Broken Girl

by Gretchen de La O

  Stolen by the thoughts cluttering my head, I was startled by a loud thunderous knock on my door. It wasn’t a delicate, I know you’re in there suffering knock, or a can I come in and help you knock. It was a what the fuck are you doing in there one, a scary knock, a pounding knuckles upon the aged wood that sounded like it could be splintered into a thousand pieces type of knock.

  I took a breath, as I tried to steady myself in my crumbling certainty. I clutched Mr. C’s package to my chest, as if it was something that could protect my heart from dissolving. I wasn’t gonna open my door to just anyone, especially iron knuckles on the other side.

  I shivered from the inside out, when I heard whose voice belonged to the thunderous knock.

  “Aye, Rosie, you in here? It’s me, Briggs.” Kean’s voice penetrated the door, floated across and landed in the gaping hole in my chest. I froze as the envelope I was clutching tumbled down onto my bed. I didn’t know if I could handle seeing him right now.

  “Come on, sweet’art, let me in. I know what happened to Sybil. I want to make sure you’ okay.”

  I heard him jiggle the doorknob, and felt the same tempo pick up in my heartbeat.

  “I’ll only stay a wee bit Rosie gir’. Com’ on now.”

  I crept over to the front door; the floor creaked loudly with every other step I took. I pressed my face against the cold plastered wall for a handful of seconds before I reached out and grasped the door handle.

  “That’s right, Rosie. It’s goin’ to be okay, you hear me? I’m go’na be here, Rosie. When you’ ready to op’n the door, I’ll be waitin’ righ’ here.”

  Tears spilled over my eyelids, drenching my cheeks. Briggs was here for me, he came here just for me. I pulled the chain from the door, and unlocked the deadbolt. It was the last thing between us before I was going to let him see me more broken than I’ve ever been.

  Briggs cautiously pushed the door open, I didn’t stand there waiting for him to come in. If I looked at him and our eyes caught each other, I would break down and lose my shit all over again. I did the best survival mode action possible, I shuffled over to the kitchen and started fussing with the handful of dishes in the sink.

  “It’s been two days, Rosie. I’d been tryin’ to call.” He followed me to the kitchen, his words filled with concern sharpened to a point which easily pierced my heart.

  Every ounce of resolve I held drained painfully from my soul.

  “Well, Briggs, I’ve been here, living it up!” Sarcasm dripped from my words, words I regretted the moment they flew out of my mouth.

  “Com’ on, sweet’art. Don’t do tis. I’m just here, worryin’ about me gir’.” With a tug of his hand, he pulled me around to look at him.

  “Two days too late, Briggs,” I spat before I turned back to the sink. I knew it was an asshole answer, a thoughtless way to let him know I was still hurting and too drunk from the bottle of lemon flavored Smirnoff I had polished off twenty minutes ago. In fact, every last drop from the bottle of vodka still swam fiercely in my veins.

  I pushed on the faucet determined to keep from looking at him. I went from being in a world of hurt to being pissed at the world in a matter of a couple of days, and, well, unfortunately for Briggs he happened to be the first who showed up. The water poured down, cradled in the curve of a soup spoon before it splashed up like a lawn sprinkler drenching me, the countertops, backsplash and even Briggs who was standing behind me.

  Briggs’ massive hand and beastly inked arm shot over me and shut off the faucet. His determination to get through to me grew as he flung me around to face him. He wasn’t delicate, and the expression on his face told me he was done playing a fool. He clutched my arms in his mammoth hands and held me so I couldn’t run away. I was soaked from head to waist as the tears that streamed down my face became the exclamation points to my pain.

  “Now you listen to me. I’m not here to play games. I kno’ you’re hurtin’ but, you gotta get a grip,” Briggs huffed as he shook me with each word. He was bound and determined to get me to snap out of it.

  A feeble moment, weakened by the vodka in my system and made more intense by my grief, I ached to have someone tell me life will be all right, that everything I had gone through would lead to a bigger purpose. He let go of my arms, his wide thick thumbs brushed my cheeks as his long chunky fingers tangled in my hair. He held my head between his hands, his eyes, cast with demons he wasn’t willing to share blinked slower than I ever had seen before. I felt the pain of who I was begin to dissolve with his touch. It was as if he was willing to sacrifice himself for my greater good. I saw everything he hated about himself, every moment he clung to in the flimsy idea of who he had become, and for a moment, he let me in to see that he had fears planted deeper than I ever thought.

  I dragged my hands over Briggs’ warm, wet arms drenched in inked stories planted just below his flesh, stories still too raw to talk about. I craved to feel his pain, I wanted to believe he hurt as deeply as I did. I gazed at his full brown lips and I hungered to savor the sweet to my salty existence. I wanted to taste the all-consuming pain he had carried around his entire life and just as badly needed him to devour whatever happiness I had left. Take from me the last piece of hope Shane gave me so I would just stop hurting so badly.

  Our eyes met at the crest of my despair, and we both disappeared, suddenly, he wasn’t Kean Briggs and I wasn’t Rose Newton. I was a woman in need of medicine and he was just the man to give it to me. His lips became my antidote and I wanted him to heal me. Kiss me, to want me, to savor me the way Mister had over a year ago. I wanted him to want me as bad as Shane wanted me, I wanted to be loved as intensely as any prince would love his princess. I rose on my tiptoes, as if I possessed the grace of a ballerina, locked my fingers together behind his head and pushed up until my lips were hard against his. I pressed for him to consume our kiss, but he pulled away. The cold chill invited itself between us and instead of being our kiss, it was just mine. I had misconstrued his pain for passion, his demons for angels, and his empathy for desire.

  “Whoa, slow down t’ere, Rosie gir’.” Briggs held me away from his body. His cannon shaped arms rock solid between us. His words were a sobering splash in my face.

  “Oh, fuck, what did I just do? What the fuck did I just do?” I repeated the same words several times under my breath as I turned back to the sink and made busy work for my hands.

  My mom used to scream at me about fidgeting with things, she told me that the devil gave bad children busy hands. I was scared to death to fidget in front of her. She’d convinced me the devil himself was coming to take me to the fiery pits of hell . . . personally. I was just eight years old. Never a moment’s rest for the wicked or fidgety.

  Briggs pinned me between the entire length of his body and the sink. His oversized hands swallowed mine, stopping me in my tracks. I succumbed to his massive embrace. He lowered his mouth next to my ear.

  “Me gir’, you did nothin’ wrong. Nothin. You’ hurtin’. You’ achin’ for sumthin I just can’t give ya’. I ain’t the one you want.” His words rumbled in his chest as he whispered.

  He caressed his hands up and down my arms creating a rhythmic pattern that paralyzed me into submission. Loaded with guilt, and ashamed of the actions I so easily gave over to, I was completely mortified that I compromised our friendship by kissing him.

  “I can’t be with Shane. He deserves someone better, someone who can differentiate a friend’s compassion from a whore’s needs,” I snapped.

  Briggs’ hands froze, his grip across my arms became firm as he pulled me back and turned me to look at him.

  “This isn’t about w’at I tink, Rosie. We both know’ who's got your heart. Shane’d be lucky to have you. Don’t cut yourself so short. You’re a mighty fine ca’ch.” Briggs pushed his finger under my chin and brought my eyes up to meet his. His dark orbs contained within them a renewed fire, a spark that burned just behind his retinas.

  “You don’t want to piss me off.
Aye, Rosie, this isn’t w’at I came here for.”

  Every muscle in my body went lax. It was as if the words he’d been carrying around for the last couple of days could’ve saved my soul. Like any one of those televangelists who dramatically pushed on the foreheads of the weak, broken, lost and suddenly within seconds they’d fall back into the arms of his planted disciples, healed. I wanted to fall back into the arms of someone who’d say all my sins were forgiven. But then I remembered, you gotta believe in God before any televangelist would lay a finger on you.

  “Thanks, Briggs . . . and . . . I’m . . . sorry—”

  “Rosie, I came to tell ya’ Sybil’s burial is tomorra’. Nine thirdy. I’ll be here at nine sharp, to pick you up.”

  “I can’t go. I can’t watch them lower her in the ground. It just ain’t my thing.”

  “Too bad. I’m takin’ you. Be ready me gir’, nine a.m. sharp.” He leaned in brushing his lips across my cheek before pressing them against my ear. “And, I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.” He pulled away and looked at me, strength twinkled in his eyes before he leaned in and planted one of the most delicate kisses on the corner of my mouth that I’ve ever felt in my entire life. An innocent, yet striking kiss that claimed his love for me, deeper than any physical attention would prove.

  Mended.

  Healed.

  “I love you, Rosie, we’re family.” It was a slight enough acknowledgment of the truth in his words, before he turned on his heels and meandered out the front door.

  Tomorrow, I was gonna get my chance to say goodbye to the only family I had left. Well, maybe not the only family.

  I WOKE UP every hour on the hour until my alarm burped the fucked up song from a clunky eighties band. Between the guilt about kissing Briggs last night and the scenarios that could happen at Sybil’s burial today, a storm of images kept flashing through my head. It was already gonna be a tough day, now add sleep deprivation to the list and I should be sweet as pie to be around.

  Violent images of a blow by blow full-on fistfight between me and Martie erupted every time I closed my eyes, the dream would pick up where I had left it. Martie with a bloody nose, her eyes blackened by me beating the shit out of her. My eyes swollen to slits as the vision of my dreams morphed into a twisted moment where I clung to Briggs to make Shane jealous. Off the hook dreams that I knew weren’t real, but every time I woke up from them, I was disappointed by the reality that I was still stuck in my apartment waiting for my alarm to go off.

  Today boiled down to the fact that I was destined to watch Sybil lowered into the ground, forever, a finality I wasn’t really ready to accept. Death came knocking on the wrong person’s door and there was nothing I could have done to change it. This was going to be the first time since I left the hospital where I had to face the fact that Sybil was gone forever. A situation where I knew her family would do everything in their power to keep me away.

  I don’t like to be somewhere I’m not welcome. Hustling my six squares downtown was different, most of the people who didn’t want me hanging out were cops or other hos. But Sybil’s burial was a whole different situation. I was going to go walking into an already stirred up beehive with a big massive stick and clobber the hive until the queen falls from grace. I just know I’m gonna get stung.

  I pulled on a black scoop neck top. Classic in its cut, it was my go-to shirt when I had to be more conservative than what the rest of my life required. I pulled my hair back into a careless loose bun and restrained from applying makeup the way I normally did. It was the best attempt at conservative that I could muster.

  I had run away from closure my entire life, today there was no way I could run anymore. For the first time in a long time I was going to face the reality that my life had to change. And even though I wasn’t where I wanted to be financially before I stopped strolling the pavement, something had changed inside of me. Sybil’s death stirred in me a new desire to move on and prove to her that I was going to be okay, alone.

  I rolled my lips together, evening out my lipstick when there was a knock at my door. I looked over at the clock, it was eight forty-five, and a little earlier than Briggs said he was going to pick me up. Without thinking I pressed my lips to the mirror, one last kiss for Sybil.

  The chill of the mirror against my mouth kick-started the sobering idea of being in a car with Briggs. What the hell was I going to say to him? I fucked up bad last night. I couldn’t believe I had kissed him, and actually had wanted to use him to take away all of my pain. I will never be able to take that back. Last night was so bad, a burning knot twisted down in my stomach. Silence swept the room, swallowing up my ability to open the door and face him. I simply froze.

  “Aye, Rosie, it’s me, here to pick you up.” Briggs broke the silence and the breath I was holding escaped in a loud gasp.

  “You okay?”

  A million thoughts were drowning me.

  “I’m fine,” I answered under my breath.

  I pulled open the door and stood waiting for him to come in. Briggs eyes brushed over my body, a slight smile crested his lips.

  “You look . . . nice,” he said. “I’ve never seen you wear somethin’ so conservative before.” His Irish accent thickened.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothin’. You just look nice and put togeth’r . That’s all.”

  “Ha, well, looks can be deceiving.” I straightened the seam of my long pencil-cut black skirt.

  Briggs narrowed his eyes, answering my smart-ass remark with his expression.

  “Fine, thanks,” I responded. A look from him and a slight pause in his demeanor held more power than any verbal reprimand could ever express.

  A moment pulsed between us filled with an awkward silence. Maybe I put more emphasis on silence than it deserved, but I didn’t want to lose my friendship with Briggs over my stupid mistake of kissing him last night. I needed him now more than ever.

  “I wanted to apologize for last night.”

  “Now, there’s no reason for doin’ that. You were hurtin’ and t’at’s, t’at.” His eyes told me he wasn’t going to have any of my apology. He looked over my shoulder. “What you decidin’ to do with all those?” His thick long finger hung in the air as he pointed to the eight large black garbage bags that held all of Sybil’s life as I’d known it.

  My breath escaped me, I wasn’t expecting him to ask about them.

  “I was just going to leave them until someone from her family asked for it.”

  “And what if they don’t?”

  “Well, then I’ll take them to a thrift store.”

  “And ‘er shoes?”

  Sybil had such great taste in heels; some with leopard prints, colors for every skirt she had, a half a dozen black ones, classics that went with just about anything and some six-inch stilettos that would make any shoe whore jealous.

  “I just haven’t gotten to those yet.”

  Briggs was a no-nonsense type of guy, I guess when you’ve lived through the tragedy he had, you build up a wall that would protect your emotions.

  “Got anymor’ bags?”

  “Under the kitchen sink. Why?”

  He took a couple of steps from where he was to the kitchen area and returned with a bag.

  “Let’s take care of tis.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Naw, com’ on now. Let’s get tis dun.”

  “Key, don’t worry about it. We have to get to the cemetery.”

  My objection didn’t faze him; he snapped open the black garbage bag and held it open waiting for me to fill it with more of Sybil’s belongings.

  “It won’t take too long.” His accent thickened when he’s determined.

  I pulled the big black garbage bag from his hands rolled it up before I tossed it into Sybil’s closet and shut the door. I turned around and rested my back against the door.

  “I’m just not ready . . . to let go.”

  I slid down the door squeezed behind my bent knee
s in the attempt to stop the pain pouring from my gut. Tears rained across my cheeks drawing down and landing on my skirt.

  Was I really going to be strong enough to walk up to the six-foot deep hole in the earth dug specifically for her?

  Truthfully, I didn’t want to pack everything of hers away. If I left a part of her out, then maybe I could hold on to her just a little longer. The unrealistic idea that maybe keeping some things of hers out and where they belonged, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when I got back today.

  Briggs dropped down next to me draping his arms around me, swallowing me in his embrace. I was safe, felt comfort as he hummed in his Irish accent. He caressed my head lulling me away from the fear that clung to every breath I took. And in no more than a slight sway, he convinced me that I was strong enough to make it through the day.

  “Shhh, I’m here, Rosie, me lovely lady. I know you’re hurtin’. Sybil, she’d want you to be strong. She’d want you to go on . . . Not’ing will bring you down here anymore. Come on, sweet’art. Let me see that strong gir’ I know.”

  He pulled back from me, catching a glimpse of myself in his dark eyes, he wouldn’t abandon me. Not here, not there, not ever. He stood up, held out his thick massive hands, and waited, the first move toward my future. Pulling me up, he caught my chin between his calloused thumb and pointer finger.

  “We aren’t much different me and you. We’re fighters, always and for’ver.” He swept the loose strands of hair off my forehead before he pressed his lips across the deep worry lines that made it their home above my eyebrows. He was right. We were fighters, we were survivors in our own right and this, as hard as it was going to be, won’t break us.