Kennedy's Redemption (The Protectors 3)

“Nothing, just please, let’s go inside,” she begged. Worry laced her voice.

Nodding her head, they made their way inside. Closing and locking the doors, she went in the kitchen to pour them some lemonade while she watched Deedee run around the house locking the windows. “Dee?” she questioned again.

“Not unless you’re ready, Ken,” she countered firmly.

Nodding her head, she handed Deedee her drink. They stood there watching each other for a few minutes before Kenny finally sighed and went into the living room. She turned Netflix on to one of their favorite shows, Orange Is the New Black.

After what felt like hours passed but was really only thirty minutes, Deedee finally entered the room and spoke to her. “I’m sorry, Ken. I shouldn’t have shut you down like that. I know you want to help, but I’m good, I promise. And you know I will never force you to talk, no matter how bitchy I may be.” Leaning down, she was about to kiss Kennedy’s cheek when she flinched away. “Fuck a duck. I’m so sorry!” she cried out, realizing she’d grabbed her arm when they were outside too.

“It’s ok, Dee,” she tried to soothe.

“It’s not; it’s really not. I know the pain you have. I watch you struggle just to get through the market. I’m so sorry, Kenny!”

She could see the tears welling in her friend’s eyes, so she sucked in a breath and forced herself to grab her hand saying, “Go home and get some rest. It’s fine. I’m fine.” She implored looking into her strange eyes.

Nodding her head, Deedee went to the back door and let herself out with a whispered goodnight. Kenny sat there for a while watching TV, waiting for her mind and eyes to be so tired she’d just drop. Some days it worked, most days it didn’t.

Sleep was a major issue for her. When she closed her eyes, she would be thrown back in time to when she was chained to the wall in the dusty, old cabin being tortured.

At the time she arrived in Italy so many weeks ago, she’d been so broken; a shell of the girl she once was. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and could barely function long enough to go outside. Knowing just how damaged she had been made her cringe. She was still broken but meeting Deedee and some of the people in town had helped open her mind to seek help. So three times a week she drove to Florence for therapy with a world-renowned psychologist from England, Dr. James Schroder.

At first she couldn’t go into his office alone. She would panic and couldn’t stop shaking so his assistant would come in, sit beside her and put headphones on so she didn’t hear the session. It helped to calm some of her fears. She didn’t want people knowing just how fucked up she was, but she needed to feel safe even more.

In the beginning she would sit there and stare at him, waiting for him to try something. What she didn’t know was her trust in humanity was lost. After a few weeks of her staring and him trying to engage her, he finally gave her a pen and paper and she would write for hours. She purged her every thought and emotion. Sometimes it was about hate, then there were the regrets she had. But mostly it was about the pain.

She wrote every depraved thing that had been done to her. Every evil word said. But not once had he asked her to share her words with him. She knew he would eventually, but for now he had her write what she felt. Sometimes he asked her to draw pictures, and initially, she didn’t understand. She had thought that was more for children when they couldn’t express their trauma, but the more she drew the more she realized how cathartic it could be.

He did ask to see her drawings, and sometimes that felt more personal than showing him her journal entries. He always knew how her day was going by the drawings. If she drew the ocean with waves crashing down after a big high, she was having a bad day. If she drew a serene sunset with lots of colors, blending the different pink, orange, and red hues, she had a good day. She hadn’t realized she was doing that until he pointed it out to her.

Now she paid attention to the detail she put into it, making sure every line of a wave or ray of sun was just right. It helped ease the pain in her heart. The pain in her mind and body was a whole other matter, though.

Crawling into bed, she pulled her journal out and started to write:

Dear diary…

I still never know how to start. You’re like an old friend waiting to see how I’ll screw up. Like a soft cushion wanting to embrace me. I never doubt your commitment to me, but today I wish I did.

I’m stuck in this body, a body I have come to hate; the scars are reminders I wish to forget. My mind is in turmoil and I’m struggling. I dream of how she hurt me every day, and I wish I could hurt her back. Make her feel an ounce of what I do. To know the struggle and self-doubt. The internal loathing is something I’m not sure I can live with anymore.

I sat on an overhang above the shoreline today to draw, and all I wanted to do was jump. I feel like letting go is the only way to be free. The only way to finally let go. But then I think of the darkness, and the dark scares me more than anything else.

Dee touched me today… I wanted to scream! The ice in my veins felt like jagged glass slicing through the skin and I wanted to rage, but she was panicking about something and for once, I feel like maybe I’m making progress?

I still haven’t opened Emily’s letters. I know I need to read them, but I don’t know if I can handle her guilt on top of my own emotions. I wish she’d never written them, but that’s selfish because I know she blames herself for what happened to me. I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do? I have an appointment with Dr. Schroder tomorrow, maybe for once I’ll talk to him?

See you on the other side,

Still broken.

Putting her journal away, she laid down i

n bed staring at the roof, watching the light flicker from the moon as the clouds rolled across the sky. It was going to storm; she could almost smell the rain in the air. Hopefully not too bad, she couldn’t handle the thunder anymore.

She remembered a time when she was a little girl and she and her mom would dance in the driveway while the rain pounded down, the thunder like a drum beat for them to dance to, and the lightening their own spotlights. Her dads hated it, always saying how embarrassing it was and how one day they’d get struck, but they watched with indulgent smiles.

Thinking of her parents had tears welling in her eyes. She missed them something fierce, but being around people that knew what happened to her wasn’t something she wanted or needed right then. Grabbing her phone she looked at it, debating whether or not to phone them. She knew they must be worried and that her brothers and their friends were probably looking for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. As much as she wanted them to know she was safe and sound, she wanted the peace of mind being without her old life gave her.

Rolling over she put the phone back down and closed her eyes, only to dream of smooth whiskey and dark promises.