Read Online No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) by Chloe Adams - Free Book Online
Authors: Chloe Adams
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on the first few pages are mainly television and news articles that ran my story. Pictures of my hospital stay are splattered all over the internet, along with the awful pics from my speech. I look horrendous: dazed, bruised, pale.
It doesn’t seem like a month has passed. I feel the same: guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.
I keep searching and find blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. I read a couple, surprised to find Dr. Thompkins was right. One site proclaims I’m the new face of violence against women while another says I’ll inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.
They all say the same Dr. Thompkins said, that I’m brave. I close the browser and stare at my closet. I’m not brave. I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert again in court. Especially since he has an alibi, and it’s nothing but me against him. Daddy is right. It would destroy our families and hurt his reelection. I want him to be proud of me for helping him. I don’t want to disappoint him.
I do want the guilt and dreams to go away. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have worn that dress. I shouldn’t have wanted to feel beautiful. Shea’s speech is right. It is my fault. I didn’t even have to be there that night, but I was.
I don’t know what to feel.
Two days later with no real sleep, I watch Daddy give commendations to Dom and Kiesha on the local news station. I’m sitting in my closet, watching the ten ‘o’clock news on my smart phone, which is showing clips of Daddy shaking hands and posing with the two. I smile to see them again and to see Daddy doing the right thing for once.
I recall Dom’s wheezy voice and brown eyes. He’s taller than I remember, as tall as Daddy, and muscular where Daddy is slender. Kiesha is the opposite: small and shapely with large eyes and a bright smile.
I close the browser on my smart phone and stretch out on the floor of my closet, where I’ve made a small nest. I doubt I’ll sleep but I’ll try.
Another week passes. Mom still isn’t home, and Daddy is too busy for me. My only companions are Ari and Dr. Thompkins, who visits three times a week. The supporters with signs stay outside my house. Seeing them helps me feel a little less alone. It’s like they’re there to stand guard or something. I’ve learned to take naps during the day to make up for missed sleep. I haven’t had to mess with Chris or Shea the whole week.
I stare in the mirror after I put on makeup. All outward signs of the incident are gone. But I’m still different. It’s my eyes. Or maybe, it’s something I can’t see, only feel. Whatever it is, I hate that part of me. I hate the part that jumps whenever I hear a door close and looks under the bed several times after dark to make sure they aren’t there. I know they aren’t, but I can’t stop the fear.
My phone vibrates, and I see there’s a message from Chris.
I’m sending the car. We have an appointment. Be ready in 15.
I roll my eyes at the message. I don’t want to go out, and it takes a lot more than fifteen minutes to get ready. Whatever this appointment is, I’m not going to go looking as bad as I feel.
I wash the make-up off my face and redo it and my hair. The bruises are gone, but I can’t help double checking to make sure they don’t suddenly reappear, like the dreams I keep hoping will go away for good. I take more care than I ever did before getting dressed. My first choice is a v-neck sweater.
As soon as I put it on, I take it off. I feel … dirty showing off my chest. Daddy always says a woman who dresses without respect to herself will end up in trouble. I know now that he’s right. I stare at myself for a long moment, wishing I’d never bought or worn that dress. Wishing I’d never gone to the party. Wishing I could just wear what I want without feeling so bad.
“Ms. Mia,
It doesn’t seem like a month has passed. I feel the same: guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.
I keep searching and find blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. I read a couple, surprised to find Dr. Thompkins was right. One site proclaims I’m the new face of violence against women while another says I’ll inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.
They all say the same Dr. Thompkins said, that I’m brave. I close the browser and stare at my closet. I’m not brave. I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert again in court. Especially since he has an alibi, and it’s nothing but me against him. Daddy is right. It would destroy our families and hurt his reelection. I want him to be proud of me for helping him. I don’t want to disappoint him.
I do want the guilt and dreams to go away. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have worn that dress. I shouldn’t have wanted to feel beautiful. Shea’s speech is right. It is my fault. I didn’t even have to be there that night, but I was.
I don’t know what to feel.
Two days later with no real sleep, I watch Daddy give commendations to Dom and Kiesha on the local news station. I’m sitting in my closet, watching the ten ‘o’clock news on my smart phone, which is showing clips of Daddy shaking hands and posing with the two. I smile to see them again and to see Daddy doing the right thing for once.
I recall Dom’s wheezy voice and brown eyes. He’s taller than I remember, as tall as Daddy, and muscular where Daddy is slender. Kiesha is the opposite: small and shapely with large eyes and a bright smile.
I close the browser on my smart phone and stretch out on the floor of my closet, where I’ve made a small nest. I doubt I’ll sleep but I’ll try.
Another week passes. Mom still isn’t home, and Daddy is too busy for me. My only companions are Ari and Dr. Thompkins, who visits three times a week. The supporters with signs stay outside my house. Seeing them helps me feel a little less alone. It’s like they’re there to stand guard or something. I’ve learned to take naps during the day to make up for missed sleep. I haven’t had to mess with Chris or Shea the whole week.
I stare in the mirror after I put on makeup. All outward signs of the incident are gone. But I’m still different. It’s my eyes. Or maybe, it’s something I can’t see, only feel. Whatever it is, I hate that part of me. I hate the part that jumps whenever I hear a door close and looks under the bed several times after dark to make sure they aren’t there. I know they aren’t, but I can’t stop the fear.
My phone vibrates, and I see there’s a message from Chris.
I’m sending the car. We have an appointment. Be ready in 15.
I roll my eyes at the message. I don’t want to go out, and it takes a lot more than fifteen minutes to get ready. Whatever this appointment is, I’m not going to go looking as bad as I feel.
I wash the make-up off my face and redo it and my hair. The bruises are gone, but I can’t help double checking to make sure they don’t suddenly reappear, like the dreams I keep hoping will go away for good. I take more care than I ever did before getting dressed. My first choice is a v-neck sweater.
As soon as I put it on, I take it off. I feel … dirty showing off my chest. Daddy always says a woman who dresses without respect to herself will end up in trouble. I know now that he’s right. I stare at myself for a long moment, wishing I’d never bought or worn that dress. Wishing I’d never gone to the party. Wishing I could just wear what I want without feeling so bad.
“Ms. Mia,
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