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Broken but Breathing(Jinx Tattoos Book 2)(2)

By:Shyla Colt


Jolene dropped by occasionally and kept in touch via phone calls, but  she'd learned just how fickle people could be. In the end, she stood  alone, sans her family who thought the answer was her returning to  England with them. Survival had meant placing an impenetrable shell  around her heart. Dr. Nimoy insisted Estelle have support, a person to  help her be accountable as she made the next step in their therapy plan.  What that meant, she wasn't sure. It was the purpose of this visit. She  shifted her weight on the cushion of the soft white chair. Black and  white photos mounted on thick white frames offset the dark grey walls.         

     



 

She focused on the picture-perfect family represented-mother, father,  and children; a boy and a girl, no older than five or six. That had once  been her dream. Now at thirty-seven, getting out of the house and  resisting falling back into the pit of depression she'd crawled out of  over the last year was her primary goal. Without Dr. Nimoy, she'd still  be living like a hermit in her show box one-bedroom apartment. Part of  her felt she didn't deserve anything good when her family was buried six  feet under.

The door opened, and Dr. Nimoy appeared. His face was wizened by time,  but kind, and his brown eyes held a deep compassion. He honestly  believed in what he did. She'd been through enough shrinks at this point  to spot the ones who'd grown disenchanted with their lively hood.

"How are you today, Estelle?" Nimoy asked.

"I'm surviving," she replied, moving into the office and taking a seat  on the brown leather couch. Seated, she admired the comforting  aesthetics. The dark cherry wood desk and matching bookshelf created a  homey vibe she appreciated. She sank onto the cushion, and Jolene sat in  a matching chair with silver studs. Dr. Nimoy sat across from her.

"Why only surviving?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I have my good days and bad days, but mostly they're just blah."

"Do you want to know what I think?" he asked.

She nodded.

"You're waking up. The blah is you becoming dissatisfied with your  current situation. We spent a lot of time last year working toward  healing and looking toward the future. I think we're ready to take more  proactive steps."

She tilted her head to the side. "What do you mean by proactive?"

"You need to get out of your home and become more active. This is what  we've been working toward. I believe in talking to people who've  experienced the same things. There's a grief support group I think would  be good for you. It's once a week, and I think you'd benefit from it  greatly."

"I don't know about going and spilling my guts, Doc. It's not my style."

"You don't have to go until you're ready. It's about being around others who've experienced great loss. You need a community."

The word made her scowl. People let you down. They abandoned the ship  when it started to sink and never looked back. Before the tornado, she'd  been the type of friend who'd bend over backward to help someone in  need. She couldn't keep track of the times she'd taken phone calls in  the middle of the night, driven a friend home who had too much to drink,  or babysat a pet or a child. Seeing each one of them turn away had  broken something inside of her.

"I have Jolene," she said.

"Yes, but I think it's time you make new connections and flex your  social muscles. I also want you to make up a list of four to five things  you'd like to do. They can be small goals. Perhaps you've always wanted  to take a painting class or learn how to decorate a cake."

"Why?" she asked, uncomfortable with the direction the good doctor was pushing her in.

"This is the next step, rebuilding a life. You've been on pause for the  past two years. We've worked through the bigger issues. It's time to  tackle the smaller ones that continue to hold you back."

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from balking. Engaging with the outside world made her skittish. Caring led to pain.

"Remember what we said about keeping an open mind?" Dr. Nimoy asked.

"I remember," she answered, taking a deep breath.

"Here, I'll start. What are some of the things you liked to do before?"

"Read, craft, cook."

"Some things that were more social."

"I used to host cocktail parties," she said, remembering the themed events she once took pride in.

"And what did you like about them?"

"I liked playing bartender, and coming up with themes to get everyone dressed up for."

"What about a bartending school?" he suggested.

"That could be fun." She had enough money to live off indefinitely if  she remained frugal, but they'd discussed getting her back into the work  field in twenty sixteen.

"So let's put that on the list," he said, scribbling on a piece of paper. "What else?"

She opened the door to the past and peered back at the woman she once  was. There was a lengthy list of things she wanted to do, but never  managed to get around to-pottery, painting, traveling, and a dozen other  activities she hadn't thought about in far too long. Looking at her  life at present was painful. What had once been a lush forest had become  a barren wasteland. Loneliness flooded into the opening she'd made, and  she slammed her barriers back into place.         

     



 

"Can you tell me why we're making this list, Doc?"

"I want you to commit to at least one thing on the list, and the group once a week."

"And if I don't like it?"

"I ask that you give it at least a month. Then we'll go from there."

It's four weeks. I can do anything for four weeks.

§

She walked into the apartment with Dr. Nimoy's words marinating in her  brain. They were finally taking the step, and moving toward life. The  past couple of years had been a meager existence. She'd done the bare  minimum-eating, sleeping when the nightmares allowed, and showering with  a frequency most would find alarming. This year was different.

She unwrapped the black and white plaid scarf, hung it on the peg by the  door, and took in her current living situation. The walls were a basic  eggshell white devoid of any adornment. A tiny table for two rested  against the divider which separated the kitchen from the living room.  The dish towel that hung on the oven handle was white, and the pot  holders hanging on hooks were black. It looked like she had just moved  in when in reality she'd been there for nearly two years.

She walked down the small hallway to the bedroom and stared at the  full-sized bed with its black jersey knit sheets, and black comforter.  It was a lackluster existence. With her head finally above water she  could see the emptiness surrounding her. Like a crocus peeking up  through the snow, she was returning to life. The numbness had begun to  fade along with the blinding pain. Now she was left with loneliness.

Walking to the mirror she studied her face. Her cheekbones were sharp  enough to cut; her eyes were dim and her hair held no shine. Once her  pride and joy, the waist-length blonde locks that had led Everett to  give her the nickname ‘fairy' had been sorely neglected. She studied the  image that made a mockery of what she once was. She opened the drawer,  picked up the scissors, and began to shorn her locks. Each piece of hair  that fell to the floor felt like a shedding of skin which no longer  fit. In the end she was all eyes, and curls to her collarbone. Breathing  heavily, she placed her hands on the counter and bowed her head. If she  was going to make a new life she was going to start from the ground up.  The woman Everett loved had died along with him. She had to figure out  who this new Estelle was without him.

§

Snake

He didn't need a calendar to tell him what day it was-he spent three  hundred and sixty-three days dreading it. He hadn't always been on the  path of an outlaw. It took one act of senseless violence to show him  just how fucked up the world was. People go along blindly believing the  law will bring them justice, but too many times things slip through the  cracks.

Past

A loud crash yanked him from his sleep. Sitting up, he reached for the bat that rested in the corner beside the nightstand.

"X?" his wife whimpered. The moonlight flooding through the window  highlighted her wide brown eyes full of fear, and her trembling dark  pink lips. He cupped her oval-shaped face in his hand and ran a thumb  over her high cheekbones.

When he placed a hand to her lips, he nodded. "Stay here, and lock the  door behind me until I tell you otherwise, J," he whispered, slipping  from the bed in his boxers and a T-shirt. Their four-year-old baby girl,  Jocelyn, was in the bedroom across from him. He strained to hear more  as he slipped from the room and walked down to his daughter. Stepping  inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. His heavy sleeper hadn't budged.  He saw no signs of tampering with the window above her bed.

The crunch of glass turned his blood cold. He lifted the bat, ready to  swing if necessary. He moved to the hall and found the living room  window in ruins. A brick wrapped in loose-leaf paper rested on the thick  beige carpet. He glanced out of the gaping hole and spotted three  hooded men all in white. This can't be happening. A cross blazed on the  front of his lawn-Klu Klux Clan.