Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

  This book is an exertion of fiction. All characters, names, situations, places, and events are the creation of the author’s imagination. Any likenesses to any person, living or deceased, places, names, or situations are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Mary E. Palmerin

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, Mary Elizabeth Palmerin.

  Editor: Kellie Montgomery

  Cover by Kelsey Keeton, KKeeton Designs © 2014

  >

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Mary's Books

  For the Reader

  To everyone who never gave up on me; the ones that stood beside me and paused when I did, not allowing me to give up. This is for you.

  There are so many things that I want to say, so many people I want to thank that I don’t even know where to start. This book was one that I knew I wanted to write, but knowing and doing are two different things. Diving into this story was scary on multiple levels, however when you pull that fear out from your heart and pour it into a story, that truly equals an incredible thing.

  First and foremost as always, I need to thank my family for always believing in me no matter what. My husband and two sons are my entire life and have put up with a lot during my writing career, including this book like late nights in my office and my husband being the Googling machine. My extended family has always had faith in my writing and supported me since I was a little girl. Being a woman and having the courage to share them with the world is a whole new ball game and to have them as my army behind me is wonderful.

  My beta readers: Cecily, Kelly, Jenna, T, Kristin, and Tara have lost sleep along the way with me. I honestly don’t know what I would do without their feedback, constructive criticism, and encouragement to keep pushing myself forward. I thought that I pushed the boundaries before with Lyla’s story, but I was merely gracing the surface in comparison to Gwen’s tale. They all prefer different reads and to have them coaching me behind the scenes and having faith in the message that this book conveys makes me swell with pride. I am honored and lucky to have them alongside me during this journey and to have them as my friends.

  A huge thank you to my street team, Mary’s Magnificent Minxes, for their continued support. It’s a small group, but they have inspired me in more ways than they will ever know from England to the Midwest and Florida. They are amazing women and I am so happy to have them as friends and believers in my work.

  A big thank you to Kellie Montgomery for taking this book into your hands and polishing it to make it shine. Your keen eye, support, and friendship mean so much to me!

  To my formatter, Deena Rae Schoenfeldt. I would be lost without your amazing computer-savvy brain. You make my words look beautiful on the e-readers and in print and you too have become a great friend along the way. You make me laugh and appreciate the rawness that my books provide. Thank you!

  Another big thank you to Kelsey Keeton with KKeeton designs for creating another stunning cover for me. Your vision is one-of-a-kind and I am lucky to be able to work alongside you! Thank you for the tragedy as well as the beauty you conveyed in this cover!

  To my readers, thank you for taking a chance on Gwen’s story. I hope you are touched by this raw, graphic, and sometimes cringe-worthy story. Sometimes, life ends for us and we are picked up and placed somewhere new, forced to survive and conform to someone else. That is epitome of Gwen’s story.

  Readers, please be aware that this book is intended for mature audiences. Graphic scenes are depicted throughout the book and are not intended for readers under the age of eighteen. If you are expecting a romantic love story, please do not continue reading because this tale is not for you. Parts of this book contain sensitive subject matter that may be triggers for some people. Reader discretion is highly advised. Do not proceed reading if you are easily offended by strong language, sexual encounters (both consensual and non-consensual), physical and emotional abuse, and detailed depictions of violence. Consideration of the above mentioned disclaimer is highly advised before reading. Thank you.

  “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Scalding, hot water rains over my body as I stare at the molded shower. I’m not even sure who I’ve become the past two months. I only know that I continue going through the motions of life because I have been given no other choice. I don’t allow myself to think back to the night when everything changed for me. I understand that this place that I exist in is nothing more than an inferno of terror and until I have the courage to comprehend what occurred, I will not heal.

  The piercing pain of the droplets makes me cringe and I fight the urge to huddle in the dirty corner of the tub. I want to go back to the life that I had, but revisiting those moments makes me confront the person that I once was and I am not prepared or able to do that. Not because they were unpleasant moments, but because the life that I had before was happy and content. I only can do one thing right now.

  Survive.

  Being a seventeen, almost eighteen-year-old girl who lost everything is enough to make any sane person crazy. I often wonder what makes my broken heart keep going, then I remind myself that there are more wicked events that are happening in the world. I have a roof over my head and food in my belly most nights, if bread and Spam count. I’m thankful for that.

  For sixty-something days I have gone through the waves like a robot. I show up to the weekly counselor meetings, but I look through her because I cannot find the words to speak. I want so badly to cry, to feel something, but the tears will not come. I’ve molded myself into a dull, absent being who refuses to face what I lost or feel.

  A loud knock interrupts my thoughts.

  “You better not take all the hot water, Gwen!” shouts Claude, my foster parent.

  Unluckily for me, I’ve found myself relocated forty-five minutes away from the old Gwendolyn, in a single-wide trailer that I share with another foster kid and a pair of guardians that definitely don’t have my best interests at heart.

  I don’t offer him a reply. I shut the shower off and exit, quickly grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my body. I look to the counter by the sink for my clothes, b
ut they are not there. I furrow my brows, confused because I am sure that I put them there before I got into the shower. I see that the door is cracked open and my heart begins to race as a fat hand creeps inside. The once hot drops of water are now icy, stinging my skin and waking me up to this horror that I am living in.

  Claude walks in and my gut sinks. His dirty, long gray hair is matted and his wide-rimmed glasses are smudged. The beard on his face that matches the color of his hair is thick and hides the frightening smile he is giving me. His black T-shirt has holes by the collar and his large gut makes it difficult for him to squeeze into the small bathroom. I see my clothes in his other hand.

  “I reckon you are lookin’ for these,” he sneers, holding up my jeans and sweatshirt.

  I nod my head yes as I tremble in fear, tucking deeper into the corner of my brain that I am beginning to become scared of.

  “This here lock don’t work, Gwen,” he says, gesturing his head toward the door knob.

  I remain still, unsure of what to do next. He sits my clothes where I originally put them. I clutch onto the towel tighter, trying my best to cover myself up.

  “Don’t take all the hot water next time,” he whispers, then winks at me.

  He snakes past the doorway and exits. I push my body against the door, praying for the tears to come. They remain absent. I stand and look at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. My once vibrant red curls are dull and wet, my green eyes seem hazy, and my face is shallow, without life. I never would have thought that I could scare myself, but it’s at this moment that I am terrified of who I am becoming.

  Someone who doesn’t feel.

  “At least we got breakfast this morning,” says Welch, another seventeen-year-old foster kid living in the same shit-hole as me.

  I know he is trying to strike up a friendly conversation, but I am not friendly or interested in becoming pals with anyone. I’ve avoided him since arriving at this dirty trailer with two creepy guardians after being uprooted from my white picket fence lifestyle and loving parents. My nostrils flare at the thought, as I try to coach myself not to remember who I was or what I lost.

  When you fall down, darling, you have to pick yourself back up again. My mother’s soft voice betrays my will as it echoes in my mind, one that I am becoming unfamiliar with. Why would I let myself become friendly with anyone when I can’t even tolerate who I am becoming?

  “You don’t say much,” he says again, following behind me to the school bus stop.

  I continue to ignore his voice as it does something strange to me, though I don’t quite comprehend it. I grasp my backpack straps as I see the group of kids waiting at the turn-around. Walking an hour to the closest bus pick-up is a nightmare, but necessary since our temporary guardians won’t take us to school. The September weather is absent today and feels more like an Indian summer. I feel myself perspiring underneath my black sweatshirt as I come up closer to the crowd of students.

  “Gwendolyn, wait,” Welch calls out.

  I ignore him once again.

  I’m prepared for the new girl rants, bullying, whatever you may call it. Being the first day of school and looking like shit, I have only increased my chances of the name calling.

  “Gwen, just wait.”

  I dismiss him and walk to the curb.

  I see a tall, dark haired boy with a Mayesville High School T-shirt on. Last year he would have been a boy I would’ve been interested in with his mussed hair, blue eyes, and defined football muscles. Today, I see through him, remaining uninterested, without any attraction.

  “Well, well. Who do we have here?” he says to me in a cocky tone as he pulls the edges of his lips into an arrogant smile.

  About ten other kids are gathered around him as their eyes simultaneously make their way to me. I ignore them and park my feet at the curb, watching and waiting for the bus.

  “I asked, who do we have here?” the boy says once more.

  Again, I remain nonverbal, unwilling and unable to give him a return. He walks over to me until he is inches before my face. I refuse to let my eyes meet his as my gaze stays on his black Converse sneakers.

  “What’s your name, new girl?”

  “She doesn’t say much,” Welch interjects.

  “Fuck off, Welch. No one was asking you,” Mr. Asshole retorts.

  I hold onto the straps of my backpack as I hear a rustling engine in the distance. I look up and see the yellow bus driving along the remote road, coming closer and closer.

  “You aren’t going to tell me your name? We can be friends, ya know,” cocky boy says.

  I look up at him and shake my head no. Who does this asshole think he is?

  “It’s Gwendolyn,” Welch offers.

  “Shut up, Welch!” I shout. He’s getting on my nerves. I don’t need some ass-hat speaking for me.

  He hangs his head as Mr. Cocky smiles at me. The squeaking of the bus breaks interrupts the conversation and I welcome it. I slide past him and walk into the bus, thankful for more minutes that have been shaved off my life.

  I sit on the first bench seat and Welch plops down next to me. I huff in exasperation because he isn’t going anywhere. Apparently I need to get used to him. I look at him out of the corner of my eye as he shakes his shaggy hair off of his face. His black hair and brown eyes matches the darkness that I feel. When I understand that I am studying him more, I look away. I cannot become attached to anyone, because that requires feeling and something that I won’t allow myself to do. Becoming attached means feeling. Feeling means accepting. Accepting means revisiting, and I won’t do that.

  “You can talk to me ya know,” Welch says.

  “What kind of name is Welch anyway,” I respond.

  I curse myself for such a remark. I don’t want to know anything about him. I don’t want or need a friend.

  “It’s my last name. I go by Welch.”

  I ignore him as I stare out the window, admiring the long green stalks of corn that are soon to be cut away by the farmers. I never saw myself wanting to escape the good ole country life of Southern Illinois, but now I want to escape anything and everything. I wish I could wake up a new person.

  “If you ever want to talk, you can talk to me,” Welch says once more.

  “Look, I don’t want a friend, okay?” I sneer, looking at him through tormented eyes.

  He scrunches his eyebrows and I can’t help but feel bad. My heart speeds up while I become confused. Why do I feel empathy for not wanting to give parts of myself to him? He doesn’t deserve that. I don’t even deserve it.

  “Whatever,” he replies, looking ahead.

  This day has barely started and I already want it to be over. Pretending not to care is going to be hard.

  I’ve survived half of the school day with minimal remarks from fellow students. It’s time for lunch and my stomach is grumbling, begging for decent food. I never would have dreamt that I’d be looking forward to warm cafeteria meals, but this is the life that I live now. I make my way to the line and my mouth waters as I see the steam from behind the food counter. I don’t even care what is being served, I just want to eat. The worker hands me a plate of chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll. I walk to the cashier and pull out my free lunch ticket, giving it to her.

  “Have a good day,” she says sweetly.

  I try to disclose my senses while staring at the blob of white matter on my tray that is supposed to be mashed potatoes, as my mind betrays me once again.

  Extra butter and milk just for you, darling. Daddy is cutting the turkey now.

  Flashbacks of the prior year’s Thanksgiving feast shatters my heart as I try to run further away from who I was. Will the little things always make me remember my parents, the most important people in my life? Is life that easily changed in an instant, appreciating homemade food and kisses from your loved ones to free meals at school along with creeping stares from nasty foster parents? I punch myself in the gut to numb that part of my life and foc
us on trying to survive yet another awful day.

  I nod my head yes to her. She must realize I am the new girl in a class of less than a hundred seniors at Mayesville High School. I exit and look around the cafeteria, hoping to find an empty table. I spot one and pick up the pace to claim it. Before I have time to understand what is happening, my face meets the hot contents of the meal I was looking forward to on the hard ground. I hear a rush of clapping follow suit, along with a crowd of laughing students.

  So much for not feeling.

  Now I’m just fucking angry. I wipe the potatoes off my nose and look up at the asshole who tripped me and see the fucker from the school bus stop, Mr. Cocky.

  “Looks like you should watch where you are going, Gwendolyn.”

  I leave my tray on the ground and stand, making my way out of the clapping room and into the bathroom next door. I pull my long red locks back into a messy pony tail and turn the dripping faucet on, then collecting lukewarm water in my hands, I splash the water on my face and watch the bits of food collect in the drain. My blood is boiling and it’s at this fleeting moment that I question everything.

  At this second, I allow myself to feel something.

  Anger.

  I rinse the remaining food away from my face and take a paper towel from the dispenser to dry myself. I look at my reflection in the mirror and feel the same way I did this morning.

  Scared.

  How can someone as vibrant as I once was turn into someone so different and bleak? Unattached and angry? Unwilling to accept the gruesomeness that has ensued, so I go about pretending that I am not affected by the world around me. Sooner or later, I will bust at the seams and reach my boiling point. I’m petrified of what that might entail.

  Who am I now?

  Who cares anyway? The life that I once had is gone. I suppose that this is the start of another. Perhaps the old Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick is dead and the new one is reborn.

  “Gwen?” a familiar voice calls out.