Damaged (The Damaged Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

The crash shatters the night, and I bolt upright in bed with my heart in my throat. Not even a second later, the yelling starts. It’s happening again. My heart hammers as the shouting builds downstairs. It’s been less than two weeks since the last time, so I guess we’re due.

I don’t need light to know what this is. My room is dark, but I’ve lived this nightmare enough to recognize the sound of destruction. Blinking fast, I silently will my eyes to adjust faster as shapes blur into focus, too slowly.

My legs are already moving before my brain can fully catch up.

I slide out from under the covers, bare feet hitting cold wood floors as I rush to check the lock on my bedroom door.

Still secure. A tiny sliver of relief slips through me, but I press my ear to the door just to be sure.

Muffled shouting filters through, anger boiling beneath the words.

It’s just muffled chaos with a few scattered words, but nothing useful.

Another crash rattles the walls, louder this time. My knees go weak.

On shaky legs, I creep to the window. The muggy air hits me as I slide it open.

With practiced precision, I climb out onto the roof and ease the window shut behind me.

The roof tiles are warm from the Arizona heat, and I inch along the slope until I reach my usual hiding spot.

I tuck myself behind the dormer and press firmly against the stucco siding.

I’m safe. For now.

A heavy thud hits my door.

“Open up, Little Lina! I know you’re in there!”

Joe. His voice is a mixture of rage and whiskey. He always calls me that. Little Lina. Like it’s some sick game. I curl tighter into myself, arms wrapping around my knees. I can practically see his face, all bloated and red, spitting with rage.

Sheriff Joe: the picture of small-town charm by day, absolute monster by night. No one would believe it. On paper, he’s perfect. On camera, even better. The husband who constantly dotes on his wife. The stepfather who treats his seventeen-year-old stepdaughter as his own.

Then, I hear Mom.

“Stop it, Joe!”

Her voice is thin and high and terrified. She used to be so strong. She still is, in her own way, but he breaks her more every day.

“Shut up, bitch! Why can’t you ever mind your own damn business?!”

I was ten when Joe came into our lives. For a while, he was everything I dreamed of in a father. Attentive, helpful, kind… he treated me like the daughter he never had. Picked me up from school. Sat front row at soccer games. Held me when I cried.

Then, I turned fourteen. He made sheriff. He started drinking more. He started changing. That’s when the real Joe showed up. The cruel one. The one who pushes my mom around until she reaches for a pill bottle just to cope.

Now, he’s the monster that lives inside our walls.

A sharp smack echoes to me followed by a heavy thump.

I stop breathing. I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing what that sound is. He backhanded her into the wall again. That’s his signature move. She stupidly followed him upstairs, which is always a bad call. She should’ve hidden like I did. Now, she’ll have a nasty bruise to cover over the next week.

Her low groan follows, allowing me to finally exhale. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. At least she’s still conscious, I guess. It might be better for her if she wasn’t.

The pounding on my door resumes, growing more frantic. Then, wood splinters. I hear him enter my room.

“Little Lina… come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The sing-song taunt curls in my stomach like spoiled milk.

What a sick fuck.

I hear him tearing the room apart. Drawers being yanked open, books tossed, furniture knocked over.

But I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t keep anything important in there anymore.

Once, he found the only baby pictures I had of my real dad and ripped them to shreds.

Then, he made me thank him for being the only “father I ever needed.” Oh, the irony.

Joe is the furthest thing from paternal.

I hold my breath and pray the shingles don’t creak beneath me.

He won’t find me. Not tonight.

Thankfully, the alcohol has him losing interest quickly. Slowly, too slowly, his footsteps retreat. He stomps back down the stairs, his rage trailing behind him like smoke. I don’t know if my mom goes with him or not. She may not be capable of standing after that nasty hit.

Silence returns, heavy and uncertain. I stay still, pressed against the wall, watching the stars. Tears slip down my cheeks. I let them. There’s no one here to see. No one to comfort me. No one to stop this.

I swipe at them roughly, angrily. I hate this. I’m so tired of being afraid. Of hiding. Of being the ghost of a girl who lives in this house but doesn’t really exist inside it. I want out. I want somewhere else… anywhere else… but that would mean telling someone the truth. And being believed.

I tried that once. Never again. Let’s just say that didn’t end well for me. So, I stay.

All night, I sit on the roof under the Arizona sky.

It’s safer out here than in there. This isn’t the first time I’ve slept under the stars, and it won’t be the last. If the neighbors have ever seen me, they’ve kept it to themselves.

I hope they always will. It’s an excellent hiding spot and I would hate to have it revealed.

Eventually, the horizon softens and the sky bleeds gold. The sun rises, same as it always does. New day, new beginning. Or whatever they say. But inside, I’m just as hollow as I was last night. Nothing’s changed. Nothing ever does.

Cautiously, I climb back through the window, stepping into the mess of my room. Everything is overturned. My bed. My desk. My books. I tiptoe through the destruction, careful not to make noise. There’s no time to clean. The mess will have to wait.

Vacant eyes stare back at me from the bathroom mirror as I scrub my teeth.

My reflection looks as terrible as I feel.

Puffy, red-rimmed eyes with purplish shadows underneath.

Blotchy, uneven skin from crying. I dab on some concealer followed by foundation.

It helps a little, but not enough. I look like what I am: a girl trying to survive. Oh, well.

Back in my room, I dig my phone, purse, and keys out of their usual hiding spot in the closet and make my way to the door.

I listen until I’m sure the hallway’s clear.

Then, I crack it open. No mom. No Joe. I tiptoe, shoes in hand, skipping the second-to-last stair that’s known to squeak.

As soon as I hit the front door, I bolt.

I don’t even bother to put on my shoes until I’ve turned the corner at the end of the block.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

I wind through the neighborhood, cutting across lawns and gravel patches. Ten minutes later, I reach my car, a beat-up, black Camry, parked a few streets over. I never park at home anymore. Joe’s blocked me in, physically standing in front of the car preventing my escape. This? This is safer.

I slide into the driver’s seat and double-check for my backpack in the back floorboard. Still there.

The first thing I do is drive to the nearest gas station. If I’m going to make it through the day, I’m going to need a large coffee and something sugary.

Inside, I fill a Styrofoam cup with steaming, caffeinated goodness.

Ping.

The chime of an incoming text echoes from my back pocket.

Mom: Where are you?

I frown. She’s awake? That’s... surprising. I snap on a plastic lid and type out a quick reply:

Me: omw to school. Why?

Her response is nearly instant.

Mom: Can you come back home for a few minutes? I need help.

Help? That word lands like a brick in my stomach. Help could mean anything. Is she hurt worse than usual? Is she unable to get out of bed? Or maybe she just can’t find her pills. Or her pride.

The truth is, I could go. I have time. I just don’t want to. Not today. Not again. I stare at my phone, jaw clenched. The longer I sit with it, the more the anger builds. She chooses this. She chooses him. Every. Single. Time.

My thumbs move before I can stop them.

Me: Sorry, can’t. Mr. Thomas is letting me come in early to make up a test. I’ll be home right after school.

I re-pocket my phone and head to the register, swiping my card for the coffee and donut I picked out. The chime of another incoming message echoes before I even reach my car, but I ignore it.

By the time I pull into the school parking lot, the sugar and caffeine are starting to work their magic. I finish the donut, licking the pink frosting from my fingers, then sigh and reluctantly check the text.

Mom: Please. I need you to come home.

I stare at the screen for a second. If she’s texting, she’s breathing. That’s good enough, for now. Mind made up, I set my phone to silent and slip it into my backpack before heading inside the red brick building. The world keeps turning. Mine just tilts further off its axis.