The Colour of Broken Read online

  The Colour

  of Broken

  by

  Amelia Grace

  Adult Fiction Book

  Published in Australia 2018

  by Lilly Pilly Publishing

  [email protected]

  The Colour of Broken Copyright © Julieann Wallace writing as Amelia Grace 2018

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission.

  Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  https://www.nla.gov.au/trove

  ISBN: 978-0-6480846-2-4 (print book)

  ISBN: 978-0-6480846-5-5 (eBook)

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is fictional. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher and the author are not engaged to render any type of psychological, legal, or any other kind of professional advice. Neither the publisher nor the individual author shall be liable for any physical, psychological, emotional, financial, or commercial damages, including, but not limited to, special, incidental, consequential or other damages. Our views and rights are the same:

  You are responsible for your own choices, actions, and results.

  Cover design by Lilly Pilly Publishing

  Cover image: 123rf Andrey Kiselev Image ID: 38050538

  Medical disclaimer:

  This book is not intended to be a substitute for the medical advice of a licensed physician. The reader should consult with their doctor in any matters relating to his/her health.

  Suicide/Crisis Disclaimer:

  Suicide is a difficult topic to talk about. The events in this book are fictional.

  The number one cause for suicide is untreated depression.

  Suicide is never the answer. Getting help is the answer.

  Suicide is preventable, and if you are feeling suicidal, you must get help.

  Please visit Suicide.org for a list for worldwide numbers to call

  http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

  or 1-800-SUICIDE or 1-800-784-2433

  Suicide is never the answer. Getting help is the answer.

  The Colour

  of Broken

  This book has been written with

  deep compassion and many tears,

  for those who live with the

  incurable condition of Meniere's disease.

  A cure will be found, until that time,

  take my hand ...

  A.G.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  The Colour

  of Broken

  Chapter One

  LATHER, SCRUB, RINSE ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  My hands moved fast. Obsessively fast. In a panic.

  Lather, scrub ... lather, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—

  and breathe. Just breathe!

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—that's better, and breathe.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, tight, trying to stop the terrifying visions that exploded around me. I was trapped in a never-ending spiral of memories of that terrible day, and I couldn't escape.

  ‘STOP!’ I shouted. ‘JUST,’ my breath hiccupped, ‘stop!’ I whispered, and turned off the tap, spent.

  Emotional turmoil spilled through me. And guilt. Crippling, excruciating guilt. My insides clenched with dread and I leaned over the basin, panting, struggling to fight off the nausea.

  I lifted my right hand in front of my face and twisted it—over and back, over and back—checking for blood. It was insane. I knew there wasn't any blood. I wasn’t even bleeding. But I couldn’t get the abhorrent memory out of my head. The one where my blood dribbled down onto my hand before it trailed along my fingers and dropped to the rocks below, where Mia lay, twisted.

  I started to shake as anxiety poisoned me, again. I clenched my teeth and turned on the tap once more, my urge to scream fading as I fell into rhythm ...

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—

  ‘Breathe ...’ I told myself, ‘... in for a count of three ... and out for a count of five. You know how to deal with panic, Yolande. What do you need to say?’ I closed my eyes. Gently this time. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t.

  I slid down the wall of the bathroom, the water still flowing from the tap. Maybe I should take my medication and be buried in the fog of the mind-numbing drugs.

  I shook my head. No. I wanted to feel something, not nothing, despite my savage, suffocating flashbacks that penetrated me to the core.

  Intense. Emotional. Exhausting.

  ‘STOP!’ I finally said.

  Chapter Two

  ‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE ... OR BOOKS?’ The words rolled off my tongue with a melodic sound. It felt like the millionth time I had said it. I sighed inwardly.

  The tall, dark-haired man standing before me lifted his chin and looked down at me. He narrowed his green eyes and loosened his tie. My skin prickled, and I stiffened.

  ‘Flowers, and ... chocolates,’ he said, his voice like velvet. He blinked once. He was the colour of pure red, like a high-performance sports car—fast and dangerous.

  I watched him with caution. He was too smooth. ‘For an anniversary?’ I asked.

  ‘An apology,’ he said, blinking on the word apology, and in the moment afterward, blinking multiple times. Liar ...

  Oh, I mouthed. Of course it would be an apology for his type. ‘How big an apology?’

  He hung his head and smirked. Conflicting words and action. Warning bells rang.

  ‘That bad?’ And good?

  ‘Worse!’ he said.

  Had he been unfaithful? ‘Do you still love her?’

  He narrowed his eyes at me again. ‘She’s my wife, my life ... I need her,’ he choked on his words.

  Yes, he’d been unfaithful ... ‘Then you need a bouquet of sincere apology. Do you want them delivered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No!’ I said, a little louder than I intended. I gazed around at the people in the flower store, looking at me. I lowered my voice. ‘The personal touch is be
st. Give them to her yourself. It will mean ... more.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  Of course, I’m right. I knew a thousand reasons why men gave flowers to women! ‘Would you like coffee while I prepare the best apology you have ever made?’

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked to his right at the florist café where our barista stood. ‘Sure.’

  I watched as he walked over to Darcy and ordered.

  Do not judge. Everyone makes mistakes ... but was it a mistake? Or had he just been caught?

  I went to the workbench of flower imagination, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear then busied myself preparing his order—white tulips and soft pink hyacinth with a few green leaves here and there, the green stems wrapped with a gorgeous pale pink ribbon. I added exquisite hand-made chocolates. I placed the bouquet of flowers and chocolates into a white-lined gift bag to amplify their magnificence, then inhaled the scent of the hyacinths—floral, light, delicate, old-fashioned, sweet, sensual, fresh—spring-like. I hoped it wasn’t more than he deserved.

  I leaned over to cut a length of ribbon to tie to the handle of the bag to finish my work of flower art. When I looked up he was standing in front of me, eyes on my chest.

  A shiver ran down my spine and I straightened at once. I pulled the top of my work dress and apron higher.

  Bastard.

  I pushed the ribbon to the side. I had done enough for this person with the XY chromosomes. Y, mathematically speaking, is the unknown. And that is why I can never trust an unknown male. Y also equalled “why?” The answer is almost entirely explained with the treatment of women as sexual objects by some men, or their need to feel powerful because they are pitiful cowards. Bastard.

  I picked up his bouquet of apology and walked to the sales desk. He followed behind me. Too closely.

  ‘Cash or card?’ I raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

  ‘Card,’ he said. His eyes widened. ‘Make that cash. How much?’ His words came in a flurry.

  Hmmm. An untraceable transaction. What tangled web is he weaving? ‘How much do you have?’

  He opened his wallet. ‘Seventy-five bucks and a few coins.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’ll have to use your card. It’s eighty-five bucks for this special, apologetic order, sir. It’s imbued with a thousand apologies and a melody of love,’ I said, ready to puke on him.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll give you $75.00 now, and bring the remainder later.’ He reached forward to pick up the flowers.

  I pushed the flowers to the side, away from him. ‘Since you’re such a lovely man who wants to win over his wife’s heart, I’d like to say yes, but store policy won’t allow me to. I’m sorry, sir ...’ I said, trying to rein in my sarcasm as I held out my hand for the card.

  He searched through each of his suit pockets, tapping each one. He paused, then pulled out ten dollars, and smirked at me like he had just won the lottery. He handed over the money.

  ‘Thank you, and ... good luck with your apology.’ I tilted my head to the side with a fake, sweet smile, and gave him the flowers and chocolates. My stomach bubbled with nausea filled with repulsive bile.

  The moment he stepped out of the shop I let out an exasperated breath. I looked down to the top of my dress that my grandmother had chosen as the florist’s store uniform. Part of my chest scar was visible. Damn! I repositioned my dress and shook my head, hating that fact that I had been damaged for life—three years ago when I was twenty-two, on that terrible day of the scars. My eyes burned.

  The tapping sound of Gram’s shoes became louder. I watched her approach me with a spring in her step. She was the colour of light pink—love, affection and romance ... full of peace, hence her flower store. When she stopped before me I plastered a pretend smile on my face. I didn’t want her to see my sadness.

  ‘That tulip and hyacinth bouquet was beautiful, Andi. And a nice fifty-dollar sale to end the day!’

  ‘Pity he didn’t read the sign.’ I pointed to the flower menu behind me that clearly listed personal flower art for $50.00. ‘I charged him eighty-five bucks. Fifty for the flowers for him, and thirty-five, revenge for his wife.’ I smiled at Gram. This time it was genuine.

  ‘Hmmm. Maybe I can make a florist out of my steel-capped boot wearing granddaughter after all?’

  I looked down at my brown steel-capped safety boots. They didn’t match any of the floral dresses I had to wear as a uniform in Flowers for Fleur, but they guaranteed me a powerful, painful kick to the groin of any man to protect myself.

  I removed my apron and hung it on the hook on the wall behind the sales desk. I kissed Gram’s cheek and gave her a warm embrace. ‘See you tomorrow when the sun peeks at the new day and whispers, “Good morning!”’

  Chapter Three

  I STOPPED AT THE MULBERRY-COLOURED, 1950s Raleigh Cruiser bicycle in front of Gram’s flower store, panting. The bike rested against the off-white, bagged brick wall with flowers in the front basket. Today it was roses, in a colour I had never seen before—pale pink with a tinge of light orange. The new days’ sunrays bathed them in a golden light, accentuating their magical colour. Their presence reminded me of two things: Gram was here; and I was late.

  I took seven steps forward and leaned into the white French door to push it open. A sharp glint caught my eye. I looked down, and there on the step was a shard of glass. And blood. Bright red blood. Just like that day ...

  I sucked in a sharp breath through my clenched teeth and tensed. My heart rate spiked as my head began to swirl. I stumbled into the store with a gut full of nausea, feeling like I was going to pass out. I ran to the powder room and leaned over the basin, panting, struggling to fight off the need to vomit.

  ‘Breathe ...’ I said to myself, ‘... in for a count of three ... and out for a count of five. You know how to deal with panic, Yolande. What do you need to say?’ I closed my eyes. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. Not here.

  ‘Stop,’ I said, ‘then what?’ Talking to myself was one of my coping mechanisms. It was also a sign of genius, apparently. But I beg to differ. ‘Distraction,’ I said.

  I turned on the tap and started to wash my hands under the water with soap—

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... lather, scrub, rinse—

  I knew there was no blood on my hands, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head: the image of my blood dribbling down onto my hand before it trailed along my fingers and dropped to the rocks below, where Mia lay, twisted.

  I turned off the tap and lifted my right hand in front of my eyes. I twisted it; over and back, over and back, time and time again, making sure there wasn't any blood. It was insane. I knew there was no blood. I wasn’t even bleeding.

  I clenched my teeth and turned on the tap again.

  Lather, scrub, rinse ... and breathe.

  Lather, scrub, rinse—

  A knock sounded on the powder room door and I stilled.

  ‘Andi, are you okay?’ It was Darcy’s deep voice. Beautiful Darcy. The tall red-bearded barista who saw all that went on in the store from his café throne. He never missed a beat. He was the colour of blue, like a clear sky, giving a sense of peace and calm where the world was indeed a wonderful place.

  I turned off the tap, cleared my throat and caught my sob. ‘W-whose blood is that?!’ I called.

  ‘What blood?’ he asked.

  ‘At the front doors. Did you see it?’

  ‘Nope. I came in through the back door, like I always do.’

  There was silence between us. I swallowed the contents of my stomach back down to where it belonged.

  ‘Do you want me to clean it up?’ he asked.

  I took a deep breath. I had to find my courage and step out of my comfort zone and confront my fear.

  Step boldly, Yolande!

  ‘Nope. I’ve got it,’
I said, sounding more confident than I felt. I squeezed my eyes shut, turned my head to the side and cussed. I walked into a cubicle and flushed the toilet to cover up my act of obsessively compulsively washing my hands. Then I turned on the tap again and washed my hands one last time, like a normal person would.

  I stepped outside the powder room and stumbled, almost tripping over Darcy. He lifted his red-bearded chin and looked down at me with concerned eyes. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll clean it up for you.’

  I blew air between my lips, thankful that he didn’t say the “b” word. ‘What?! And unleash me in your kitchen to bake cupcakes while you clean?’ Humour was the best way to deal with it; skirting around the problem.

  ‘You’re right. The customers would never come back.’ He gave me a whimsical smile.

  I raised an eyebrow at him and turned on the heel of my steel-capped work boots. I strolled over to greet Gram at the workbench of flower imagination before I dealt with the crime scene at the front of the store.

  ‘Morning, Gram. You look wonderful today!’ My voice was bright as I covered up my panicked state. I didn’t want her to know about my anxiety attack.

  ‘Thank you, dear. I left my bed to thwart off a spinning session ... with success, I might add!’ Her sparkly blue eyes smiled at me, the colour accentuated by the aged-blonde colour of her short, wavy hair. They were two things I shared with my grandmother—blue eyes and wavy blonde hair, except, I had dyed my hair dark-brown after that terrible day of the scars.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘It’s good to have you here. Fridays are crazy!’ I pressed my lips together. I sounded like I was a permanent fixture of the flower store, not someone who had come to help.

  Gram stopped like she was frozen in time and stared wide-eyed at the bench, her body stiff.

  ‘Are you okay, Gram?’ I watched her with intent while a sizzle of anxiety ran through me.

  ‘Sure,’ she answered with a forced smile and a shaky voice. She kept her eyes focussed on one spot in front of her. She was lying. After a moment she relaxed and continued preparing the long-stemmed roses for delivery.

  I frowned, keeping a careful eye on her. ‘Did you see the blood outside?’ I asked after a moment, and cleared my throat, internally wincing.