Broken

  Broken

  K.M. Harding

  Copyright © 2021 K.M. Harding

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retriev-al system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, elec-tronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Andrew Harding

  Independently Published.

  ISBN: 979-8-7397-4744-0

  For Ryan & Rachel,

  Andy,

  Cathy, Claire,

  Ann & Janice.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I’m running. I’m bolting as fast as my feet can carry me. My legs are aching. My ankles are starting to swell, but I refuse to slow. I keep moving forward. Never looking back. I keep running. I need to keep running.

  I know he is there. I can hear his footsteps pounding in the distance, echoing my racing heartbeat. I can hear the twigs cracking under his feet and the sound of his deep voice as he calls my name. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine at every “Daniella” he yells, and I can only hope and pray I will come across someone, anyone, before he catches me. I can’t let him catch me. I keep running. I need to keep running.

  I have nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide, yet I keep going. Staring straight ahead, I weave my way through the vast trees. No matter where I go, he will eventually find me, but I can’t let that stop me. He will never stop. He will never tire, never slow, and never give up. I keep running. I need to keep running.

  My ankle gives way, sending me crashing to the ground with a thud. I cling to my ankle, wincing from the searing pain shooting up my leg. The tears are stinging my eyes. I need to get up. I need to move. I’m wasting time. I climb to my feet, but I fall straight back down, the fatigue overwhelming me. I can hear him growing closer. I need to run. I need to keep running.

  I drag myself to my feet, limping as I desperately try to regain my speed. It’s no good. I’ve slowed down. His footsteps are louder now, and the sound is deafening. Fuck! I can hear his harsh, penetrating breaths as he nears. My legs feel weak. My ankle is screaming in agony. The tiredness is creeping into my bones. My body is failing me. The tiny sliver of hope is draining away and evaporating into thin air. I try to keep running. I need to keep running.

  A hand yanks my hair. My head snaps backwards, and my back lands hard on the ground. I hear something crack, and I involuntarily let out an almighty, ear-piercing scream.

  “You can run but you can’t hide,” he taunts cockily, towering over me. “I will always find you.”

  I can’t move. He’s on top of me now, pinning me to the ground. I want to get up, to use any morsel of remaining strength to throw him off me, but I’m too weak, and he’s too strong. He’s smirking, and the sight sickens me. I spit in his face in one last attempt… Crack. He punches me in the chest, and the pain is excruciating. The tears I’ve been fighting so hard to hold back come streaming out like endless waterfalls down my cheeks. I shouldn’t cry. He likes it when I cry. He gets off on it. Crying only makes things worse.

  He stands. I try to take the opportunity to move but he slams his foot against my chest, knocking the wind out of me. I cough, gasping for air as he allows me to roll onto my side. My head is starting to spin. The nausea is burning the back of my throat. My chest is writhing in agony, and I cling to it, wrapping my arms around my body, preparing for what’s to come.

  Slam. His foot collides with my stomach. Slam. Slam.

  I wake up screaming, jolting upright, in a pool of sweat. I instinctively scan my surroundings, my bed, my bedside table and empty magnolia walls. I take a deep breath. I’m safe.

  My alarm clock rings. I groan, slamming my hand against it, and the silence that follows is blissful. It’s half-six in the morning. Despite my usual, nasty wake-up call, getting up still isn’t easy. I want to stay in the comforts of my bed, wrapped in my duvet where it’s warm and cosy, but unfortunately, I need to get my backside to work.

  The sun is shining far too brightly through the useless cream curtains I keep meaning to replace as I drag myself out of bed and head over to my free-standing mirror. I scan my reflection and sigh. I’m starting to think I’ll never get used to the twenty-five-year-old face staring back at me, yet despite my lack of sleep, I don’t look completely awful. My long blonde hair is loosely curled, falling around my shoulders, and the circles under my hazel eyes are not too obvious. I’m pale, but that’s just my unfortunate natural skin colour – there is no colour – and I’d make a bloody good vampire at Halloween, no make-up required.

  It doesn’t take me long to get ready – it never does – and I quickly wash before heading back into my bedroom. From the suitcases I’ve yet to unpack sitting on the floor, I grab my clean clothes and throw on my usual long-sleeved black top that falls neatly to just below my hips, making sure the holes at the bottom of the sleeves are fastened securely around my thumbs, my matching hip-length cardigan and my work-only jeans. I take another glance in the mirror – sigh-free this time – and run a brush through my hair. I’ll do.

  I make my way into my open-plan living room slash kitchen, heading straight for the kettle. Just like most mornings and every second of the day thereafter, I’m craving a caffeine fix and a nice, hot cup of coffee is calling my name. I glance at the empty dishes sitting pretty next to the sink as I wait for the kettle to boil, reminding me of the company I kept last night. And no, before your dirty mind kicks in, it wasn’t a man. Well, technically, there was a man, but not in the way you’re thinking. It was my neighbours.

  I live in a two-bedroomed basement flat in a rather large block of flats in a place called Stanton, a town on the outskirts of Manchester. The perk of being in the basement is that I share a communal entrance with only one other flat, but the downside is it’s shared by two people, two relentless people who, despite my best efforts, have practically forced themselves into my life.

  I moved in roughly a year ago with every intention of keeping myself to myself and for the most part, I still do, but no matter how much I tried, I could not keep my neighbours, particularly Jess, at bay. It took a week before the pair of them were inviting me out or in for a brew and at first, I respectfully declined. But like I said, they are relentless and before long, I resigned myself to an easy life by opting for the lesser of two evils, staying home rather than going out, but with company rather than alone.

  I don’t do going out, apart from work and my weekly food shop, and no matter how relentless my neighbours are, that is not going to change any time soon. So, to keep the peace, my neighbours clog up my living room once a week for a movie night. I also cook, providing my neighbours with prob
ably the only home-cooked meal they eat, but as a non-drinker, they bring their own booze. As much as I want a life of solitude, I’m a realist and I know it’s impossible to avoid people completely. And despite my many, many issues, I don’t mind hanging out with my neighbours, provided it involves the safety and comfort of my own home.

  Jess, whom I briefly mentioned, is not bad company despite being the complete opposite to me, both in looks and personality. She’s an attractive lass, with long, dirty-blonde hair that falls to her waist, bigger than average boobs, a provocative dress sense that leaves nothing to the imagination and no filter whatsoever, constantly talking about boys and sex like she’s stuck in high school despite being twenty-two years old. She enjoys lapping up the male attention though, and from what I’ve seen, which granted isn’t much outside my four walls, she likes to be the centre of attention in all things, and as an aspiring model, she knows how to flaunt it. Yet underneath the partying and blonde bimbo persona, she has a sweetness about her that I like, and I genuinely believe her heart is in the right place.

  But with Jess comes her flatmate, James, the buff fitness instructor with an ego the size of China. He’s the kind of guy who sleeps with anything that walks and talks provided they are female. He calls it the exploration of all things sexual. I call it having a dick for a brain, but we agree to disagree. He’s six foot tall, blonde, tanned and has muscles that bulge out of his T-shirt, on the days he bothers to put a T-shirt on in the first place. Our paths cross in the hallway quite regularly and nine times out of ten, winter, spring or summer, he’s topless. Looks-wise, he’s every girl’s dream guy and he knows it.

  Just for the record, James is not my dream guy before you start getting any crazy ideas. James is too good-looking, and he’s got an arrogance about him that grates. Saying that, if James has got one good thing going for him it’s his sense of humour. He’s a funny guy and he rarely fails to make me laugh.

  I’ve gotten to know quite a bit about both James and Jess, especially since Jess likes to invite herself over a little more regularly than our weekly movie night, usually when James is at it in the bedroom with his latest conquest, and Jess likes to talk. Gossip is probably more accurate, and she’s filled me in on every single bad habit James owns, whether I wanted to know about them or not, which is also why the conversation is typically one-sided. I like my privacy, and something tells me Jess would splatter my personal life across every wall in Manchester if I shared, so my silence is something I’m clinging to. James is a little nosier and keener to learn about the mysterious Daniella as he sometimes calls me, but I tend to keep things vague.

  I’m about halfway through my brew when I hear my phone ringing from the coffee table in the middle of my basic living room, and when I say basic, I really mean it. There are two brown leather sofas in an L shape, one against the back wall facing the outdated fireplace, and the other with its back towards the kitchen. The walls are magnolia and pictureless, but I am blessed with laminate flooring, and there’s a mirror above the white, empty fire surround, but only because it was there when I moved in. In the far-left corner is my telly, and in the right-hand corner is my prized possession, my music set-up, including a large keyboard, two guitars, speakers, a mixer and everything else I need for my songwriting. You’ll learn very quickly that music is my one and only passion.

  I move to answer my phone and groan at my boss’s name flashing across the screen. After a quick hello, I listen to Lloyd asking if I could stay on an extra hour due to a colleague phoning in sick, and although I’m silently cursing, I’m agreeing. Lloyd thanks me then hangs up and resigning myself to a mere hour between my two jobs today, I head into my bedroom to grab job number two’s embroidered T-shirt to take with me. There’s not much point in returning home in between given both of my jobs are about a half hour’s drive away from my flat.

  Job number one is as a waitress at Lloyd’s, and number two is at Dave’s Music Shop, both part-time, but you can guess which one I prefer. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays are spent at Lloyd’s working eleven in the morning until six in the afternoon, along with a Friday morning, seven-thirty until eleven-thirty, or in today’s case, until twelve-thirty. Friday afternoon, half-one until half-five, and a full half-eight until half-five on a Saturday are spent at Dave’s. Between them, they give me roughly the equivalent of full-time hours and they pay the bills. Are either of them a career? No. But then my dream career would involve putting myself out there and the likelihood of that happening is slim-to-nothing, so I’m happy to settle with what I’ve got. Plus, I have a Sunday and a Monday each week to spend working on my music.

  I finish my coffee, diminishing my caffeine cravings for the time being, and grab my bag, flinging it over my shoulder so it’s sitting across my body before dragging my feet out to the communal entrance. My neighbour’s door swings open just as I step out, and I catch a glimpse of James standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein boxers with a short, blurry-eyed woman beside him. I notice the lass attempting, and failing miserably, to pull down her tacky leopard-print dress that barely covers her backside as I move to retrieve yesterday’s post from the locked basket hanging at the back of the main door, and I can’t help but smirk. She’s a typical example of the many women who share James’s bed, a little trashy but drop-dead gorgeous. She stands facing James as if she’s waiting for something, but if it’s a goodbye kiss, there’s nothing but disappointment coming her way. I’ve played witness to this scene a little too often.

  “I had fun,” James says in between yawns. “I’ll text you.”

  Liar. I have never seen the same girl twice. I move back towards my flat as the bewildered woman is ushered out of the main door, James shutting it firmly behind her.

  “Good morning, Dani,” he says, smiling brightly.

  “Morning, Jay,” I reply, not quite so bright. “Good night?”

  “Not everyone is a party pooper like you,” James taunts. “And as you can see,” he adds, gesturing towards the door and the exited woman, “it turned out to be a very good night.”

  “Your idea of a good night and mine are two very different things,” I say, sifting through my post to check for anything important.

  “You need to lighten up and have some fun for a change,” James declares, hovering in his doorway again. “All work and no play make Dani an impossible lay.” I roll my eyes. It’s all about sex for James.

  “There’s more to life than getting laid.”

  James laughs, leaning one arm up against the doorframe near his head as though he’s posing for a photoshoot. “Yeah, ’cause staying home playing that bloody keyboard all the time is such an exciting life.”

  I wisely choose to ignore that comment. James will never understand and that’s fine by me. Music is my sanctuary. It’s the one thing that helps me escape the craziness in my head, and trust me, I need the escape.

  “One of these days, Dani,” James continues, “I will get you out, and I will show you a good time.”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he teases, and after chucking my unopened mail inside my flat and locking the door, I purposefully look him up and down.

  “There’s not much else to miss.”

  James laughs, flashing me his cheeky boy grin, a grin I can imagine goes down very well with the ladies. “Only the best part,” he says, almost seductive in his tone, and I instinctively feel the urge to heave.

  We both know exactly what he’s referring to, as I’m sure you do too, and I shake my head. I can’t fault James for his banter. He doesn’t offend easy, and as a sarcastic person myself, most of the time unknowingly, I can pretty much call him every name under the sun or take the absolute mick out of him and he just takes it, giving as good as he gets.

  “Seriously,” James says, “you should let me take you out sometime. Maybe dinner or the cinema. I promise there will be fun to be had.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d sa
y that’s an invitation to a date. Nah, no way. James can have any woman he wants, and I highly doubt a scarred freak like me fits the bill. And what James doesn’t know is I’m scarred on so many levels, but the one which I am referring to at this moment is the knife wound on my face; it runs from the top right of my forehead, across my nose and to the bottom of my left cheek. My face is not my best feature, something which I pretend not to be self-conscious about, but even I can’t deny it affects my confidence. Let’s face it, even if James is asking me on a date, it’s only out of pity, and the last thing I want is pity.

  “Never gonna happen,” I say bluntly.

  “We’ll see,” James replies, smiling that cheeky boy grin again, and with that, I exit the building.

  The roads are quiet as I drive my good old Nissan Micra towards work. So far, the traffic is light, which is typical of Stanton town, but it’ll busy up once I hit Manchester city centre. I call Stanton a town but given its small size, it reminds me more of a large village, with just one supermarket, one bank and one post office occupying its so-called high street. Although there are a lot of pubs for such a small place, not that I’ve ever stepped inside any of them. I’d rather chew off my own arm.

  I arrive at work fifteen minutes early, typical of me being an early bird type who cannot abide being late, and park my car around back before walking down the little side alley to Lloyd’s café. Unlocking the door, I prepare myself for the quiet day ahead. Unfortunately, the café is set off down a side street and doesn’t get much by way of footfall, and with the increasing number of coffee shops and restaurants popping up, Lloyd’s is struggling. It’s declined quick too. When I first started here about ten months ago, the place was steady enough and I was kept going, but not so much nowadays. There have been days when I’ve served maybe only two or three customers in a seven-hour shift. It’s dire.

  As a result, apart from the two staff members who came and went of their own accord, last month Lloyd was forced to make cuts and lay two people off. Luckily, I wasn’t one of them. The pot washer and one of the waitresses were both sent packing because Lloyd couldn’t justify paying them anymore. It does mean the remaining waitresses pitch in with the pot washing and food prep from time to time, during those increasingly rare moments the café is busier, but it doesn’t bother me. I like to keep busy at work anyway.