I’m with you
Glenna Maynard
I’m with You
Copyright © 2013 by Glenna Maynard
This is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, business, establishments, locations or events is entirely coincidental. Any reference to real events, business, organizations or locations is intended only to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
Cover design by S.K. Hartley and Glenna Maynard
Acknowledgements
I want to thank all of my wonderful family and friends for sticking with me and putting up with me. While writing this book I wasn’t around as much as I would have liked to have been. Your patience and encouragement keeps me writing.
To my awesome street team, Glenna’s Beautiful Strangers, you ladies are amazing. Thank you so much for being so supportive.
My amazeballs author friends, I love all of you ladies to bits. Morgan, Scarlett, Saoching, Rachel, Sofie, Liz, Nickie, Janice, Devon, K.N. Lee and Brooke you ladies are my rock stars.
My super blogging lovelies— Books Coffee and Wine, Obsession is A Book, Tabby’s Tantalizing Reviews, Romance Addiction, Book Fanatic Roni, Honesty About Books, Two Friends Read Along with Us and Mommas Secret Book Obsession— a huge thank you for all that you do to support Indie Authors.
If I have left anyone out I apologize there are so many of you I’d never be able to list you all.
Table of contents
Acknowledgements
Preface
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles by Glenna Maynard
Preface
“You are perfect in every way my beautifully broken rose, I am going to put you back together.”
Chapter 1
August
I have lived in Cold Creek Falls, a small town located on the border of Kentucky and West Virginia my whole life. It is a beautiful place to live. Beautiful hill tops and winding country roads surround our scenic town, located in the outskirts is the falls that overlook the majestic lake that our town is named after. Cold Creek Falls is large enough that you don’t exactly know everyone by name, but small enough that everyone knows your business. It is comforting and highly annoying all in the same.
I love the different shades of the tree leaves in the fall as they begin to turn. That is one thing I will miss the most, the beautiful shades of orange, yellow and red. I have always loved to watch the leaves as they dance in the wind. They are so free for a moment and then they die. Just like Harlan.
As a child I use to play a game, blowing kisses in the wind… When the wind would blow and the leaves would fall, I’d try to catch them before they touched the ground. If you succeeded in catching them, you would get a kiss from your crush. I would spin in circles trying to grab them all, giggling about how many kisses from all of the cute school boys I would receive.
But I am no longer a child, and the time for childish things to be put away has come. No longer am I an innocent girl chasing after foolish boys. Now I am not a woman per say but a young lady I suppose who is haunted by the memories of her youth, her first love and longing to be set free…
I knew the moment I learned that my love died and I lived, I would follow him as soon as I had the chance…
I slice the razor on the inside of my upper thigh and I feel nothing as the blood trickles down my leg. I would love to feel anything but the pain Harlan’s death has left me with, but most days I can’t. I haven’t been able to since the day of the accident. Since the words were spoken. The words I don’t dare speak of. The words no one else seems to speak of either in this town.
I press the razor further in my flesh, and still nothing but a steadier stream of blood flowing from the cut. Some days I think I would give anything just to feel the slightest tingle of my former life — my life before the accident. I used to be so happy — carefree — ready to take on the world.
The blood continues to trail down my leg. Turning the shower on I wait for the water to warm. I take the nozzle and run it over my wound to stop the bleeding. I always cut myself in the same spot — I refuse to let it heal.
I usually only cut myself when the dreams come. I can go days without them, but as the anniversary of Harlan’s death approaches, I find the dreams come more frequently.
The dreams are always the same. I am back at the falls with Harlan and then it happens — the accident that claimed the life of my boyfriend, my love.
I can’t recite the words it hurts too much. The memory is unbearable, but I carry it with me as a reminder that it was real, Harlan was real. Everyone —my Gram, my doctor — wants me to forget him and move on. But I can’t. I feel him in my bones; he is very much apart of me.
I visit the falls almost every morning to feel close to him. Some days I can hear him whisper my name when the wind blows. He calls for me like a siren to join him in the water. If I look hard enough, I can still see the ghost of him standing on the edge of the cliff, catching my kiss.
I massage the shampoo gently into my scalp, wishing I could scrub the painful memory from my brain, but how can I forget the one thing that has forever changed me?
His body was discovered the following day — the day after the accident, about three miles from the falls — near the fishing docks. I shudder as I recall the memory of Gram telling me that the dive team had recovered his body from the lake.
I spent six months on the third floor of the local hospital — a mental institution. My Gram had me put there when she caught me trying to overdose on her sleeping pills. I didn’t even get to go to the funeral. We never had our goodbye, Harlan and me. Some days I wonder had I been able to go and properly tell him goodbye if I would feel differently about it all. Probably not, it wouldn’t bring him back.
I rinse the last of the conditioner from my hair. The shower is the best place to think, I could stand here reminiscing inside my brain four hours if the hot water would last and if my skin wouldn’t prune…
At first I was convinced it was all just a bad dream that I wasn’t waking from. My Harlan, the only person I have ever felt a connection to, couldn’t be dead, and leaving me here alone. After two months in therapy I finally started talking to my doctors. But all they wanted to do was dissect my brain and keep me drugged up. Who would find grey walls with peeling paint therapeutic—and hearing screams in the night of the mentally incompetent who are haunted by their own sickness? How is a place like that suitable for one to recover from post traumatic stress?
Being surrounded by the truly insane was traumatic enough, without the ever painful thera—rape—me sessions. The doctors constantly ordering me to talk about the things I couldn’t dare speak of aloud. It was weeks before I could even say his name
and the word dead within the same sentence. Harlan and dead just don’t sound right together in my head, and hearing those two words leave my lips sounds — improper.
There was a boy who claimed that every time he looked at his family all he could see were visions of himself cutting their bodies into pieces. So logically that information had me scared that when he was staring at me during our group session that he was thinking of slicing and dicing me too.
My favorite was the girl who was convinced she was a witch and we —everyone — was out to get her. She was convinced she was being kept in the hospital so they could run scientific experiments on her and that the staff had placed magical wards all around to stop her from using her powers. She was always hoarding packets of salt, said she was going to save them up until she had enough to put herself in a protective circle. At least she was entertaining. I tried to stay on her good side, you know incase she were a witch.
Eventually I made friends with a woman who had been in and out of the third floor her whole life — she taught me how to work the doctors and give them what they wanted so I could be released — released from the torment of bearing witness to that place and the horrors that waited within those walls. Being subjected to the hospital did nothing for me, if anything it made me worse. How could I not become insane myself, being surrounded by people like that? I just wanted to die — to see my love one last time, I didn’t belong there.
Did I mention that the hospital is where I spent my senior year, and they say high school is the time of your life? Not like I missed out on much, I wouldn’t have wanted to go to school, but being home schooled would have been a hell of a lot better than taking my courses in the institution.
Smoothing my brush through my hair I am reminded of my childhood, and growing up with my Gram. She would brush my hair every night to relax me. Some days I wish I could return to my younger days — maybe I would have done things differently — or maybe not. I think everyone has a set path in life that some choices no matter how big or small they are they can not alter the path chosen for you.
I moved into my own apartment and registered for college. I couldn’t take my Gram hovering and waiting for my next breakdown. I know she was doing it with love, but I couldn’t bear the pain in her eyes — the disappointment her wrinkled face held. She was always watching me, making sure I am eating what she deems as enough. Making sure I am getting enough fresh air, and not spending too much time locked away from society in my room.
Partly I think she felt relieved to have me out of the house. None of her friends would come around while I was home. I serve as a permanent reminder to everyone here of what I stole from them. They think I tarnished the town’s perfect record of being chosen as one of the top twenty safest university towns. Like any of that really matters in the grand scheme of life, there are bigger things to worry about, like starving children.
Besides Clara Rose is just one of them grandmas who thinks that I can do no wrong. She raised me, even named me Bella Rose. She has always claimed I was her beautiful rose. But that was before I became involved with Harlan. Gram always warned me to stay away from Harlan Rivers.
She would say to me “Bella Rose, don’t be messing with them Rivers boys’. Everything they touch turns to shit.” I suppose in a way she was right. Since the day of the accident my life has been shit and Harlan had touched me many times. Harlan was known to be a trouble maker, him and his brother — Nolan, but their daddy always paid their way out of everything.
Gram has begged me to move back home with her, says she doesn’t like living alone — she worries about me too much. She got along just fine without me when I was in the hospital. Which reminds me while I was in the hospital someone broke into my doctor’s office and stole my patient file.
Someone would also leave paper daisies on my pillow every night, my roommate always swore it wasn’t her and I was afraid the doctor would think I was doing it myself, so I hid the flowers in my pillow case. When I left the hospital I brought the flowers with me, they comfort me. I always thought the paper flowers were a sign from Harlan, but maybe they weren’t. I am not sure, but I was afraid they would accuse me of having hallucinations so I have never mentioned them to anyone. There are days when I can sense Harlan’s presence all around me, my doctors thought I was seeing things and upped my medication the one time I was honest with them about it.
Like all good actresses I put on a great show of being eager to go off to college and start the rest of my life. I attended registration like a good girl and signed up for all the basic required courses for an undecided major such as myself. It really is a shame — Cold Creek University has a beautiful campus. It is a smaller private university, but it really is top rated. Thankfully due to my situation I am able to live off campus.
I can see the appeal of lounging under the shade trees between classes or having my lunch there. But there is the looming feeling of being unwanted and I feel like someone is always watching me. Most days it’s my paranoia, but on rare occasion I can see Harlan staring back at me.
I can see the perks of having a roommate — living in a dorm — having the true college experience, but it is best that I live on my own. Between my nightmares and my problem with authority everyone is better off with me living in my own space.
The town council was afraid parents wouldn’t want to send their kids to school here, because of the accident, and they certainly wouldn’t want them rooming with the resident crazy — they — the good townsfolk of Cold Creek did their best to sweep it all under the rug and keep the story from spreading. I am sure they would have stopped me from enrolling if they could. My advisor had the balls to suggest I attend school out of state.
He says it is because he is concerned about my well being and that a new start in a new town could be the best medicine. Yeah he is afraid all right — afraid that students will be scared to go to class with a supposed murderer. (Some people actually had the nerve to say I pushed Harlan into the water.)
But what they don’t know is I never plan to attend. I just need everything to go according to plan, for my Gram’s sake. She has tried so hard to insure that I get better, but I don’t want to. But I don’t ant to leave this life and leave her feeling like she somehow messed up, because she has went above and beyond. I have it all worked out perfectly. I will be reunited with my Harlan soon.
I found the perfect spot to end it all. I plan to jump off the bridge that overlooks Cold Creek Falls. There is no way I can survive the drop into the chilly water. Call me crazy, everyone else does, but I have been training my body not to fight the water as it invades my lungs, but to accept it willingly. I wish to be reunited with Harlan in death, even if it is only for a brief moment. I would give anything to see him one more time — to really see him. I mean I see him but it is like a shadow of him, like a flickering candle.
The apartment I live in is perfect for me. It is a one bedroom, one bath, with an eat in kitchen. My decor is non existent. I have a small sofa and my basic bedroom furniture that Gram let me bring from her place. There aren’t any photos lining my walls, I keep all of my pictures in boxes now. I used to love photography until the day of the accident. But now every time I look through the lens of my camera I see Harlan tumbling to his death.
The carpet isn’t the best, it’s blue utility carpet, but at least they had just had it laid when I moved in. They renovated the whole building actually, so the walls have fresh coats of white paint, and the appliances are new, even the toilet is new. The thought of sitting on someone else’s toilet is just gross — to me it is anyways. Even though they said it was new, I still had to buy a new seat for it. I wanted a padded one anyways. Who wants to sit on a hard, cold seat first thing in the morning? I don’t.
I don’t care much about the kitchen; I don’t have to do much cooking, other than heating up the leftovers I bring from my Grams. But it still makes me feel good to have a nice, new, clean kitchen to eat in. And I eat in a lot. I can’t stand to go out to a re
staurant in town to be stared at, or having someone come over to me to tell me they are sorry. It is a bit creepy and awkward coming from complete strangers.
My old room at my Gram’s used to be littered in photos. I had them taped and stuck to every inch of my walls. It drove Gram crazy — said I was depreciating the value of the house and that it looked tacky. It’s not like I had a lot of people coming over to see my room. I had friends I guess, well more like acquaintances really if you want to get technical about it. I just don’t connect well kids my age, well other than Harlan. But he didn’t always seem to get me either. Have you ever been right next to someone and still felt like you couldn’t reach out and touch them. That is what my life with Harlan was like, but he was the best thing I never had.
My Gram has always said I am wiser than my years. Maybe I am or maybe it comes from being raised by an old southern woman who had already raised her own child by the time she took custody of me. Either way I have a hard time connecting with people and making real friends. There is something lacking inside of me, I can’t form an emotional bond with anyone except Harlan, and he’s gone.
**
I’m not sure what I was thinking when I signed up for a photography for beginners class. Not like I need to worry about it though — not like I plan on actually attending my classes. Part of my therapy was trying to get me back into photography. I just couldn’t do it. I do good to pick my camera up, but to actually think of trying to use it again makes me physically sick.
I still have to see my therapist once a week. The word therapist in itself perturbs me. I mean it has the word rapist in it and isn’t that what a therapist does, rapes your mind. They intrude upon your inner most secrets and feelings, even when you say no, they keep prying and pushing. I roll the word around on my tongue, I hate it.
My current doctor isn’t one of my doctor’s from the hospital; there is no way I would willingly agree to see one of those quacks. They didn’t really care about helping me; they were there to collect a check and dole out meds.
I'm with You Page 1