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HJ Bellus
Kathy Coopmans
Contents
TRIGGER WARNING
Prologue
1. Amelia
2. Zeke
3. Zeke
4. Amelia
5. Amelia
6. Zeke
7. Amelia
8. Zeke
9. Amelia
10. Zeke
11. Amelia
12. Zeke
13. Amelia
14. Zeke
15. Amelia
16. Zeke
17. Amelia
18. Zeke
19. Amelia
20. Zeke
21. Amelia
22. Zeke
23. Amelia
24. Zeke
25. Amelia
Epilogue
Bonus Scene Bonus Scene
Acknowledgments
About The Authors
TRIGGER WARNING
This book contains graphic violence and talks in detail about rape. If these are triggers or in any way are not for you, please know that we ask to you read at your own risk.
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Copyright © 2017 by Torrid Timbre Press
Edited by: Julia Goda, Diamond in the Rough Editing
Cover Designer: Just Write Creations
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of HJ Bellus.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To the hitchhikers who started this crazy journey with us. Your heart, dedication, and drive shock us on a daily basis. There will never be enough “thank yous”.
Prologue
Counting. It’s what I do. It numbs my mind, dulls the pain, and is my only saving grace on the nights they choose to enter my room. Counting reminds me there’s an end to the pain. Whether it be the proverbial sheep, a bright orange sunrise, or a colorful mixture of pinks, reds, and shaded hues sunset. It always seems to help.
Devastation settles in whenever I’m finished counting, they leave, the door clicks shut, and my body has been abused. But there’s silence in my room, no counting in my head and no peace left in my mind. I’m visibly numb. A little bit of heaven in this hell I live in.
The nights my door doesn’t open are few and far between anymore. I lie there afraid to sleep, afraid to close my eyes. Those are the days I wish I would die.
You see, I may be a young woman, but I’m smart in certain ways, far from an idiot. The older I get, the more they want me. My breasts are growing larger, my legs longer, and me blossoming into an adult is the carrot dangling in front of their faces. I’m trapped. A young girl who is living a nightmare inside of a place called home.
Mom: Good night, Sweetie
My fingers hover over my cell phone. I want to tell her ‘When is it ever a good night, morning, or day?’ Except, I don’t. I never do and I never will. I throw my phone down on my bed. My own mother can’t even be a mom by popping her head in the door and telling her only child good night. She knows what happens in here, always turns a blind eye and a deaf ear. Denial is an easier pill to swallow than facing the brutal truth. Secrets and lies are all around me, and I am suffocating to death. She barely speaks to me anymore. The greed has consumed her, taken over her life. Her social status, her diamonds, and her money mean more to her than what happens to her daughter. I'll never forgive her, in the same way I’ll never forgive them or myself.
Looking over at the calendar on my desk, I’m tempted to count down the days until I turn eighteen.
The evil souls are filling my brain, screaming that it will jinx me, because counting down from one thousand means being raped by my stepbrother and stepfather. Sometimes both at the same time. Sometimes one or the other. I’m not sure what is more embarrassing. The fact I’m raped night after night, or that I’m too scared to talk or run. To tell anyone what they’ve done. What I continue to allow them to do.
My stepbrother is four years older than me and following every step in life his father has taken. An evil bastard and his look-alike spawn.
Only six more months until I turn eighteen. Holding on is so important, because I need to graduate high school. It’s my only option in life. My key to escaping this prison. I used to have straight As; now I’m barely passing. Just another thing my mother doesn’t care about. I was overly active in extracurricular activities; my favorite was art class. God, how I loved to draw, paint, and throw those spectacular colors across a blank white canvas and turn it into something I was proud of. That all changed the moment my door creaked open one night. It was their first of many visits. I’d thought my world ended that night when they ripped me wide open and left me bleeding and raw.
I had no clue what the future held for me from that point on. I still don’t know. I’m a shell of a girl. Existing in this world but barely coherent or logically alive.
I was twelve years old the first time my stepfather, Salem, crept into my room. Shook me awake and ripped my panties from my body. He pulled his dick from his pants, while his son's strong arms pinned me to my bed. He tore through my innocence as if he was pressing on the gas of one of his sports cars. Hard and fast. Laughing and carrying on. I screamed, cried, and begged for him to stop. He slapped me hard across my face. Placed his hand around my neck and choked me until my teeth clenched. Told me to shut my fucking mouth or the same thing would be done to my mother. I panicked. Then he urged his son, Dexter, to follow suit. A sixteen-year-old boy and his father coated me in their releases that night. All over my stomach. It escalated from there, going from terrible to worse. From heaven to hell. From happiness to wanting to die.
They threatened me. Spit in my face after they told me they would kill me. That my mother and I were insignificant in this world. Dirty white trash they picked up only to play with. To destroy. I listened to them. Afraid for my life. For my friends’ lives they threatened me with, too.
I had to protect them.
I tried going to my mother once, only to have her shut me down. For her to tell me I needed to try harder to get along with my newfound family and to quit trying to destroy her happiness. I pleaded with her to listen that I was telling the truth and it was her responsibility to protect me. She blew me off as quickly as the cold gust of the wind that swirled through my body from her denial. I have hated her from that day on.
I quit basketball a few years after that horrible night. Even though I was a sophomore on the varsity team and slated to get a full-ride scholarship to likely any university of my choosing. My grades declined. I no longer have my friends, and my appearance is hidden behind bulky clothes and fake glasses. Now, the only thing I look forward to is my eighteenth birthday. To run. To hide and get away from them all.
The door creaks open, and my blood freezes. I remain as still as possible in the bed I hate sleeping in, feigning slumber. It’s never stopped them before, but I always hope one night it will. My breathing shallows out, and I fight off the trembles threatening to attack my body. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Their heavy, quickened footsteps grow closer. Their hushed whispers are louder. The click of the door latching shut is a startling, loud, echoing sound around the room. There’s no need to lock it, because the sad fact is, no one in this house cares enough to stop them. Not even my own mother.
<
br /> A palm comes down hard on my shoulder, forcing me to roll over onto my stomach. Salem’s disgusting face smiling down at me as he flips me over is the only thing I can see through the darkness of my room. Bile rises up from my stomach. It coats the back of my throat. You’d think the more they attack me, the more I’d get used to it, but it’s the opposite. Each and every time nearly destroys me. Too much more of this, and I’ll never be able to run. I’ll be a mere ghost. A shadowless woman, and they will eventually kill me.
“Amelia, our pretty, pretty girl.” He unzips his pants and pulls out his dick, rubbing it along the seam of my lips.
I’ve never stopped fighting through all of this, and it pains me to understand why. Fear. Lack of trust. I really don’t know. I pull my head away only to be punished with my hair being ripped from the back of my scalp. This time he presses harder into my mouth. God, if I only had the courage to bite it off. It’s a difficult task to protect myself when my torturers are twice my size.
“Dexter. She’s being a little spitfire tonight,” Salem speaks and flicks on my light. Stares down at me with his seedy little eyes while he nods to his son.
Same game, different night. I don’t have to look to know that Dexter is obeying him like a well-trained animal, pulling his pants down and covering his cock with a condom. I squeeze my eyes shut and decide to count by sevens tonight.
7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42,49, 56, 63, 70,77, 84, 91, 98, 105, 112, 119, 126, 133, 140, 147, 154, 161, 168, 175, 182, 189, 196, 203...413.
The tears begin blurring my eyes. All my thoughts fade away. I’m breaking apart, spiraling down more and more with each visit. My brain refuses to count anymore. I’ve gone positively numb.
I open my eyes when suddenly I feel Salem’s seed run down my cheek. He’s cursing and swearing. Taken matters into his own hands by jacking himself off as he watches his son rape me with a sadistic smile on his face.
The fibers that were holding me together slowly begin to crumble. I fade. I lose all sense of reasoning. They’ve finally done it. They’ve broken me.
The numbness is over. The pain between my legs is raw, the brokenness of a once happy little girl is shattered. The tears are out of control, and I know what I have to do. I have to run. Tonight. There will be no high school diploma. No chance for a real life. It was all stripped away the day my mother married a monster.
1
Amelia
A hit of any kind of drug always does the trick. I need it, crave it, and my body begs to feel that pop of pure adrenaline as the drugs rush through my veins and excel the rapid speed of my heart.
My fingers begin to tremble out of control as I struggle to get the first pill down my throat. I swallow the little white capsule with no liquid to chase it. Dry as a motherfucking bone. The syringe lying next to me is dirty and bent, but I find a vein and shoot the drugs into my arm anyway. The cold brick wall meets my back as I sink down slowly with a smile. My ass landing on the damp, cracked floor of the smelly alley. The rush floods my body, taking away every ounce of my pain. Invisibly numb.
My head is light, the problems disappear, and I can finally close my eyes without being scared. I clutch the remaining handful of pills in my palm that is packed with meth knowing they’ll be gone in a day. Then I’ll be out on the streets, fighting to feel free once again. Free from life, free from hell, and free from being me. I simply want to die.
This is the only time I feel nothing. Emptiness is welcome. I don’t care anymore. Doesn’t matter that I live in an alley, fuck random strangers to get my next high, or steal food from the stores. None of it matters when I’m sedated. Floating.
A rare smile covers my entire face. I laugh out loud. Laugh harder and harder remembering the little girl who had hopes and dreams. She was gorgeous, perfect, and so full of love for living. Then hell came knocking on my door and took it all away. The reality of my life destroyed me. My own mother allowed it. I hope she’s as dead as I feel. Stupid fucking bitch.
My hands shake to the point I can barely hold the needle and the bag in my palms. I need more. Need more of this high to make every thought of them go away. I swallow two more pills and slowly feel their effect until I’m buzzing higher than I ever have before. This is it, I think as my mind allows me to soar through the sky while I pretend I can fly. My hands spread wide. My body is slumping sideways, and I can’t stop it. The grimy, cracked asphalt slows me down when the side of my head smacks onto the hard surface, but I’m too high to care or even notice. Bleed, bitch, bleed.
Tiny streams of blood flow into the dirty puddle of water. It’s coming from my body, and I don’t even care. No one else does, so why should I?
Chatter from the opening of the alleyway catches my attention. Gazing up, I see the man who always walks into the fancy restaurant at nighttime. My vision is blurred, so I squint my eyes. I think it’s him, even though I can’t be sure.
He’s always in a pressed suit. His dark hair shiny, a brilliant watch on his wrist. I’ve never seen a man sexier in my life. I bet he treats women nice. Respects them and shows them a good time.
The deep rumble of his voice always soothes my soul. Whenever I see him, I study the hand his watch sits on for multiple reasons. The first being, it’s always perched low on the back of a gorgeous woman. Sometimes, there’s a blonde like me with long, wavy hair, other times a brunette with a short, classy haircut, or an auburn beauty with flowing curls. The women who all have long, sleek, muscular legs remind me of a person I used to want to be. The one who was in love with painting and basketball and had a passion for all the girly stuff in the world. I could be her. Could. Possibly. Maybe.
The other reason I adore that arm so much is because of the watch. It’s thick, black, and lined with assorted colors. It screams money. Lots and lots of money. Money equals a high. Being high means a numb state where I don’t remember the way their bodies moved in and out of mine or the come they’d coat me in for their sick pleasure. Money. I need money, because the woman I could have been never had the chance to exist.
The man cranes his neck to peer down the dark alley. His face is blurry, but I know it’s him. He can’t see me even though his dark whiskey pools bore holes through my tainted, barely-there soul. My fingers stretch out wanting to wrap around that watch. To grab hold of his hand for help, and yet I can’t move, can’t speak. Can’t flex my fingers to grab hold of anything. Invisibly numb.
I rarely talk out loud at all. There’s enough of it going on inside my head. I don’t have to speak to the drug dealers who supply me with my fix. They know what I need, and they give it to me gladly. But even my drugs come with a price. Sex, blowjobs, or walk the streets and sell a bag here, a bag there. They know as well as I do I’m as honest as they come out on these streets. Or rather, used to be. Doesn’t mean a thing to me anymore. Nothing does. My life is a dead-end road. No U-turns, no yield, and definitely no stop sign.
This time I stole a little extra. I’ve never cheated or crossed Ricky until now. Needed it to get through the rest of today. It’s my twenty-first birthday. A day of celebration. So, instead of celebrating with family and friends the way I should be, I’m out here doing it up big time with my good friends Crystal and Meth.
It’s nice when Ricky, my favorite dealer, the one I stole from, lets me take a shower, tosses me a clean pair of jeans or one of his T-shirts to wear before he slaps on a condom, shoves my face into the mattress, and takes me from behind. At least I’m clean until he sends one of his men in their fancy cars to seek me out to either give me what I need or advise me to move my ass to deal around town.
This man, though, the one who drives a fancy car, wears expensive clothes, and the watch… He wouldn’t give me the time of day. Never would a man like him give a pitiful excuse for a human a glance. He’d let me rot.
Tonight, the mystery man must be dining at Maggiano's alone. I squint my eyes in order to peer through my drugged mind and watch him chat with the valet driver, toss him his keys, and walk through the s
winging doors not once looking back my way.
I sigh, smiling once again as the smell of garlic and herbs assault my nose. Oh, I’ve eaten their delicious food before. The baked lasagna, bread toasted with butter and garlic, and raspberry pannacotta are my favorites. They seem to be everyone else’s, too, as those three are rare to find when digging through the dumpster on the side of the building. The only way I dine. Unless you call the stolen candy bars, pop, or chips here and there dining.
The smell wafts through my nose once again, and even though my mind is telling me I’m not hungry, I push my rickety body up anyway. I sway, stagger, and catch my footing before I stumble to the ground.
“Oh, shit,” I say, laughing when I look down at the saving grace in my hands. I can’t walk out of this alley and across the street with this. Well, I could, but jail isn’t any better than the streets, and I sure as shit am not leaving it here, either. I shove it down the pocket of my baggy jeans and use the wall to guide me out from the confines of my alley. The place I’ve slept, pissed, shit, and gotten so high in I don’t remember my name until I wake up the next morning chilled to the bone.
The bright white light of the late afternoon shines down on my pale skin. “God, my life is a mess, but fuck it all to hell, because I feel good right now,” I mumble. I might be higher than the sun, fucked up in every way a person can be, but I’m not stupid. I know I’m a mess. I know people are looking at me like the scum I am as I stumble my crack-headed self to the opening of the alleyway, filthy, bloodied, and all.
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