Too Broken(27)

Ian stops then. His chest begins to heave and tears start to stream unabated down his cheeks.

"He was there the whole time. Her son. There, watching me rape his mother, with his father's body just feet away."

A cry escapes me, ripped from my throat. My eyes are wide and my own  cheeks quickly become coated with tears. He raped a woman? In front of  her child? Over the body of her dead husband?

As in his story, I feel numb and cease to experience the room around me.  He raped a woman. He killed her husband and traumatized her child. How  can this be? This man with the most gorgeous green eyes who prepares  meals for the homeless each night. This man whose twist of a lip into a  grin makes me feel more alive than I ever dreamed possible. Ian. My Ian.  A rapist and a murderer.

I have no idea how much time has passed but when I finally come back to  the room, I look up and see both Ian and Dr. Wyatt looking at me.  Expectantly.                       
       
           



       

What the fuck do they expect? How am I supposed to react to this information?

A wave of nausea passes over me; what happened to the boy? Staring back  at them, feeling hollow, I manage to ask, "What happened next? What  happened to her son?"

Ian shakes his head. "I don't know; I don't remember. The next thing I  knew I was back in my bunk. Everyone was normal, no one acted weird. I  have no idea if anyone saw me or not. I  …  I …  so I just went on. Went to  mess, played some cards, went to bed. I just..."

Ian pauses here and looks at me. His tears are gone and his eyes are  flat. "I went back the next day, to see … There was nothing there. No  people. No furniture. Nothing. The only thing left was a blood stain  from where I shot the man.

That  …  This is why  …  I died that day, Kelli. I lost my soul. I am not a  man anymore, not really. I'm a shell. I'm too broken for love, Kelli,"  Ian concluded, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees and  contemplating the floor.

Tears continue to roll down my face, but my breath finally quiets. I  have no idea what to think, or feel, or do. Fuck. Just fuck.

I take a deep breath, swipe at my cheeks, wiping my hands down my jeans  and stand. Without a word, I grab my purse and walk out of the office,  closing the door quietly behind me.





Chapter 7: Man or Monster?




I walk numbly down the hall and back to the elevator. I half expect Ian  to come running after me, but no, he doesn't. This isn't some romcom  where the girl gets upset and the man pursues her to make things right.  Ian killed a man in his own home. Ian raped a woman. How can that be put  right?

I exit the building and walk in the direction of Wilshire until I reach a  bus stop. I get on the first bus that comes along, unaware of where I'm  going, and sit in the last open window seat, staring out.

Blocks rush by but I don't see anything. A hand gently touches my  shoulder and I look up surprised. The woman sitting beside me offers me a  Kleenex and a kind smile. I hadn't even realized I was crying.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

I give her a watery smile in return and shake my head; I don't trust my  voice. She nods and puts her hand again on my shoulder, this time more  firmly. It is a motherly gesture and I appreciate it even though it does  nothing to sooth me.

I look back out the window and realize that I need to get home. I'm  going to lose it, really lose it, and soon. I'd much rather do that in  the privacy of my own home.

I jump off at the next stop and call for a cab. I always take Uber, but  right now I'd rather swallow razor blades than make small talk and some  of those drivers are so damn friendly.

Walking into my place twenty minutes later, I stop right inside the  door. I manage to close it behind me but I cannot advance any further  into the room; I've hit a wall. I start to shake uncontrollably. The  tears come again, and the sobs. Soon I'm bawling and sinking to my  knees.

My head is such a mess I'm not even sure what I'm crying about. I'm  crying for the little boy who watched his mother being raped. I'm crying  for the woman who watched her husband be shot. I'm crying for the  complete and utter decimation of my hopes that Ian and I could one day  be together. For hopes I didn't even realize I harbored: of us raising  Shea and Jake together, along with our German Shepherd named Max.

And a part of me, a small part of me, cries for Ian.



*******



It is around noon when I wake up on the floor. I'm cold and stiff, and I  move to my bed, my head pounding all the while. I know I should get up  and shower, I know I should eat something or call someone, but I can't  do it. It takes all my willpower to move to the bed and collapse again.

Once there the tears begin to flow and my brain whirls out of control.

See, I never truly knew Ian. I could always tell that he was holding  back on me. But I could never have imagined it was this. How can he be  so warm and caring on one hand, and a cold blooded murderer on the  other? How can the man who gives poor wayward women jobs be the same man  to force himself upon a woman in a violent, soulless act of  destruction?

I can't do this right now. I can't think about this. I stumble to my  bathroom and open my medicine cabinet. I pull out my prescription of  Xanax - the one my doctor prescribed to me when I told her I was moving  across the country in what was clearly a midlife crisis. I take two and  pop them into my mouth. Then I go into the kitchen and grab an open  bottle of wine. Chugging directly from the bottle, I get a few good  gulps in before I have to stop for fear of retching.

I put the bottle away and return to my bed and wait. I don't have to wait long...                       
       
           



       

I open my eyes and it is 6:23. In the morning. I have to pee, so I force  myself up. I still feel incredibly drugged and completely drained. In  the bathroom, I decide a shower is necessary and I get undressed.  Slowly. Painfully. Every part of my being hurts. Why there is actual  physical pain, I'm not sure, but it is there. It is real.

After my shower I don underwear, yoga pants, and a sports tank top and sit on my couch. I have to pull myself together.

I throw on a hoodie and my Uggs and head for the Coffee Bean. Caffeine  won't cure my ills, but hopefully it'll help me think a little  straighter. Walking down Cloverfield Boulevard I notice everyone has  American flags stuck in their lawns. It hits me then - today is Veterans  Day. A dry, humorless laugh escapes me. Fuck. Today's Veterans Day.  Today's the day we are supposed to celebrate the bravery of the men and  women who served in our armed forces. Today's the day we are supposed to  celebrate Ian. Ian, who raped and killed in the name of the United  States of America.

I can't help but wonder why Ian joined the military. Was he hoping to  make the world a better place? Did he think he'd fight for those who  could not fight? Did we have that goal in common?

Another ironic laugh. If that was his motivation, he was an epic fucking  failure. Instead of righting the wronged, for one family and their  loved ones, he became the embodiment of evil. Not the local dictator,  the depressor of human rights. No, Ian McGregor, U.S. soldier and future  love of my life.

It hits me then; I do love Ian. I love him with a passion I cannot  comprehend. This realization is followed immediately by the memory of  his actions and I bend over, as if struck by a 2x4 in the gut, retching  on the sidewalk. Luckily, I have nothing in my stomach, nothing to throw  up.

The nausea passes and I continue to get my coffee. I return home and sit  on my couch. I turn on West Wing and stare at the TV. I'm not hearing  any of the dialogue, I'm simply watching the actors move about the  screen.

An hour later there is a knock on my door and I'm suddenly filled with  panic. What if it's Ian? What do I say? Don't be silly! Of course it  isn't Ian. Why would he be here? He has to know that I despise him now.  Right? I despise him  …  right?

The knocking sounds again, drawing my focus. I still don't move and consider what I should do next.

"Kelli lass, open up." It's Pappy. Pappy's here. Pappy, Ian's father.  Does he know what Ian's done? Can he still love Ian knowing what he's  done? Suddenly I have to know.

I stand and pull open the door. Looking small and sad, Pappy doesn't  move to come inside, he just looks at me with wise eyes. Yes, Pappy  knows what Ian's done.

I start to cry again. Here's another person to cry for - for Pappy. His son went off to war and came home a villain.

"Oh darlin'," Pappy says, stepping forward and placing his hand on my  arm. The contact does me in and I fall into him, crying into his  shoulder. "There, there. ‘Twill be alright."