Broken Girl(39)

‘Please mom, please, I’m sorry.’ I cry as she continues to yell in my face. Her eyes are so dark, empty, as if some evil spirit possesses her soul, her expression is missing remorse. The alcohol she drinks feeds the monster she’s become while my father gives her the perfect excuse to be brutal.

‘Too late, the damage’s done! One f*cking mistake, a constant goddamn reminder of my biggest mistake.’ She slurs through her rage and blood tainted tears. The back of her hand meets my cheek, my head swings back, pain radiates through my jaw. The blood from biting my tongue rolls down the back of my throat in iron tinged waves. Her fist comes down over and over again against my cheek. I feel the cracking of my cheekbone, the gush of blood as it swells into my eye socket. My head falls against the pillow, I pull my hands over my face, as mom’s breathy criticisms keep tumbling from her mouth.

‘I’m sorry mom, ss . . . ssssooorryyyy,’ I cry across my palms. She’s relentless, and doesn’t stop hitting me until she’s physically worn out.

‘You are pathetic! Do you hear me . . . you’re an ugly, pathetic girl.’



My mother’s wicked voice bled and morphed into deep short huffs and grunts. Words she had sharpened and riddled with rage pulled me from the nightmare of when I was sixteen and the very last time my mother ever hit me. I forced myself to open my eyes, stinging with pain from the chill of the room; suddenly I recognized what the hell was really happening. Briggs was towering over someone’s body. His fist covered in blood, muscles rock hard, his body seemed to have grown since the last time I saw him. Shirt ripped, ink covered in splashes and sprays of blood, I noticed the spastic jolts of Briggs’ victim. It was Dax, his arms and legs jerked as Briggs’ enormous fist connected over and over again with his face. Blood everywhere, almost as if Briggs was tearing through Dax’s flesh.

“W’at you gotta’ say now mutha-f*cker? ‘uh? Can’t answer me? You just a wee bit f*ckin’ tough when you’d want to sully innocent women,” he yelled, his Irish accent got thicker as he continued to punch Dax.

I hoisted myself up, Sybil’s body was spread across the bed. She wasn’t moving, I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or even alive. Struggling to find my voice, I knew if I didn’t get Briggs to stop, he’d kill Dax.

“Briggs . . . Briggs . . . Key . . . Kean!” I bellowed, finally unhinging him from the aggressive trance he was under. It was as if he was in a brutal battle, killing his enemy before the f*cker attempted to take him out. I knew war had scarred Kean Briggs, the inked stories buried just flesh deep attempting to cast out his demons told me everything . . . I just never saw how cruelly war had scarred his mind.

Key’s arm frozen in the air above his head. Blood saturated his once milk chocolate colored fist, his short black hair damp with sweat. When he looked at me I saw how toxic he was, his eyes were hollow and his expression filled with so much hate. It was as if he was someone I didn’t know. Someone who scared the living shit out of me. I lost my balance and stumbled as I attempted to stand up, instantly Briggs’ demeanor changed as if a switch clicked in his head and the man I knew finally showed up. He let go of Dax’s lifeless body.

“Rosie,” he breathed as he shuffled over to me.

“No, Key, Sybil . . . Sybil,” I huffed as I pointed to her motionless and sprawled across the bed.

I struggled to collect myself while Briggs rushed to her bedside. I watched as he dropped the side of his face against her lips, his large thick bloody fingers caught her wrist feeling for a pulse. His face melted into a fearless expression as urgency flooded his eyes.

“Call 911. Now!” he spat.

I froze.

His mouth crashed against her blue lips as he initiated CPR. Rhythmic breaths forced down Sybil’s throat, her lungs filling enough to make her chest expand before Briggs measured his large fist just between her breasts and began compressions in the attempt to jumpstart her heart. Sybil’s body still unresponsive except for the rebound of his patterned thrusts, I began to pray to the same god who never answered my prayers before.

“Please God, oh . . . please God, please God, please save Sybil. She’s the only person I have. She can’t die. Please don’t let her die!” I forced myself to stand, willed myself to be strong for my best friend. I stumbled and the moment swirled in my head, I pushed my hands up through my hair, holding it back off my face.

“Rose, 911!” Briggs demanded.

Clarity finally found its strong grip on me and I reached for my purse.

“Call from you’ landline.”

I snatched my home phone from the counter and dialed. One ring then they picked it up.

‘Dispatcher 233. 911 what’s your emergency?’

I took a deep breath and without any thought of who Sybil and I were or what we did to put food on the table words began to tumble from my mouth.

“My roommate, she’s been hurt,” I barked into the phone.

“All right, ma’am. Is she breathing?”

“I don’t know.” I pulled the phone from my ear. “Briggs, is she breathing?”

“No, tell them I’m doing CPR; have her pulse back to forty, but still unconscious and not breathing.” Briggs said in a stern, controlled voice.

“No, Briggs is doing CPR. She has a forty pulse. She’s unconscious, please just get someone here as fast as you can, please. Oh God Please.”