Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2)

by Marita A. Hansen

  I closed the door behind me and sat down next to him on his bed. He was holding his head in his hands and staring down at the floor.

  I placed a hand on his back. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. All I want to do is help you.”

  He dropped his hands and turned his head towards me, his dark eyes glossy. “The only thing that helps is fucking.”

  I shook my head, feeling a pang of sorrow for him, his eyes so haunted. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, giving him the biggest hug, but kept my hands to myself, knowing he’d take it the wrong way.

  “I think sex’s the root of your problem,” I said instead, which I thoroughly believed. He seemed to equate everything with sex—every look, touch, word, so much so that his behaviour made utter sense now, his hyper-sexuality clearly linked to his abuse.

  He shook his head. “Fucking isn’t a problem when it’s consensual. It’s good. It makes me forget.”

  “Forget about what?” I asked, pushing for more.

  “Of...” He breathed out. “Of what my stepfather did to my brother and—”

  “You?” I asked, the incest part of his poem always at the forefront of my mind.

  He shook his head again. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. He didn’t do anything sexual to me; he hated my guts.”

  “Then who forced you?”

  “No one!” he yelled, making me jolt. He placed his head in his hands again, hiding his face from me. “Nuthin’ happened to me, nuthin’ happened to me, nuthin’ happened...” He kept repeating the words over and over again, as though he was forcing himself to believe them. His comment about how he made himself believe his own lies came to mind.

  I pressed on, “But if something did happen, you can tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else. It’ll also help to get it off your chest.”

  He dropped his hands and looked at me again, his expression almost pleading. “The only thing that’ll help is if you fuck my brains out so I don’t hafta think.”

  “Dante...”

  He screwed up his face. “I need it.”

  “No, you don’t, you just think you do.”

  “But if I think it, then I believe it, and if I believe it, then it’s true.”

  “No, you’re lying to yourself.”

  “Why are you making this so hard for me?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “Because I care about you,” I replied, willing my own voice not to crack.

  He leaned his forehead against mine, his soft hair brushing against my skin. I went still, my breath catching in my throat.

  “I care for you too,” he said.

  I didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. He was making my heart ache in ways I’d never experienced before. Unable to hold back anymore, I pulled his head to my shoulder, then wrapped my arms around him. I wanted to cocoon him in my embrace, to make him feel protected and safe.

  Dante remained in my arms, not moving, allowing me to give him the right sort of comfort. My mind went to his father, wondering how I could broach the topic with him. His son was suffering and he needed to do something about it.

  Dante lifted his head. The next second his lips were on mine, kissing me hard. I let go of him and pulled my head back, tempted, but knowing I couldn’t take it further.

  “Don’t pull away,” he begged, his dark eyes pleading. “I need to forget.”

  “And what happens after we stop? Your memories will return.”

  He screwed up his face. “I can make them go away sometimes. Booze helps, so does drugs.”

  “Those don’t help, they exacerbate the problem,” I replied, remembering the time he’d come to school drunk. I wondered whether he’d done it to forget about his abuse.

  “They do help, like sex. Good sex.” He leaned forward to kiss me again.

  I pushed to my feet, making him yell out in frustration.

  “Why are you even here?” he snapped.

  “I already told you, I want to help you, but you’re not letting me.”

  “I am. You just won’t accept what I need.”

  “You’re wrong, Dante. If I gave in to what you want, I wouldn’t be helping you, I’d be making things worse. Like with drugs and booze, sex can be just as damaging. I’d also be taking advantage of you.”

  He opened his mouth, looking like he was going to make a retort.

  I held up a hand, stopping him. “Let’s take this to the lounge. We can discuss it more in there.” I went for the door.

  “How do you know if you love someone?” he asked.

  I spun around, his words coming out of the blue. “Why would you ask that?” I said, the sudden change in topic catching me off guard, his words startling me.

  He dropped his gaze and started picking at the frayed ends of his muscle shirt. “I used to think I loved my first girlfriend.” He glanced up, his expression almost shy. “Until I met you.”

  My mouth went dry, hoping he wasn’t going to say it.

  Looking embarrassed, he dropped his gaze again. “Now I’m wondering whether I...” The words seemed to catch in his throat.

  Don’t say it.

  “...love you.”

  I swallowed, not knowing how to reply. Not expecting this or anything that came with Dante.

  He looked back up. “So, how do you know if it’s love or sumpthin’ else?”

  “You can’t be in love with me,” I blurted out, feeling deeply uncomfortable with his admission. “You don’t know me well enough.”

  Frowning, he pulled violently at a piece of thread. “I didn’t say I am in love with you, I just said I wuz wondering.”

  “Why would you even say that?”

  “Cos I think ’bout you all the time.”

  “It doesn’t mean it’s love, it could just be a crush,” or an obsession. I massaged my forehead, wondering whether I was obsessed with him, because I thought about him all the time too.

  “How do you know the difference?” he asked.

  “I...” My mind went to Markus. I’d told him I loved him many times, but if I truly did, he would be monopolising my mind, not Dante. And Dante did monopolise it, had since I’d met him.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said, again wondering whether I’d fallen out of love with Markus. Or maybe I’d never been in love with him, just like Dante had never been in love with his first girlfriend, the both of us confusing intense like with love.

  Dante appeared confused. “But, you’re married. Don’t you love your husband?”

  I didn’t reply, upset I could no longer rattle off an ‘of course’, because again, if I truly loved Markus I wouldn’t have had sex with Dante. I wouldn’t even be here. Instead, I would be at home, trying to make Markus feel better, not Dante, because I knew Markus was suffering too, just for different reasons.

  “My dad still loves my mum,” Dante said, “even after she got him sent to prison. He thought once he got out he could make things up to her, but it wuz too late. My stepfather murdered her before my dad even had a chance to see her again. It hurts him bad. I see the pain in his eyes when she’s mentioned. I see love. But you, when I mention your husband, I only see guilt. I don’t think you love him.”

  I remained silent, upset by Dante’s observation, even more so since it rang true.

  “I don’t think you love me either,” he continued, “but you do care for me, otherwise you’d be on top of me, riding my cock, like the other chicks I’ve been with. They’re more interested in how I look on the outside than the ugliness in here.” He tapped his head.

  “You don’t have an ugly mind.”

  “If you could read my thoughts you wouldn’t be sayin’ that. I’m not right, Clara. I’m fucked up in ways you don’t wanna know ’bout. I’m sick.”

  Moving forward, I squatted down in front of him, placing my hands on his knees. “You’re not sick, you’re suffering, and I do want to know what you’re thinking, otherwise I won’t be able to help you. So tell me. Who hurt you?”

  He took hold of m
y left hand, running his thumb over my wedding ring. “Do you think what we have could turn into love?”

  I slipped my hand out of his grasp, not wanting to be reminded of my adultery. “You’re changing the subject,” I replied.

  “I still want to know the answer.”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me who hurt you.”

  “Only if you go first.”

  I bit my lip, not wanting to admit it, but also not wanting to lie to him. “If I let myself, I could easily fall in love with you, Dante, but I won’t, because it’ll only end in heartache.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “It will. No matter how many times you say age doesn’t matter, it does. You’re too young, I’m too old. I’m a teacher, you’re a student. It’s just wrong.” Even though I didn’t want it to be. I stared at his face, wanting to touch it, to run my fingers over his cheeks, to kiss his lips... He was wearing me down, making it harder to walk away. Every time he said something, did something, it drew me more and more into his web.

  “What I did with you was wrong,” I added.

  He cocked his head to the side, looking like he was contemplating what I’d said, or maybe he was scrutinising my expression, trying to work out what I was thinking.

  A moment later, a soft smile pulled at his lips. “Tell me if this feels wrong.”

  Before I had time to object, he grabbed my head and kissed me. I went to pry his hands off me, but hesitated, the contact so good, the sweet taste something I wanted bad. And it was bad, because he was too young to consent to anything sexual. But the way he was kissing me was anything but childish, far from it. It was sensual, passionate ... incredible. It reminded me of the time I’d tried ecstasy when I was nineteen. It had been so mind-blowing I’d almost become addicted to it. And Dante was the same. He was like a drug I couldn’t get enough of. Something so bad for my health I knew I should stop, yet was unable to.

  An addiction that would eventually destroy me.

  He let go of my head and pulled back, giving me a look that said, ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  And he was right, too right, what he’d done definitely not feeling wrong. I clenched my hands, willing myself not to give in to him. I wasn’t here for me. I was here to help him, not to take advantage of the situation. Though, he was making it hard, what he’d done melting me. He was chipping away at my willpower one word, one look, one touch ... one kiss at a time.

  He lifted a hand, brushing my hair back, dissolving even more of my willpower, so much so that I knew I needed to leave now before I did something I’d regret. But instead of standing up and insisting on moving things to the lounge, I leaned my head into his hand, making his smile drop, his eyes dilating in response. We stared at each other, not saying a word, our attraction crossing over into something else. Something deeper. Something dangerous.

  Then he grabbed me.

  Before I knew what was happening, he had me on his bed, under him. His mouth crashed against mine as his fingers frantically tore at the buttons on my blouse. Within seconds, he had it open and was pushing up my bra. He broke the kiss and lowered his head to my—

  I cried out and clamped a hand on his head, what he was doing... I didn’t want him to stop, his mouth, my breast... My willpower hadn’t just dissolved...

  It was shattered.

  Disintegrated into nothing, completely gone, my original intentions almost laughable. The boy always undid me, making my intentions appear shallow, my lust for him lying beneath a veneer so thin that he could peel it away without even trying.

  His hand slipped under my skirt, pulling my knickers down. I could feel his cock hardening against my leg, getting ready to drive into me.

  A door slammed, jolting Dante. He jerked away from me, but all I did was stare up at him, my brain not understanding why he’d stopped. I reached out for him, not wanting to be parted from him. I wanted him inside of me, driving all my thoughts away, filling me with want and desire, need and pleasure.

  Then Dante’s father’s voice split the air, breaking through my dazed state, yanking me back to reality...

  ...and where I was.

  Lying on Dante’s bed, with my bra pushed up and my knickers around my ankles, the both of us exposed below.

  “Why are the dogs out back?” Dante’s father hollered from the other end of the house.

  Swearing under his breath, Dante yanked me off the bed, quickly pulling up my knickers. Panicked, I allowed him to push me into the wardrobe, jamming me up against a row of coat hangers and clothes.

  His father called out again, sounding like he was getting closer.

  Dante zipped himself up and went to close the wardrobe door.

  I pointed at his mouth, a smudge of lilac colouring it. “Lipstick.”

  Scrubbing at his mouth, he closed the wardrobe door on me, shutting me into the dark, cramped space.

  “Oi! You deaf, son!” came another yell.

  “They were barking at the cars passing by!” Dante answered his father, the lie slipping off his tongue without a hint of his deception. I was shaking, yet there wasn’t even a wobble in his voice, lying coming natural to him.

  I fixed my knickers and lowered myself to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I didn’t want to imagine what his father would do if he caught me in Dante’s room. What Helen had received wouldn’t be half of what I’d get. Not even a taste of it. And there was no way I could pretend that I was here to help Dante. My blouse was undone, while my bra was still pushed up. I yanked it down and wiped a shaky hand across my mouth, probably smearing my lipstick worse. The last image of Dante with my lipstick on his lips came back. I dropped my hand, willing myself not to hyperventilate, the stuffy, sweet air surrounding me making things worse.

  The bedroom door creaked open, causing me to stiffen.

  “Why are you home early?” Dante asked on the other side of the wardrobe door. I could imagine his father standing in the passageway, tall, tattooed, and dangerous-looking, staring down at his son with an annoyed expression.

  “Your auntie called me,” his father replied gruffly. “She said she couldn’t take babysitting you anymore, that you were bein’ a disrespectful brat. She wuz bloody helping me out, you could at least have been nice to her.”

  “She’s not my auntie, she’s Jasper’s,” Dante snapped. “And I hate that fuckin’ skank-ho bitch.”

  “Watch your mouth! And you’re lucky she isn’t blood, cos my sisters would’ve slapped you round the head for what Ngaire told me you said to her.”

  “She stole your vodka, gettin’ pissed on it.”

  “No, she didn’t. I gave it to her in payment for lookin’ after your ungrateful arse.”

  “I don’t need lookin’ after and ’specially not by her. I don’t want her coming ’ere anymore.”

  “How come you’re hating on her all of a sudden? You used to like her.”

  “I haven’t liked her for a while, you just haven’t noticed.”

  “Still, why all this hate? You’ve known her for most of your life.”

  “I hate her touching my things and hanging around like a bad smell.”

  “The only bad smell around here is in your room. For fuck’s sake, how many times do I hafta tell you to stop smoking that shit?”

  “It’s better than smoking coffin nails.”

  “Cigarettes are legal—”

  “They shouldn’t be, unlike weed. It keeps me from flipping out.”

  “Well, it’s doin’ a shit job, considering what you did yesterday. And until you quit drinking, Ngaire will be comin’ over to make sure you stay dry. I hafta work, I don’t have time to babysit your drunk arse.”

  “I’m not drunk now and I don’t needa be babysat, so quit lettin’ her come over.”

  “If you go to school and start doin’ work around the house, then I won’t need her help so much.”

  “’Kay, I’ll do chores, just tell that skank-ho to fuck off.”

  “Stop insulting her!”r />
  “Fine, tell her to go away nicely. Happy now?”

  “Watch your tone, boy.”

  “Just get rid of her. I don’t want her ’ere. I just want it to be you and me. No women.”

  Silence followed. “I’ll talk to her,” his father finally said.

  “Thanks. And since that’s all sorted, can you get me some fish and chips? I’m hungry.”

  “Can’t, I’m outta cash. Eat the leftovers from last night.”

  “But I hate puha and the pork gave me a gut ache. Get Uncle Hemi to loan you some cash.”

  “Oh, so now Hemi’s your uncle, but his sister isn’t your aunt?”

  “Quit talkin’ ’bout her, I’m hungry.”

  “I’m sick of asking him for money; and I left work early to be with you, not to take off again.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “What part of we don’t have money don’t you understand?”

  “We’d have money if you didn’t buy that bloody vodka for Ngaire.”

  “I didn’t pay a cent for it. I don’t have shit all money and you think I can waste what I do have on booze?”

  “And you get on my case ’bout stealing. Hypocrite much.”

  “I didn’t steal it! Some bartender chick gave it to me, you brat.”

  “I’m not a brat, I just wanna eat.”

  “As I said, have what’s in the fridge.”

  “I hate puha!”

  “It’s free! So, suck it up, buttercup. And you’re also goin’ back to school tomorrow whether you like it or not. The principal said he’ll tell the students you’ve been cleared of murdering that kid, while that bitch and her bastard partner won’t be givin’ you any more grief. The principal said the woman is fired while the man pro’bly won’t come back.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what happens to Arse-ton, but Ms. Farris didn’t deserve what you did to her.”

  “She did! She touched you and Ash.”

  “On the fuckin’ shoulder, and Ash also thinks she didn’t cross the line.”

  “She did cross it. Apparently the bitch has been sayin’ sexual shit ’bout you and Ash. Another teacher dobbed her in.”

  Dante went silent for a moment. I could imagine the surprise on his face, the boy probably not having expected that.