Bent: A Love's Complicated Novel Read online

  Bent

  A Love’s Complicated Novel

  Hollis Wynn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Hollis Wynn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].

  First paperback edition December 2018

  Cover: The Coverist by Ande

  Photography: Eric Battershell

  www.holliswynn.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  One Last Letter

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  To Lana

  Thank you for being my person - for reminding me that quitting isn’t an option

  and forgiveness starts inside.

  Introduction

  I’m breaking myself in order to save myself.

  It sounds a bit cliché—even as I think this to myself—but it’s true. Sometimes, in order to move on, we have to break the binds that hold us in place. This isn’t a conscious decision, but one forced upon me. It’s like the Robert Frost quote: “Two roads diverged in a wood and I—I took the one less traveled, and that has made all the difference.” This is my time to decide which road to take. The one where I have a clear definition of where it goes or the one that leads me to world of unknown experiences.

  A world full of life.

  Death does that for us. It gives us an out. The decisions are easier because there is one less person to think of when we are weighing the pros and cons of what comes next. This time my decision is simple: I choose me.

  For the first time ever, I choose myself. I have to—I don’t have any choices left if I want to survive life. My life. It’s scary, but it’s true.

  Fear and anxiety may run rampant through my body, but I’m a survivor. Failure’s never been an option for me and I won’t allow it to be one now.

  Today may be goodbye, but it’s also hello.

  Hello to my future.

  Hello to freedom.

  Hello to a new and better me.

  Prologue

  “AHHHHHHH! I HATE YOU!!”

  The weight of my body is too heavy to hold up anymore. I bang my fists against the dirty, gray wall as I fall to the floor in the kitchen of the empty house that I grew up in. Hate isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel but it’s all I can come up with at this moment.

  I hate my mother. I hate everything she stood for—or didn’t—in her life. I hate that she loved herself more than she loved me. I hate that she was what my friends parents called a slut and a drunk. I hate that growing up in a small town those monikers don’t change—even after twenty years.

  I just hate her.

  So, this is my last letter.

  Dear Mom,

  Today I’ve said my final goodbye to you. I put on my best black dress and a pair of heels from your closet. I made sure my makeup’s classy not trashy, as you always told me, and brushed my hair until it’s shiny and soft. Mrs. Scott was kind enough to drive us in her old Cadillac to the cemetery. The day’s been hot, muggy and full of sun. I expected my makeup to go to shit quickly, but then no one really cares; they expect me to be a bit of a mess. I’m an orphan now.

  Mrs. Scott and I made a deal with the cemetery. They are going to allow us one hour before your body is placed in the ground to say our final goodbyes. Who knew that burials were so expensive? Thankfully they have an area set aside that was previously for unclaimed bodies, and allowed me to pay only a small fee for the space. I laughed when I realized the plot isn’t under a shade tree or in a field of flowers but in a field next to the landfill. Seems appropriate now, doesn’t it?

  In my gut, I know that most people would feel extreme sorrow, on a day like today. Maybe they would even cry and hug the person next to them.

  Not me.

  I have no idea how to explain my feelings to you, nor do I think I should, but I do know I’m full of anger, hatred and even relief. On one hand, I want to tell you I’m sorry. But the reality is that I feel such an enormous amount of hatred and relief that the ‘sorry’ isn’t there.

  As of today, I no longer have to be your parent. No longer do I have to sacrifice my life to take care of you, feed you, bathe you or even pay your bills. I know this sounds wrong, Mom, but I’m tired.

  I’ve loved you my whole life, Mom. You’re my blood, the only parent that I’ve ever known. However, the older I’ve become, the more I’ve learned that I could love you and not like you or respect you.

  You see, for years I’ve lied to you. I know you had dreams for me, Mom, like I had dreams. But your dependence on me to be your parent hurt me. I didn’t know until recently that I may have had options rather than being your caretaker, living in this one-horse town and surviving.

  You see, Mom, there is so much more to life. So. Much. More.

  There’s a great big world and I want to see it. I want to travel and experience so much more than what’s here. You left me no option to do that though, didn’t you? I called Mrs. Scott last week to help me with the arrangements and she told me that you gave her an envelope to give me when it was time.

  No note. Nothing.

  Maybe I’d hoped you would tell me you loved me, but no, a deed to the house that didn’t even have your name on it. Really, Mom? You didn’t even own this house? UGH!

  I guess I should let go and move on. It’s hard because I hate you. I hate you!

  You didn’t even respect me as your adult daughter to tell me anything of substance. But yet, when I was eight years old, you expected me be the adult, to pay the bills, and even haul you out of the local bar when you couldn’t get yourself home.

  I guess I can thank you for teaching me responsibility. You may not have been the best mom, but you did teach me to always take care of others.

  So today, when Mrs. Scott and I stand over your casket, I will allow myself to feel anything and everything. Whether it’s hatred, peace, anger, frustration, sadness or a combination—I’m going to feel. Because this life is over.

  Life as I know it is over.

  I truly hope you’re no longer suffering, because I’m not going to allow myself to suffer another day at the hands of anyone else. The rest of my life is up to me. It may not be easy, but it will be amazing. B
ecause I won’t let it be anything but full of magic!

  Carrigan

  I’ve read this letter half a dozen times since I finished writing it, hoping it’s the last one I write to my mother. The hot pink-covered notebook adorned with stickers holds the secrets to my soul. A written sanctuary where I expose my emotions in letter form yet hide them from the world. For years when I was angry or frustrated, I purged my demons onto the pages and hid them here, where they’ve become both darkness and light.

  Placing the notebook on the edge of the table, I walk through the house one last time, the place that I called home for so many years. The carpet is so dirty it’s almost black, even though I spent many hours like a scullery maid attempting to clean the vomit and other random fluids out of it, to no avail. Once white, the walls are now a dingy yellow from Mom’s smoking, and when I took what few photos I wanted off the walls, the stains were more apparent.

  I’ve already cleaned out all of her personal effects with the only thing left being the furniture I’m not taking to my new life. I may not know where I’m going yet, but I’m not staying here. Tears slip from my eyes as I stare at the twin-sized bed in my room. I’m not sure how to control my emotions. Even though I’m angry with my mom and ready for a change, the unknown is terrifying.

  Sliding down the wall, I concede to the tears. My shoulders shake and the sobs consume me. I permit myself to experience the feelings of fear and terror of the future for a few minutes before giving myself a pep talk.

  “Okay, Carrigan, you’ve got this. Tomorrow you start the rest of your life. Find the magic. Feel the love. You’re a strong woman. You can do this.”

  I grab my box of memories and head for the door. One quick stop at the flower shop and I’m ready for whatever comes next. A new adventure. A new me.

  1

  The line at the train station is insane. There are people everywhere and luggage piled up in corners. Apparently, this isn’t like flying with all the drama you hear about on television when heading to the airport. I walked in, bought a ticket, in cash, and strode to the line for boarding. My location of choice was strictly based on time of departure and how well I could blend in upon arrival. Chicago here I come.

  My suitcases are piled against the windows in a corner overlooking the tracks. Leaning against the window, I sit with my legs crossed. A giant tote sits in my lap that holds my most important possessions: my eReader, my old cell phone and a letter from Mrs. Scott. When she dropped me off, she handed me a letter, and my heart broke with hers. It was heartbreaking to see her cry, but she knows I need a change; I need to find myself. Staring at the envelope, I visualize the exchange with her.

  “Carrigan, you know I love you. I’m so thankful for the time I’ve been able to spend with you.” She hugs me with all her might. “This is for you. Please don’t open it until you’ve decided where you’re going and on the train.” With a deep breath, she says to me “Know that I’m here for you always.”

  I want to open the letter now while I’m waiting, but I promised her I’d wait until I was on the train. An Amtrak employee comes over the loudspeaker and tells us two minutes until boarding on track D. I stand up, toss my bag over my right shoulder and reach for my two second-hand suitcases. They’re ugly with their dull flowered print covered in stains, but they’re mine. I heft them up because, unlike most of the people in line, these don’t have wheels.

  The line moves quickly and I find myself apologizing to the people around me as I attempt the escalator like the bag lady. Little do they know, I am homeless, and the train is going to be my home until I make some serious decisions about my life. I’ve saved some money throughout the years that’s not much, but hopefully enough to get me started.

  The conductor is kind enough to help me onto the train with my suitcases. Even though he helped me, it didn’t slow down the line of people behind me murmuring “hurry up” and a variety of swear words.

  I make it to the nearest set of seats where there is no one sitting yet. Heaving one suitcase into the seat next to me, I plop into the seat by the window and pull the other suitcase into the leg room of the other seat. Sweat runs down my neck as I flop into the seat with a loud humph. I am worn out.

  Obviously, my blonde roots are showing because I’ve blocked myself in and now I can’t move at all. What if I need a bathroom break? I stand up and look around. The car still seems pretty empty and I’m glad. The idea of having to talk to someone right now is a bit daunting. One hard push and suitcase one is in the aisle. I look around for a storage place and then realize that it is above my head.

  “Do you need some help?” I turn around and notice the same conductor from the platform.

  “Can you show me where to stow these?” By now, I’m overwhelmed, sweaty and it’s showing on my face.

  “Sure. On the train, we stow all luggage above the seats.” He points up. Thankfully I’m tall enough to reach the overhead racks, but I’ve packed my life in these bags and they are heavy.

  He picks up each one and slides them carefully into the storage compartment above my seat with the handles out.

  “Just ask someone to help you when you get to your stop. The handles are facing out for easier pull,” he says. “But don’t stand in your seat or you’ll have a banged-up head.” His laugh is full and loud.

  “Thank you, sir.” I smile at him.

  “No problem. You remind me of my daughter and I hope someone would be kind enough to help her if she ever needs it.” Then he is gone.

  I fling my weary body into my seat and lean against the window. This is the beginning of after. Life after mom. Life after Barron Falls. It’s both frightening and exhilarating to know that I have the ability to make my own decisions for my life. Even though I’ve never been much of a dreamer because reality was scary enough, for the first time, I want to. I want to dream, explore and find my place in the world.

  Turning my head, I stare at the landscape of the area. I’m leaving behind the broken-down buildings and the high grass that lines the railroad track and Barron Falls. This is all I know, but I can’t wait to see what the city will hold.

  The train whistle blows and we’re off. Next stop: New York Penn Station.

  The time flies as I watch the Hudson River pass by in a flash, while we soar through the Catskills. The landscape is so green and lush. I know it won’t be long before fall will be upon the area and the colors will be vibrant and full of life. Then comes winter, where the world seems to go to sleep and is covered by a snow-white blanket sparkling with crystals.

  Soon the landscape turns to cityscape as we come into the outskirts of New York City. Buildings and traffic surround the tracks and can be seen from every vantage point. The noise of the train drowns out the city but it’s obvious where we are.

  We’ve entered the dark zone of an underground city of tracks. Walls are full of graffiti with tracks that lead to and from Gotham. The city that never sleeps has a whole separate underground world where the day folks travel back and forth, and the night dwellers hide from the lights of the city.

  The stop at Penn Station is only fifteen minutes. If I disembark and miss the train, I’ll have to buy another ticket and I don’t want to waste that much money. Not to mention we are supposed to take all our luggage with us. I’ll use the toilet while we’re stopped. Who knows how long it will be before I’m brave enough to do that again.

  I’ve watched enough Law & Order to know that New York harbors some scary things. Murders, drug dealing and kidnapping seems to be a portion of the things for which this city is known. They also have food and fashion and finance. I giggle at my joke of everything starting with the letter f.

  I open the door after a quick bathroom break and wash up, and there are already people filing onto the train. My feet start moving at a rapid pace toward my seat before someone can claim the seat next to me and I have to share my seat for the next twenty-eight hours.

  Settling back down, I notice a handsome man coming down the aisle t
oward me. His dark brown hair, intense midnight blue eyes and strong jaw make it hard for me to look away. The blue checkered button down, with the sleeves rolled up, show off strong forearms. It’s the perfect combination with his dark jeans. As he strides past my seat, we make eye contact and I feel myself blush. I immediately look down to my lap when butterflies take over my stomach, a foreign feeling where I feel out of control. Unsure of what to do, I shake my head in an attempt to get rid of the rush felt from this gorgeous stranger. My whole-body shudders. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  I reach into my bag for my eReader that will serve as a good distraction. My secret obsession is alpha men and heroines in distress. Since my life is full of anything but mystery and fun, I gravitate toward reading romantic suspense. The more suspense the better. But there is nothing wrong with a romantic comedy thrown in the mix to bring some levity to my life.

  While working at the flower shop for Mrs. Scott, the tendency to meet men was great. Married. Head over heels in love. Even the cheaters. Not any of the types I wanted. My ideal man is one who looks at me with stars in his eyes and has aspirations of living a life full of exploration, laughs and love.