Breakable by Aimee L. Salter Read Free Book Online

without
anyone seeing me, I’d be home safe. I could cry, and draw, and try to figure
out what the hell I was going to do now.
    So
I slipped to the end of the hallway and peered slowly around the corner.
    Along
the wall between the foyer and the auditorium, two, wide double-doors yawned
open. Darkness, music and the babble of a hundred voices leached out. The bass
thumped under my feet. Voices drifted across my hair.
    But
it was the light and dark that stole my breath again.
    Because
Mark hadn’t returned to the dance.
    Twenty
feet from where I peered around the corner, the bright, fluorescent lights of
the foyer silhouetted two forms leaned against the opposite wall – one small
and feminine, the other tall, masculine, looming over her.
    His
head started to turn towards me, but her hand came up to catch his chin.
Whatever she said, he smiled and tipped his hips forward, pressing hers back
into the wall.
    His
fingers slid into her hair as her tiny hands trailed down his chest, under his
open jacket, and she smiled. Said something too low to be heard over the
hubbub.
    He
answered by leaning down, pulling her face up to meet his–
    I
shot across the darkened floor, took the bar on the door with my arm, slamming
it home so the door would give under my weight.
    Then
I was out in the dark, in the night, running across the parking lot to Mom’s
car, trying desperately to ignore the pains in my chest, the cracks screaming
deep in my middle. Trying to see through the tears so I could drive home…
     
     

 
    Chapter Six
     
    Doc
is paying attention now. He's forgotten himself and leaned forward, elbows on
his polyestered knees. "It sounds like Karyn took pleasure in you finding
out about her relationship with Mark. Was she aware of your feelings for
him?"
    Blink.
Oh, right. He’s pretending he doesn’t care that I talk to myself in the mirror.
    I
sighed. "Yes. At least, I think so."
    "Did
you tell your mother about these events?"
    Hell , no. "No."
    "Why
not?"
    I
roll my eyes. "All Mom cared about was that I didn’t embarrass her."
    Doctor
frowns, but I can see the light turn on behind his eyes. A dysfunctional mother-daughter
relationship is his bread and butter. "What made you feel that way?"
    Oh,
please. “Just little
things.”
    “Like?”
    “Like…She
wasn’t interested in understanding how things were for me. She wanted me to
conform. Be like everyone else. Be normal."
    "And
how did she define “normal”?"
    Scoff.
“Wearing the right clothes, belonging to the right groups. Being popular. You
know, high school stuff.”
    The
finger on his moustache freezes. "I see."
    "Do
you?"
    He
meets my eyes and nods. "Yes, I think so."
    Awkward
silence because I don’t believe him.
    He
sits back in his chair. “Can you give me an example? From around that time?”
    I
snort. “Take your pick.”
    “Just
tell me the first one that comes to mind.”
    That
was easy.
     
     
     
    When
I walked in the door at home that night after the dance, I was already
composing a sketch in my head. Not one for my workbook. One for my personal
collection. One in which a cartoon Karyn’s eyes were nothing but crosses due to
the axe blade protruding from her skull. I was debating blood dripping off hair
versus blood trailing down her nose when I walked into the kitchen to grab a
glass of water to take to my room. The only light seeped in from the dining
room. Mom must have left it on.
    Once
I had my water, I headed that way so I could turn it off. When I rounded the
corner past the kitchen, I was treated to the sight of my mother in her robe,
sitting at the table. That was odd enough to stop me in my tracks. Mom left the
house every morning before five. Even on the rare occasions I went out, she was
usually in bed by eight.
    Though
it was late for her, and she was ready for bed, she was her usual, sleek self,
with her near-black hair twisted into a perfect bun, her black-rimmed glasses
on the end of her nose, the shape of the frame