Shattered

Today, I’m going to do something a little different. I will give you a teaser for my novella, Shattered, in the hopes you will want to continue reading it. The background of this story is very (very) loosely based on my own life. It was the hardest part of my life, and while I have moved forward, I will never “get over” what happened.

Below, I am pasting the first chapter of my novella. Give it a read, and let me know what you think, either below in the comments or on my Twitter.

Also, see my blog post on moving forward vs. moving on here: Moving On vs. Moving Forward

And my novella here: Shattered

Shattered – Chapter 1

Chapter 1

5 years earlier

Sky

I stand at the kitchen sink, washing dishes on autopilot. I’m lost in thought, staring out the window at what used to be my paradise. It’s quiet, the temperature perfect. Normally, I would think of this as a typical day, but it’s far from it. I smile just a tiny bit as I see Bugs, the bunny that hangs out near our property, go bounding across the grass. We even have a road runner near us, too. I love nature. Nature is good, perfect. Everything my life is not. My life is a quagmire of frustration, misunderstandings, and words meant to hurt.

On an average day, I would look across my yard, and calm would wash over me, like a warm breeze ruffling my hair. Or start up my firepit and sit, staring into the flames, mesmerized. There’s a peace out here you can’t find in the city. I’ve never understood how people can be at peace living with constant noise.

None of the peace I so desperately crave is here today. The memories bombarding me are bittersweet. Heavy on the bitter. We met online first, then, when it came time to meet, I thought fate had intervened when he wanted to meet at a country bar. I was nervous, hoping I looked okay, hoping I didn’t make a fool out of myself. I shouldn’t have worried. We hit it off and never looked back. Maybe I should have. I question it all now. I wonder what red flags I ignored.

We live outside of town on a private country road, just off the lake. It’s quiet. There aren’t many neighbors and even less traffic. Our property is on a couple acres of land bordering on a small wooded area. It suits us, I think.

The honeymoon period of our relationship didn’t last long. Dan is the least ambitious person I’ve ever known. In fact, he stopped working within a few months, arguing it cost more for him to work than it paid. Technically I guess that is true, but he’s never looked for a new job like he promised. Dan does very little around the house except to cook our meals. Yard work? I do it. Cleaning? I do it. Bill payments? Errands? All me. Dan’s contribution? He DJs at the corner bar a couple nights a week for free beer.

There was a time when we were happy, but this last week has been hell. Dan and I have been arguing nonstop about his drinking. Day or night, there is never a point he wouldn’t be considered legally drunk. He gets up, makes breakfast for me, and grabs a beer out of the fridge. At breakfast. I yell at him to drink some water during the day, at least, and he screams back that he does. Only he doesn’t. I can’t remember the last time he drank any water. But God forbid I call him out on his lie. That never ends well. Beer is his breakfast, and this argument our daily routine.

And the money. I work every minute of overtime I can weasel out of my boss. I have to juggle the bills, paying one this month, putting off another till next month. The stress literally makes me sick, and I can’t take it anymore. But that’s not all. Oh, no.

He’s not physically abusive, but he’s turned into an asshole. He points out some flaw with the house, dinner, which he cooked, or my job not paying enough. After that, he complains about the yard, the dogs, anything he can come up with. I don’t know why he’s become so angry, but I have to believe it’s the alcohol. Because if it isn’t, that means this is him. It means he’s not the man I fell in love with. I don’t want to believe I was so completely fooled.

Yesterday we had a brutal argument resulting in me staying with my best friends Haven and Drew. Dan was so angry, so cruel, I couldn’t stay in the same house with him for another minute. I told him to leave, go stay with friends, but his reply? “I’m not leaving, Sky, and you’re too weak to make me leave. This is my house. I’ll leave when I choose to leave, and not before.” Never mind that I pay for the house and everything in it.

 So, I left. I hung out with Haven and Drew. We grilled hamburgers, got the firepit going, and drank a couple beers. Or at least, Haven and Drew did. It’s difficult to even finish one beer. I just can’t do it. Now I’m on my way home, but I’m not sure how to handle things. Dan has changed.

 As much as I’d like to avoid any more confrontations, I have responsibilities. As I pull into the driveway, I find my minivan parked in the yard. We live out in the boonies, so people do it all the time. It’s not usually anything to be concerned about, but something feels off. I can’t explain it. The thick, heavy air is suffocating, and my heartbeat kicks up a notch or three. My body is on high alert, but my brain is screaming. What is going on?

The minivan is turned off with a vacuum hose running from the exhaust through the back window. I look everywhere but don’t find a note in the van or the house, and I haven’t received a call or text. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know this isn’t good. I yank my phone out of my pocket to double-check for any messages. Nothing. My heart rate climbs even more, and the air becomes even heavier if possible.

After several failed attempts at calling Dan, my frustration ratchets up. All I want is to scream, throw my phone, or better yet, both, but that doesn’t fix anything. So, I do the only thing I can think to do. I call the sheriffs.

I usher them inside, desperate for answers. One of the deputies answers my unspoken question. “Ma’am, your husband called 911, stating he was suicidal. Deputies responded and took him for a 72-hour suicide watch.” At his words, the blood drains from my face, and I’m pretty sure I am swaying on my feet. I feel light-headed, confused, unable to form coherent thoughts or words. Maybe I should have expected something to happen. I didn’t. The shock runs through me like a thunderous wave mowing down anything in its path.

Dan was already an alcoholic when we met. I knew that, but I always thought it was mostly under control. Or, maybe I chose to not see the changes until they slapped me in the face. Either way, I know how naïve that makes me, but I love him. I thought I would be enough for him to keep it under control. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. He started drinking more and became meaner at the same time. It puts an emotional and financial strain on our marriage. As the only one working, that means all the responsibilities fall on my shoulders. I just can’t deal with the stress anymore.

I gave him an ultimatum after he popped off with an especially mean comment. Alcohol or me. I let him know this was it. He either gets treatment, or he gets a divorce. I’m not about to watch him commit slow suicide.

Because that’s what it is. He’s committing suicide. It’s just not immediate. He won’t talk to anyone, not even me. Any attempt ends with him reminding me he was an alcoholic when we met, and I knew what I was getting into. Except I didn’t. My parents don’t drink much, and I had never dealt with an alcoholic before.

I mean, sure, I drank in high school. I went to the parties. Who didn’t? But I don’t need alcohol. I can drink it or not, no skin off my nose. But I’ve never dealt with someone who needed it just to function.

After seventy-two hours in detox, the facility calls. They’re transferring Dan to a second facility to complete the detox. Instead of the expected three days, it’s taking longer. I don’t understand why detox would take longer than three days. He doesn’t drink hard alcohol, just beer. Only beer, as he loves to point out. Yet his detox is not only taking longer than usual, but it’s also more dangerous as well. That makes no sense to me.

After hanging up the phone, I call anybody and everybody I can think of. The bottom line is I can’t force him into treatment. He has to commit himself, or a judge has to do it. I’m powerless to protect myself. What kind of jacked-up law is that, anyway? I think I’m the one in the best position to decide if he’s a danger to himself or someone else, but apparently, the law doesn’t agree. I’m just a stupid wife. Which goes along with what Dan likes to tell me when we’re arguing. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am stupid.

I call his mother and explain everything to her. I’ll never understand why, but she’s pissed at me. I’m trying everything I can to get Dan to cut back, get into treatment, anything. His family? They only come up with excuses to let it continue. I hear, “that’s just how he is,” or, “he’s not hurting anyone.” Yet I’m now the bad guy because I’m giving it one last shot to get him help.

“No, Grace, I’m not going to let him come home. He needs treatment, both psychologically and for his addiction.”

“Well, I don’t want him here.” I’m so damn frustrated right now. I can feel my blood starting to boil. His family lives with their heads up their asses, and Dan is the one who is going to pay for it. I feel bad for him, but I also can’t continue to watch what he’s doing. I don’t speak for a couple seconds. I have to smother my reaction because I need her to pick him up.

“Too bad. Either pick him up, or he can find a place to stay on his own. But he doesn’t come home until he’s successfully completed treatment and is sober.” I hold the phone away from my ear. I’m not in the mood to listen to more bullshit excuses.

“No. He’s not coming home. I will not subject myself to this any longer. Period. Call me with his progress.” I end the call and release a breath. My hands are shaking with all the pent-up emotion. I wish I could walk over to the lake and just scream it all out, but it wouldn’t fix anything. It seems that’s all I’m good for. Taking care of everyone else, making sure things get done.

***

Daniel’s ringtone sounds throughout the house. “I’m sober, baby. I want to come home.”

“No, Daniel. Nothing has changed. You need help both mentally and with your alcoholism. Find a way to get into treatment, show you can stay sober, and we’ll go from there. Until then, you can’t come home.”

He begs, I refuse. I reiterate, “Complete treatment and stay sober for a while, and we’ll talk about working things out.”

His response? “I can’t.” Not, “I’ll try,” not “I’ll do my best.” Just, “I can’t.”

I shut the conversation down. “You can’t come home then.”

Later, as I’m throwing dinner together, Daniel’s uncle calls. “He’s gone. Skylar, Daniel’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?” My stomach churns., bile rising in my throat. “He’s gone. He committed suicide. Dan got a hold of his mother’s gun and shot himself.”

It feels as though the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room; it must have been. I can’t breathe, can’t pull in a breath. My eyes flit around the living room wildly, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Maybe I’m looking for Daniel to walk in. “No, no, no. No. You’re wrong. He’s probably out getting beer.”

I don’t remember ending the call with Dan’s uncle, but I’m on the phone with my best friend, Haven. I don’t have a clue what I’m saying. I don’t even know if words are coming out of my mouth. I hear her yelling at her husband that something is wrong. She’s left the phone on, and as though I’m in a fog, I can hear Drew asking what happened. After Haven says something I can’t hear, I hear Drew announce, “I’ll call the sheriffs. Go. Make sure she’s okay. I’ll follow as soon as I’m off the phone.”

I’m in a fog. I can’t think. I can’t function; I’ve completely shut down. I’m not aware of time passing, so I don’t know how long it’s been, but Haven is in my living room with me, hugging me. “What happened, hun? Talk to me.”

“What?”

“Sky, talk to me. What happened?”

“What?”

“Do you remember calling me?” Haven looks at Drew, who turns and goes outside, leaving me alone with Haven.

I sit on the couch, still not fully aware of what’s going on. I can barely breathe, can’t think. I feel empty, like someone dug all my emotions out of me. There should be thoughts, some part of me that’s aware of the world around me, but there’s nothing. It’s blank.

Haven hands me a shot glass and wraps her arms around me. I don’t move, still sitting on the edge of the couch, my body stiff, my mind shut down. She gets up, letting someone in. It vaguely registers that this man is a sheriff, judging from the uniform. But I don’t have it in me to react. “Babe, come on. You need to give Jason permission to talk to me.”

I slowly turn my head to look at her. Not really knowing what is happening, I silently agree. The sheriff, Jason, I think, and Haven go outside. He’s on his phone talking to someone, nodding. Seconds later, Haven cries out and comes flying inside, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, shit. Oh, my God. You’re going to be okay. Drew and I are here for you. We’ll handle everything.”

I look at her, confused. “What? Handle everything? What’s going on?”

Haven flashes a concerned look at Jason. “Daniel, hun. He’s gone. He’s dead, darlin’. You got a phone call, remember?”

At her words, something breaks wide open inside of me. I can hear someone screaming, not immediately realizing that it’s me. I don’t realize I’m howling, shouting “No!” I’m rocking back and forth, inconsolable. I can’t breathe, can’t think. The only thing I know right now is searing pain. Soul shattering, world-ending pain. It’s physical, crushing me under a mountain of fear, grief, and guilt. Somewhere deep inside, I know this is my fault. I killed him. What have I done? I don’t see the EMTs coming in, and I don’t hear their questions. The last thing I remember is a slight prick before the peaceful black takes over.