E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

“You’re going to watch.” He tightens his arm around my stomach and brings his other hand to my face, keeping it steady.

Brooke tries to fight. Her fingers dig into the side of one man’s face, but it only pisses him off. Groaning, he closes a fist and plows it into her nose. Blood gushes out as her head smacks into the ground.

“NO!” I buck, trying to break free. No. No. No.

The one who punched her tears her dress open and laughs. He laughs! How could he be enjoying this? The other man pins Brooke’s hands over her head. Her panties and bra are torn off.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I want to throw up.

I shut my eyes tight.

Grunts from him. Cries from her. She continues to fight. Another crunch of her bones, cracking from a blow. More groaning. More punches. More cries.

“My turn,” the other says excitedly. There’s shuffling as they switch positions. And then the noises begin again.

Brooke cries.

I collapse into the evil man, my eyelids fixed shut. I never want to see again.

I can’t.

I can’t.

My stomach churns, bile rises up in my throat, and then I jerk, vomiting over and over again.

Then a heavy blow to the back of my head from my captor’s fist. “You fuckin’ cunt!” he spits out. “Don’t worry your little heart out. You’re next.”

Sobs escape me as I hear the two men take Brooke over and over again until her cries die down to whimpers. After they have their way with her, I’m tossed to ground, my shoes flying off in the process. I dig my fingers into the muddy grass, trying to grip onto something and pull myself up. A kick to my stomach forces all the air out of my lungs, and I collapse back to the ground.

Finally I have the courage to open my eyes. I choke over a sob when I see her. Brooke is to my right about an arm’s length away. I barely recognize her. Her face his drenched in blood. Her nose is brutally broken. Her cheekbones are so swollen she can barely open her eyes. Her breath wheezes. She tries to speak through her split, puffy lips. “Get…” she struggles.

I can hear my captor’s zipper pull open. “Help,” she manages. “Run,” she whispers.

Before I can respond, I’m dragged down by my feet, screaming out for help. But it’s not enough. I’m flipped over, and my back slams against the sodden, filthy ground. My attacker’s eyes are dark now as an evil smirk spreads along his face. One of the guys is over by Brooke, putting his pants back on. The other is on standby, keeping an eye out for anyone coming.

I hear Brooke’s words in my head over and over again. To run. To get help. My chest heaves and without hesitating, as the evil bastard bends at the knees, I lift my foot and kick him in the balls with as much strength as I can manage. He screams, grabbing his crotch, and I waste no time scrambling away from him to stand and run.

I dart through the graveyard, my lungs burning for air. I continue, pushing harder, one foot in front of the other. The rough terrain cuts my feet, but I keep going. I need to get help. I need to find help.

I can hear someone yelling behind me, a familiar voice. My captor. I sprint for my life, for Brooke’s life. I’m almost near the cemetery exit. I see the large black metal fence and a guard in a golf cart patrolling. I flail my arms, screaming and yelling as I keep going. A flash of light shines my way, reflecting through the heavy rain. It makes me scream louder, run harder. The guard sees me!

Then I slip and fall. My head bangs against a tombstone, splitting open as blood gushes down my eye. I can’t move. Everything is a daze. I try to get up, but I can’t. My eyes shift to the side. A tombstone inscribed with ‘Beloved Woman, Sister, and Friend’ swims before me. The letters fade into one another, and then a light. I squint and hear a voice asking me if I’m okay. The guard’s voice.

I shut my eyes and drift.

Logan

I cut off the ignition and lean back, staring out the windshield. I didn’t want to leave Jenna behind at my place all alone. It’s been two days since the dinner with her parents and the memory of what happened the night Brooke died resurfaced. When she told me what happened, in full-blown tears, I could barely understand anything she said. Her words were unintelligible.

After calming her down a bit, she was finally able to explain it to me. For the past two days, I’ve told her over and over again that none of what happened that night was her fault. There was nothing she could’ve done. But she feels if she’d never ran, the men wouldn’t have continued to beat Brooke to death out of anger that she got away. There was nothing I could do but hold her and allow her to shed all the tears she needed.

But yesterday she wouldn’t do anything. She wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t get out of bed. She wouldn’t watch TV. She stayed in bed with the blankets wrapped around her all day. Then last night, in the middle of the night, I found her on the bathroom floor, curled up in a ball by the corner. She was slamming her head back against the tile wall and mumbling to herself. When I approached her, it was like she snapped out of a trance and woke up. Then she burst into tears because she didn’t know how she’d gotten in there.

It fucking scared me. So much shit ran through my head after that. I watched her sleep. I wondered if she’d be okay if I left for work. Would she hurt herself? So this morning I packed up any and all sharp items—knives, tools, anything she could use to harm herself. I’m still on the fucking fence about it all. I shouldn’t have left her this morning.

Bryson storms down the driveway. He looks pissed off. I bunch my brows as he walks over to my truck, opens the door, and hops into the passenger seat. “What the fuck happened between you and the McDaniels?”

“What are you—”

“Don’t fuck with me, Logan. Mrs. McDaniel called Pop this morning in a rage. She was threatening not to pay the balance. When Pops told her that the job is ninety percent done and he’d take her to court if she doesn’t pay, she said fine. But she refuses to have you on her property. What happened?” he demands.

Fuck . I slam my head back, groaning.

“It’s all just one big fuckup. That’s what happened.”

“Well, tell me. Pop is pissed off right now.”

I run a hand over my face and sigh. I tell Bryson everything: about Jenna’s disorder; about how Blair isn’t a mega-bitch after all and Laura takes the fucking cake on that one; about how Brooke died and how Jenna was there. I tell it all.

“What the hell.” Bryson huffs.

“I know.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to take care of her.”

“Logan—”

“No. Before you give me this long spiel bullshit, I love her and that’s that.”

He sighs. “I know you want to help her, but she needs more help than just you. You can’t save her. It’s impossible. She’s sick, dude.”

“She’s fine.”

“Logan. We kept saying that Sean was fine, and look what happened. If you really want to help her, get her professional help.”

“I’m not fucking sending her off.”

He shakes his head, opens the door, and says, “I’ll talk to Dad about having you start on the Royersford place. At least you’ll have some work.”

I nod. Then he hops out and slams the door behind him.

Each day is unexpected. No matter how hard you try,

you can never prepare for the life ahead.