by SM Koz
Breaking Free
By SM Koz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 SM Koz; All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
To anyone who has ever cut.
May you find strength in Mal’s story.
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1: August 24
Chapter 2: July 18 (Day 1)
Chapter 3: August 24
Chapter 4: July 19 (Day 2)
Chapter 5: August 24
Chapter 6: July 19 (Day Two Continued)
Chapter 7: July 20 (Day Three)
Chapter 8: August 24
Chapter 9: August 24
Chapter 10: July 24 (Day 6)
Chapter 11: August 24
Chapter 12: July 25 (Day 7)
Chapter 13: August 24
Chapter 14: August 25
Chapter 15: July 28 (Day 10)
Chapter 16: July 28 (Day 10 Continued)
Chapter 17: August 25
Chapter 18: August 1 (Day 14)
Chapter 19: May 3 – July 10
Chapter 20: August 25
Chapter 21: August 1 (Day 14 Continued)
Chapter 22: August 25
Chapter 23: August 1 (Day 14 Continued)
Chapter 24: August 25
Chapter 25: August 2 (Day 15)
Chapter 26: August 25
Chapter 27: August 25
Chapter 28: August 25
Chapter 29: August 25
Chapter 30: August 26
Chapter 31: August 26
Chapter 32: August 27
Chapter 33: August 28-31
Chapter 34: September 1-6
Chapter 35: September 7
Chapter 36: October 2
Chapter 37: October 2-4
Chapter 38: November 15
Chapter 39: November 15
Chapter 40: November 20
Chapter 41: November 22
About the Author
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Becca who had the courage to share her story with me in order to bring life to a fictional character, shaping her reality and making her speak not only to me, but hopefully a world of readers.
I also owe a huge thanks to Rachel for her editing expertise (bring on the red ink!) and my beta readers. Here’s a heartfelt shout-out to Jenn, Barbie, Tracey, Tiffany, Andrea, Emily, Lynn, Georgia, Amanda, and the Authonomites Trularin, Pippa, Roger, and Joe for their willingness to read a work in progress and provide invaluable feedback. A special thanks also goes to Christina from Christina’s Book Blog for her assistance with translations, Tiffany from Tiffany’s Book Hangover and Jenn from Swooning Over Books for all their help and marketing expertise, and my street team (especially Tracey, Joelle, Rebecca, Jess, Nicole, and Kolette). Thanks for taking a chance on a new author!
Lastly, I can’t forget Sara and my family. Without their continued encouragement and support, I’d never be able to do this. Sara also gets props for naming the main character in Breaking Free. From the moment she mentioned Kelsie, I knew it was perfect.
Chapter 1: August 24
“Tell me what happened,” the shrink says, removing his wireframe glasses and placing them on the notepad on his lap. This is my third visit. He always comes back to this.
“There’s nothing to tell.” It’s the same answer I’ve given him every time. I lean back in my chair and stare at the clock hanging on the wall, urging the second hand to move faster.
“Take me back to that night.”
Intent on ignoring him, I close my eyes, but what I see takes my breath away. It’s the crimson halo. My eyes snap open and my heart beats wildly in my chest. I haven’t seen that in over a month.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. Then take a deep breath. I need to control my thoughts. I can’t start seeing that again.
“Did you take your meds this morning?”
I hate the meds. They threaten to make me forget what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt. What I’ve lost. But the alternative is a deep, dark abyss I may never escape from. What I didn’t realize is I’m one missed dose away from that. I only skipped my morning meds and I’m already seeing her again. Not wanting to tell the shrink any of this, I shrug my shoulders in response to his question and focus on the coffee stain on his polka-dotted tie. Then I start counting the polka-dots. Anything to take my mind off the crimson halo.
“You need to take those. They’ll help.” When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Would you like to talk about the Wilderness Therapy retreat?”
Fifteen polka-dots, sixteen polka-dots, seventeen polka-dots.
“How did you feel about going on the retreat?”
Twenty polka-dots, twenty-one polka dots. That’s it. No more dots to count. “Fantastic,” I reply.
“Why is that?”
I move my eyes from his tie to his face, which is now etched with deep lines at the corners of his mouth. I give him a smirk as I answer, “I’ve always wanted to learn how to live in the wild. Off the land. Just me and nature.”
“Kelsie, you need to be honest with me.”
“I’d be great as one of those people who live off the grid. No phone. No electricity. I could move to Alaska and hunt moose. Melt snow for water.”
Picking up his glasses, he rests an ear piece in his mouth. Since he doesn’t say anything, I continue, “Maybe raise big fluffy dogs that can pull me around on a sled. Or build snow shoes out of trees that I trade to other off-gridders for luxuries like soap.”
He sets his glasses in place and scribbles something on his notepad before saying, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?”
“Do you want to get better, Kelsie?”
I stare at him. He stares back. I must be getting under his skin because he’s never done this before. He usually just keeps asking me questions to try and get me to talk about myself. We sit like that for at least a minute, neither of us saying anything. He blinks first and I smile. Minor victory for Kelsie.
“You’ve had a lot happen to you over the past few months. Things that are difficult for anyone to handle. It’s not uncommon for teens to turn to coping methods. The problem is it won’t work long-term. The rebound emotions are only going to worsen. I can help you learn how to deal with those emotions in a healthy way, but you have to open up to me. It will never work if you don’t trust me.”
Like I would trust him. What has he ever done to earn that? What has anyone in my life ever done to earn that? Except Jenna and JC. But they’re gone and I’m on my own now.
He sighs. “We’ll meet again in three days.”
“Can’t wait.”
As soon as I open the door, Marta, the new nanny, says, “All done, Señorita Kelsie?”
Yes, I’m a seventeen-year old with a nanny. After everything that happened, Sheila, my stepmom, decided I couldn’t be left alone and she couldn’t be bothered to watch me. Not even for a moment. Then there’s my dad. Being a hot shot movie producer, he couldn’t disrupt his work schedule. I’m lucky if he’s home a couple days a month. I can’t even remember the last time I ate dinner with him.
I nod to Marta and stalk towards the parking garage with her at my heels. When I open the car door, there’s an envelope on
my seat.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you. It came in the mail today.”
“Who’s it from?” I ask, hoisting myself into the Subaru.
“W. McCoy.”
I pick up the package and lay it on my lap while I buckle the seat belt. “I don’t know anyone named McCoy.”
“From Durham, North Carolina?” Marta asks, backing out of the parking spot.
“Durham?” I turn the package over and study the return address. She’s right. It’s from W. McCoy of Durham. My hands tremble. It takes me only moments to rip open the envelope. Inside, I find the generic notebook you could buy in any office supply store. I flip it over and study the dirty cover. I have an identical notebook in my room, but it looks pristine, which makes sense because I never used it for its intended purpose. The person this belonged to must have, though.
Taped to the cover is a yellow post-it note. “I think my son would want you to have this. Wanda McCoy.”
In less than a second, tears well up and spill over my eyelids. It’s the first time I’ve cried since I started the meds. That must be another side effect of missing a dose.
“Oh, no, Señorita Kelsie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would upset you,” Marta says, patting my leg with her hand as she turns into traffic. No doubt Sheila gave her strict instructions that an emotional Kelsie is a bad thing.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s just … unexpected.”
As much as I want to tear into his journal, I can’t do it in the car. I have no idea how I’ll react to what it contains. No one can see that.
I tap my foot and drum my fingers the entire ten-minute trip back to my house. Before she even has the car in park, my seatbelt is off and my door is open.
“Slow down, Señorita Kelsie,” Marta says, fumbling with the keys and trying to keep up with me.
After punching in the entry code, I throw open the door and rush down the hallway to my room.
“No, no, no …” Marta yells, shaking her head. “I can’t let you be alone.”
“I’m fine.” I turn into my bedroom and try shutting the door, but her foot stops it.
“Señora Sheila will fire me. I need this job.”
I pause. I don’t want Marta to lose her job, but I’m also not interested in her watching me read his journal. There’s a good chance the tears I’ve already shed are only the tip of the iceberg.
“You read in the living room. I’ll stay in the kitchen.”
Because I’m so eager to read his words, I nod and rush to the couch. I miss him. Although this can never replace hearing his voice, it could fill a void that’s been present for the past two weeks, just on the fringes of my consciousness. I know the feeling and if it weren’t for the cocktail of drugs my shrink has me on, I’d be back in that abyss.
As promised, Marta retreats to the kitchen. She’s pretending to be preoccupied with a crossword puzzle, but her eyes are on me. She’s waiting for me to break down so she can call Sheila or my shrink. As much as it pains me to admit it, she may have that opportunity if the journal takes me back to that last day.
Peeling the cover from the first page, I see his name and the date our Wilderness Therapy program started: July 18. On the next page is his first entry.
Day 1: I made it through the first day. Actually, that makes it seem worse than it really is. All we did today was hike in the woods, have dinner, and talk around a campfire. If I had better company, this could actually be fun. Unfortunately, it seems as though everyone else was sent here to work through some serious issues. The worst may be Malibu Barbie. I predict she’ll be gone by the end of the week.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.
“You okay?” Marta asks.
I ignore her and continue reading.
That’s unfortunate because she’s hot. If I had met her at home under different circumstances, I’d definitely ask her out.
“I bet you would, Casanova,” I murmur wistfully.
“Señorita Kelsie?” Marta asks, stepping around the island, still holding her untouched crossword puzzle.
I continue to ignore her. I can’t believe he called me Malibu Barbie and thought I was so weak I’d be the first one kicked out, but then said I was hot in the very next sentence.
“Are you upset?”
I shake my head so she doesn’t hover over me as I think about his words. There was a reason I was slow the first day. Had I known we’d have to hike ten miles, I never would’ve packed so much stuff.
And then, without even a second thought, my mind draws up the memories of our first day, while Marta watches me from the other room with concern.
Chapter 2: July 18 (Day 1)
Left, right, left, right. I had to put all my attention into the simple task of placing one foot in front of the other in order to distract myself from the bleak reality that had become my life that day. Every few steps, the tight grip on my thoughts slipped away and I became all too aware of the shooting pain in my feet. I gritted my teeth, looked to the sky, and forced my mind to return to the mantra that was saving me from a complete breakdown in front of the seven strangers. Left, right, left …
“We’ll stop here for lunch,” Chris said, interrupting my mantra. Her caramel-colored skin had only the faintest sheen of sweat and her shiny black hair was securely fastened in a ponytail, not a strand out of place. That annoyed the hell out of me. I was dripping wet and my hair was so frizzed it looked like I had stuck my finger in an outlet. She also had perfect posture and muscular arms and legs, like a soldier. That annoyed me even more. Just because she was big and strong didn’t mean I’d be intimidated by her.
The other counselor, Jason, and five teenagers dropped their packs and searched for a rotten stump or moss-covered fallen tree where they could rest. I stood still—if I sat down, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be able to stand back up. I looked at the motley crew of teenage troublemakers and wondered why I was the only one having problems. Good ol’ Neeky, who had to be at least 250 pounds, was red-faced and breathing hard, but that was it. Everyone else seemed totally fine. Even Mia, who didn’t look like she had an ounce of muscle on her, wasn’t on the verge of tears like me.
“Kelsie, get a sandwich,” Chris ordered.
“Not hungry,” I replied.
“I don’t care. This is all you’ll get until tonight.”
I threw my pack on the ground and dramatically lowered myself to a stump as the only act of defiance I could think of. I narrowed my eyes and challenged Chris to fight me. She smiled and went back to her food.
I was shocked by how easy that was and thought maybe this whole ordeal wouldn’t be so bad. Chris tried to play the tough girl, but maybe she wouldn’t be a match for an angst-ridden teenager from California. That gave me some hope that the next thirty days might not be quite as horrible as I’d anticipated—painful, exhausting, and mind-numbingly boring, but not completely horrendous.
Still feeling triumphant, I pulled off my shoes to find the source of the pain. Peeling away my socks, I groaned at the state of my feet. I had blisters on both heels and big toes, as well as the bottom of my right foot. To make matters worse, my sock was stuck to the blister on the bottom of my foot. I tried to ease it off, but it wouldn’t budge. Assuming the Band-Aid principle applied, I took a deep breath and yanked it with all my force. There was a brief moment when I felt nothing, but that only lasted for a fraction of a second. Then, it felt like I stuck my foot in a fire. My vision went blurry. A violent, blood-curdling scream involuntarily escaped my lips. Gasping for breath, I cradled my foot in my hands and rocked back and forth on the stump.
“Shit, shit, shit, that hurts,” I complained staring at the bright pink spot that was now oozing something. I looked up and noticed that I had become the center of attention—all six pairs of eyes were staring at me.
Just perfect, I thought. I really am the weakling here. To keep up some façade of my toughness, I said to the group, “I’m
fine.”
“Great. Then let’s move on,” Chris said with her annoying smile.
I moaned and winced as I stepped into my right shoe. Standing gingerly, I tested my foot to see how bad the pain was. It was bad. I decided there was no way I’d be wearing shoes until the blisters healed so I removed the shoe, tied them both to my pack, and put my socks back on my feet. I didn’t even want to think about what it would feel like the next time I pulled them off. I figured I might end up wearing those socks for the rest of my life. They were a nice tan color, very neutral. They could go with anything.
Balancing my pack on the stump, I squatted down to place my arms through the shoulder straps. I immediately knew something was wrong when I tried to stand. The weight must have shifted because I was off-balance. I tried to counteract the pack, but overcompensated and fell to my knees, catching myself with my hands. I turned one hand over and saw bloody scratches and gravel embedded in my palm. I had only been out there for four hours and my body was already a mess. There was no way I was going to last a month. I looked up and saw that the group had already assembled and was walking away from me. Cursing under my breath, I tried to stand up quickly, but the weight was too much and I fell backwards, landing on my pack with arms and legs flailing.
I couldn’t believe how much I despised my life right then. How much I despised my parents for shipping me there. How much I despised the cheerful Chris and others who didn’t have any problem carrying their gear. Tears welled up in my eyes and I didn’t even try to fight them. I closed my eyes and sobbed loudly since no one was around to hear. My nose started running and I wiped it with my shirtsleeve, as my gasping sobs became quiet whimpers.
“Are you about done?” a deep voice with a noticeable southern drawl asked from above me. His accent was similar to what I had been hearing since arriving in North Carolina, although not nearly as thick as some people.
Startled, I opened my eyes to find Juicehead leaning over me with his dark hand looking even darker against the pale pink of my pack. In one swift move, he lifted me to my feet, pulled the pack off my arms, and put his arms through the shoulder straps so he was carrying it in front while his pack was on his back.