my supposed lies. I watched one once and then immediately threw up afterward. I can still remember what the video said.

  Temptress. Whore. She enticed him by dressing provocatively. Fucked him because she wanted it. Remained silent after she was rescued because she was guilty. She had secrets to hide. She was a drug addict. A slut. The bitch whore girlfriend of his son and they shared her between them.

  Because I survived, for some reason, I’ve been blamed. I asked for it. For a serial killer to abduct me in broad daylight and keep me captive like his own personal plaything.

  My phone dings and I check the message from Brenna.

  I really don’t want to watch it. I heard enough the day you did the interview.

  Wasn’t that the truth? I’m about to respond to her when another text comes through.

  Mom called and asked if we should all be together tonight. I said I would check with you first.

  Um, no. I don’t want to be with Mom. She’ll cry and try and comfort me and I’m over it. I said my piece. But I do want to watch it. Alone. I want to see how they portray me. Lisa swore up and down that it would be a positive piece. That it wouldn’t make me look bad; I was a victim.

  I corrected her and said I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. Big difference.

  Huge.

  I want to watch it alone. Tell Mom thanks but I need to see it by myself.

  I send the text before I can second-guess my decision and wait for her reply.

  My parents never moved. Mom is still in the house I grew up in and Brenna isn’t too far away, living in an apartment with her boyfriend, Mike. She’s a third-grade teacher at the same elementary school we attended. It still blows my mind—my impatient, mean-as-crap older sister teaches a bunch of eight-year-olds every day and loves it.

  I moved on purpose. I’m an hour south of where I grew up, in a very small town not far from where the kidnapping happened. I live in the middle point and why this reassures me, I don’t know, but I don’t like to question my motives too closely.

  Considering everything going on, I’m in hiding right now. I’ve taken all the extra steps to not be found and I like it that way. I prefer it. What with the News in Current commercials in constant rotation, highlighting that moment when I’m shown a letter he sent me that I didn’t know about—thanks, Mom, for keeping that particular secret from me—and the look of sheer panic on my face right before they go to his mug shot, I’m glad I took those precautions.

  That’s the moment I hated the most during the interview. Well, that and one other, where I had to vehemently defend the boy who saved me from a monster.

  Who saved me from his dad.

  My cellphone rings, startling me, and I nearly drop it from my fingers. I glance at the screen and see it’s Mom.

  Great.

  “Darling, are you sure you want to be alone tonight?” She sounds worried. I can hear it, practically feel the emotion vibrating in her voice. “What if you become terribly upset? I don’t think this is something you should experience by yourself. We want to be with you.” And by we she means her and Brenna.

  “I appreciate your concern, Mom, but I don’t want to come over.” I sound stiff. Wooden. Like how I used to talk to Dad.

  “How about Brenna and I come over there,” she suggests.

  “Please, Mom.” I sigh and close my eyes, searching for patience. I don’t want to get angry. She means well. “I’d rather do this alone. I swear if I feel sad or get scared or whatever, I’ll cal
l you.”

  “Okay.” She huffs out a long, tired breath. “Okay. I just—I want to be there for you.”

  “You always have been.”

  “Your father . . .” Her voice drifts and she sighs. She misses him. So does Brenna. They’re both very fragile and don’t talk about him too much because his death is so fresh.

  I don’t feel the same. I’d already lost him long, long ago.

  Saying nothing, I wait for her to continue.

  “He may not have reacted the way we wanted him to, but you need to know he loved you the same. Before it happened and after,” she says.

  She’s defending him and I get it, but she’s lying. He may have loved me, but not the same. He viewed me as tainted. Not his little girl anymore. A woman in a little girl’s body.

  I’m almost thirteen . . .

  I remember thinking that seemed so old at the time. That I was about to cross that magical bridge from twelve to thirteen, where I’d be transformed into a woman with breasts and curves and her period and maybe even . . . eventually . . . a boyfriend.

  That never happened. I starved myself afterward, believing I wasn’t worthy of food. Of life. I was down to ninety pounds and didn’t have my period until I was sixteen. Never had a boyfriend. Never went to my prom or any school dances. No football games, no parties, no sleepovers, nothing. All of it scared me. Boys scared me. Worse, men petrified me. The male teachers especially. They always looked at me. Examined me. I could feel their gazes crawl over me like tiny ants marching in a line up my legs, over my hips, across my stomach, around my breasts.

  The tears spill from my eyes before I can stop them.

  “Um, thanks for that, Mom, but I gotta go.” I don’t let her speak. I end the call and set my phone very carefully beside me on the couch, letting the tears continue to fall.

  I’m not okay. I believed I was, but I’m not. I assumed that by telling my story and getting it out of me once and for all, I’d be done. I’d finally feel clean. After spending the last eight years of my life feeling like a dirty, filthy whore—thanks, Internet, for putting those thoughts in my brain—I’d be scrubbed and wholesome and pure again.

  But I’m not. I was violated in the worst way.

  Mentally.

  Emotionally.

  So much that the physical violation doesn’t even matter any longer.

  I sit on my couch, anticipation setting me on edge as I wait for News in Current to come on. It starts at nine and runs to eleven. Two solid hours of watching Katie and me feel bad, guilty, all of those things, but I’m also excited. And nervous.

  They have to mention me. I’m an integral part of this story—of her story. Will they make me look bad? I’m sure of it. I hate Lisa Swanson, and she doesn’t like me much, either.

  I’d shoved Katie Watts out of my brain so forcefully that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about her for years. I couldn’t. But now that she’s back, she’s consumed me. I’ve spent hours on my laptop looking up information about her, trying to figure out where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s become.

  Unfortunately I couldn’t find out much. She’s private. No surprise. She didn’t change her name beyond shifting to her more formal full name of Katherine. She didn’t graduate high school, at least not publicly. Her sister is a teacher. Brenna Watts has a Facebook page with really shitty privacy settings and I scoured it like a stalker, looking for images of Katie, any mention of her, a link to her own profile.

  There’s no profile for Katie. Not many mentions of her on her sister’s page, either. But there’s one photo from a year ago of a housewarming party for Brenna and her dopey-looking boyfriend, Mike, celebrating their moving in together. It’s a group shot, lots of people crowded in a cramped living room, holding up their glasses in a toast for the camera. Whoever took it must’ve been standing on a piece of furniture or a footstool or something because it was shot from high above.

  I saw her among the sea of people, no cup in her hand but a faint smile on her face. Her hair piled on top of her head in a messy topknot, little tendrils brushing her cheeks, her gaze direct. She looked . . .

  Beautiful.

  Lost.

  Sad.

  Lonely.

  Broken.

  I stared at that photo for a long time. I right-clicked it and saved it on my hard drive like the stalker I am. What would she say if I reached out to her? Would she be happy? Would she hate me? Would she think I was an asshole or would she still believe me her hero? Her guardian angel?

  You saved me from him. You’re my hero.

  Her words ring in my head. Still. Always. They break my heart, pierce my soul like she’s never left it.

  Which she hasn’t.

  I glance at the TV and see that the show preceding it has ended, and Lisa Swanson’s image fills the screen, her gaze full of false sincerity, her expression one I like to call serious bitch news reporter. I turn up the volume so her voice fills my living room, fills my head, my thoughts, and I want to tell her to shut the fuck up.

  But I don’t.

  Because even though it kills me to admit this, I want to watch.

  The letters came like clockwork, showing up in my mailbox every other week, usually on Thursday or Friday. I always checked the mail after school; I told him this. We’d emailed each other before but that felt so cold, impersonal. I asked for letters instead and he agreed.

  I liked seeing his handwriting, the bold slashes across the paper, the smudges of ink that reminded me he was a lefty and he dragged his hand along the words as he wrote. The wrinkled paper that told me he ripped it out of a notebook. The notes in the margins that were silly and reminded me he was still young.

  We were both young, though most of the time we didn’t feel like it. We both had to grow up so fast. I believed that’s why we were drawn to each other still. Kindred spirits who suffered at the hands of the same man and all that.

  I opened the mailbox and grabbed what was inside, slipping my letter from the pile and shoving it in the pocket of my sweater. Entering our house, I dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter and murmured a hello in greeting to my mother’s call from the family room.

  She didn’t push, didn’t ask about my day until later, when we were sitting at the dining room table and she tried her best to work past the stilted conversation our family engaged in now. It was almost painful, having to endure the evening meal at the Watts house.

  I hated it. So did Brenna.

  Shutting my bedroom door with a resounding click, I turned the lock and then dove onto my bed, reaching for the letter in my pocket. I tore into it with trembling fingers, anticipation filling me at the potential of his words. They could be good. They could be bad. Someday these letters might disappear, and I’ve tried to prepare myself for that. We’d been corresponding for almost a year. He was about the only person I really wanted to talk to. I had no friends at school, not anymore.

  Only Will.

  I unfolded the letter, chewing on my lower lip as I devoured his words.

  Katie,

  You keep asking how I’m doing at the group home like you’re worried about me or something. I’ve been trying to avoid that question but I can’t hold back any longer. I hate it here. The guys are assholes. They steal my stuff and I got into a fight last week with one of them. I kicked his ass but he gave me a black eye and I got on restriction for causing the fight. Wasn’t even my fault in the first place. And I’m still out the fifty bucks he stole from me.

  At the rate I’m going, I’ll never get ahead, never get anywhere.

  Did I tell you I gave up football? Had to let go all my after-school activities so I could find a job. I’m working two, one legit and the other where they pay me under the table. Both suck but at least I’m earning some money. I need to find a new place to hide it all. Maybe I could open up a bank account, I don’t know. I think I need an adult to help me with that, which is such bullshit. I can work and earn my own money but can’t open a savings accou
nt?

  Enough of my complaining. How are you? How’s school? Did you pass that history test? I bet you did. You studied a lot and you’re always worried about your grades. How’s your dad treating you? In your last letter you mentioned Brenna has been extra nice to you. Is that still the case?

  I wish I could see you. Talk to you. The trial has been delayed again. I know you don’t want to talk about him but I’m feeling like the only time I’ll ever get to see you is at trial and that just sucks, Katie.

  But I know you can’t meet me anywhere. I know your parents don’t let you out of their sight and that’s the way it should be. They need to keep watch over you and make sure you’re safe.

  If I can’t be there, then they have to be the next best thing.

  I have to go to work, so I’m sorry I’m cutting this letter short. Just know that I miss you.

  Will

  I reread the letter, my heart filled with pain at what he was going through. He was so miserable. Working so hard and for what? So someone could steal his money? How fair was that?

  But life was totally unfair. I knew that. So did Will. We were the only ones who really got it.

  The only ones who really understood each other.

  Watching the interview earlier, seeing the old photos of myself, crime scene photos, trial photos . . . all of the memories came back. One after another, so many of them after having been locked up tight in the darkest, farthest corner of my brain, they assailed me. Overwhelmed me. Ultimately, they brought on a massive headache.

  I’ve heard plenty of stories about how when people have a traumatic experience, their brain protects them by banishing the memory. A girl I went to elementary school with was hit by a car, thrown fifty feet into the air, and she remembers . . .

  Nothing. Not a lick of it.

  How I wish my brain had protected me from the traumatic days I experienced by blocking out those awful memories, but it never happened for me. I might have done my best to bury those memories on my own, but they’re always there. Lurking. Just waiting to come back out and revisit me.