Like Shards of Glass

By RH Ramsey

Beauty, pain, drugs, sex: repeat. Monroe Song, who considers herself nothing more than the wife of a terrorist, is struggling, failing, and drowning, trying to find her place in a world that has left her at the brink of insanity: Her husband, Carter, has opened fire at a mental health facility, before turning the ruthless gun on his sons, then himself.

Emptied wine bottles, and pills which bring her no relief or comfort, drive Monroe into the arms of Dominique, a man half her age, who offers her the perfect antidote for her brokenness.

Monroe's oldest son, Karter, once idolized his father. Karter is now haunted by his father's face, words, and the massacre that is now his family legacy.

If Karter's hero is a monster, a terrorist, who brutally murdered innocent people, what does that make Karter?

How can Monroe and Karter move forward when life has forgotten them? Then, again, with everything so distorted, why not spiral with the storm?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inknbeans Press
• Release date: Aug 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310165030

RH Ramsey

RH Ramsey is a military wife, mother of two and author with Inknbeans Press. Over the course of nine years, RH has diligently researched topics ranging from but not limited to: relationships, addiction, abuse and mental illness. RH has written several novels, many short stories with many works in progress. Just recently, her novel, Just Beneath the Surface, found its way into her local library catalog. With a passion for people, helping and learning, she hopes to continue in her quest of learning from and inspiring others.

Book preview

Beauty, pain, drugs, sex: repeat.  Monroe Song, who considers herself nothing more than the wife of a terrorist, is struggling, failing, and drowning, trying to find her place in a world that has left her at the brink of insanity: Her husband, Carter, has opened fire at a mental health facility, before turning the ruthless gun on his sons, then himself.

Emptied wine bottles, and pills which bring her no relief or comfort, drive Monroe into the arms of Dominique, a man half her age, who offers her the perfect antidote for her brokenness.

Monroe's oldest son, Karter, once idolized his father. Karter is now haunted by his father's face, words, and the massacre that is now his family legacy. 

If Karter's hero is a monster, a terrorist, who brutally murdered innocent people, what does that make Karter? 

How can Monroe and Karter move forward when life has forgotten them? Then, again, with everything so distorted, why not spiral with the storm?

Like Shards of Glass

Written by

R.H. Ramsey

Smashwords Edition

Published by

Inknbeans Press

© 2014

© 2014 R. H. Ramsey and Inknbeans Press

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work

Dedication and Acknowledgments

I cannot express enough thanks to God, to my husband, mother, and grandmother, who have been there every step of the way.

Sincerest thanks to my family and friends, reviewers and fellow writers, who have taken the time to support, encourage, read, and provide valuable input. 

And to my father, may he rest in peace.

You all mean the world to me.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Call Me Monroe

Chapter 2 Who Is Monroe Song-Helt

Chapter 3 Labels

Chapter 4 Home

Chapter 5 Once Upon a Time…

Chapter 6 Fingers

Chapter 7 Strangely Beautiful

Chapter 8 Stockings and Things

Chapter 9 What’s Your Poison?

Chapter 10 Violet Eyes

Chapter 11 Butterfly In the Bathroom

Chapter 12 Exile

Chapter 13 Real Men

Chapter 14 Grace, The Beautiful Man and the Titanic

Chapter 15 No One and The Gash Staring Back At Me

Chapter 16 Ashes In the Middle of Nowhere

Chapter 17 Guilt

Chapter 18 The Ledge and the Crooked Cross

Chapter 19 Transfer

Chapter 20 The Maze

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1:

Dominique Hall: ...call me Monroe

Just call me Monroe. Her voice was like the beginning; her eyes were like the end. Your mother made you sound like a baby, but you're practically a grown man, aren't you?

Monroe Song. Although she was no kin to my family she was introduced to me as my aunt, and I remember everything about that night. From the scent which left me intoxicated, the hug she greeted me with, the ripped jeans she wore, and the goodnight kiss she bestowed upon me, I remember – I remember that day, those moments – weeks ago – as if they happened yesterday. And I will surely never forget the way she whispered in my ear, Just call me Monroe.

Hours before she arrived the atmosphere was thick with an impenetrable chaos which could be felt miles away from our home. Despite the havoc, my parents spoke softly, whispered, and ushered me out of rooms like the family pet. The urgency in the air clashed with the pumpkin spice candles and sweet potato pie in the oven – my mother never cooked cakes, pies, or fried food unless something was wrong. Something was wrong; I knew and I could feel it. My parents told me to keep calm, and I had no knowledge of what I was keeping calm. They told me it would be best if I asked no questions.

Ask questions about what, I had wondered.

Our living room area and family room, which were always tidy, had been cleaned professionally earlier that afternoon. The carpets looked as if we were living in a model home. One room in particular had been redecorated, as the navy blue air mattress my sister slept on when home from college was deflated and put away in the hall closet. A decade old mahogany dresser had been brought downstairs from the attic. Had I known the dresser was for Monroe, I would have taken the task of dusting it more seriously.

My mother, who seldom lost patience, sucked her teeth at me. Hurry up, Dominique. I want you to help Karter, too. He's got that cast on his hand. I swear you move slow just to spite me – you're slow just like your father.

Thank you, but no, Mrs. Hall. Karter would then adjust his knit skull cap, throw his bag over his shoulder, and nod a hello in my direction.

I nodded and watched him as he passed me. Although I had been told he was eighteen, the fact that he was almost my height, much more muscle bound, had a full beard, and baritone voice, said otherwise. He left us in the driveway, and took his things to the guest house.

Just take that to Catrina's old room, son. I remember my father patting me on the back and closing the trunk of Monroe's car. Shooing away mosquitoes, sweat pooling in my pores, I focused on his mother's suitcases, again, and started for the house. This would make trip number three. The first trip, my father and I carried a bamboo colored trunk from her backseat to the center of Monroe's bedroom. Then, on the second trip, I carried a box full of what I presumed to be perfume. I remembered the way the glass clanged about; I'd nearly put the box down and cut it open to find out what the fragrance was called. And just like the first day, entering the bedroom with more of her things from storage, was like leaving our home – leaving Earth.

The chemistry of the bedroom was like some other-worldly garden: Fruit, flowers, sadness, barrenness, magnetism, embers, tears. Setting the suitcase against the wall, careful not to scrape the paint, I looked around the bedroom. I wondered if I should take a moment to organize the boxes and suitcases. Even the bed looked as if it had been struck by a natural disaster.

I noticed the trunk I had brought into the bedroom was open. Photographs were scattered about the black and white checkered comforter. In one of the pictures, Monroe, Karter, three little boys, and what had to have been their father, smiled at the camera. The family wore green, and they looked as if the picture had been snapped mid-laugh. Where were the three little boys?

Looking over my shoulder, I searched the hall for Monroe. I reached for the picture, and hand-written letters caught my eye: One was titled, Goodbye, the other, And it hurts.

There were footsteps in the hallway. Instead of standing there, looking through her things, I should have rushed to the corner and pretended to adjust the suitcases against the wall. But the letter reached for me and tugged at my sleeve. I picked it up, folded it, and stuffed it in my pocket.

Hell's wrong with me?

You're sweaty. She held two glasses which sweat even more than I did, and handed one of them to me.

Thank you, I said, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. Sorry. Stinking up your room.

Stinky boy. She raised her glass and laughed a closed mouth laugh.

Instinctively, I raised my glass, and she smiled as she said, Salute.

Our eyes met. They locked like magnets. And as I sipped from the glass, our eyes remained.

Whisky. I had expected wine.

My eyes wandered the body before me: up, down, side to side. Monroe's eyes were ovoid, pinched closed at the outer edges like art. The color of honey and copper was her skin. She was not curvy like most of the women who caught my eye; she was nearing rail thin. But her breasts were voluptuous, and teasing me beneath long black hair. Even with minimal make-up, she was the type of woman to drive men insane; mostly because we couldn't figure out what it was about her. Heads turned when she entered the room; I had even caught my father finding reasons to look at her and ask her meaningless questions, like: Where did you want this, again? Was this box fragile? Do you want me to take that for you?

And as we stood in the quiet of her bedroom – the otherworldly garden, I wanted to say something, and fill the silence between us. I told myself to breathe deeply, as I could feel the heat building within me, and at any moment, I would give myself – I was mortified, intimidated. But her eyes lulled me. I wanted inside her mind.

I drank more, took her in, and wanting to remember her just as she was in that moment, confounding and breathtaking, I memorized her. She had changed into a pair of silk pajamas, nearly the same shade as her skin. There was no bra, and although it was a warm August night, I could have sworn she had caught a chill.

She set her drink down on the mahogany dresser, and I exhaled.

Finally, someone had moved.

Oh! I almost forgot. I want to pay you back. She reached for her purse. I wanted to stop her. How's fifty?

Fifty what? Fifty for what?

I set my glass down beside hers, and shook my head as she took a fifty dollar bill from her wallet.

Use it for gas or lunch money.

What are you talkin’ about?

The boxes and suitcases. I'm not gonna let you just –

Lunch money? What?

I tilted my head as I spoke. I wanted to help you.

Your parents made you.

I'm twenty-three years old; they can't make me do anything.

Monroe looked as if she wanted to laugh, but instead of making me feel even more like a child, she stepped closer to me. Her eyes traced over me as she reached for my pocket, opened it, and slid the money inside.

You win – and in which pocket was the letter I had stolen?

Take it, Dominique. Her hand lingered in my pocket for a millisecond too long. She stood on her tiptoes. Just take it. She pressed cold, cordate lips to my cheek and whispered, Goodnight, and thank you.

Chapter 2

Who is Monroe Song - Helt

Who is Monroe? Who am I, now? Hard-working business owner, who commutes an hour to work every morning. Husband is a firefighter – a proud hero. Sons are all honor roll students. That was me six months ago.

When my oldest son, Karter, took off – ran away – hours after what I call, in my mind, the death of me, I went underground. I lived in hotels for three weeks. As if I could hide from what my husband did. When I resurfaced, I switched back to my maiden name. I decided to focus on my company, work from home, and relocate, again. What better place to start over, I had thought, than the city I'd sent my assistant to open my second location. But who am I, now? Right now, three months after the end of me?

I, Monroe, in short, equal coward. Monroe is a woman who recreates that day in her mind when she wakes, when she combs her hair and puts makeup on to cover shadows, as she showers, in her dreams. And I'm finding that I can no longer control the visions. The boys, I see their faces clearly: Terry was eleven, and Michael was twelve. Robin was eight, with Down syndrome. Karter, who at the time, was grounded from nearly everything except going to school and doing his homework, had skipped class and gone to the mall. And my husband, Carter, for reasons I would never know – I would never get to ask him why – had opened fire on Broadway Psychiatric Clinic; doctors, patients, men, women, even children, were all gunned down. He had then taken the car, gone to my boys' school, driven home, parked the car in our garage, and taken them from me.

People talked about PTSD in what I once thought were melodramatic articles. There were homeless men wandering, holding veteran signs, and when they told their story, they were careful to mention the disorder as if it made them entitled to the money they asked for. Call me heartless, but I paid it no mind. Even when Carter came home after volunteering – bombs had gone off at three downtown banks – he returned wearing my husband's skin, behaving as if he had been abducted by some incubus, taken apart and put back together. Carter was never the same.

Most days I knew when the ice storm was coming by the way he looked at his food. When his appetite was healthy, I was irresistible. If he pushed away his plate and read the newspaper instead of asking the boys and me about our prospective days, he would go out of his way to make me cease to exist. I still remember the afternoons when he knew me, and for a split second, I miss him – the Carter before the bombings. Then I realize I love a terrorist, and I take more pills than I should. Pills a doctor whose breath still smells of mother's milk prescribed for me. Pills that do nothing more than put a bandage – a bandage of sleep -- on my heart.

One Sunday evening, Kat invited me to have Sunday dinner with the family, and with everything she had done for me, I could not consider telling her no or letting her down. Kat, who'd been one of my college professors, and maybe the only friend I had left, was the only person who did not judge me. Never treated me as if I had something to do with what Carter … did. Or maybe that was all in my mind, for if I had left him when I realized he was no longer the man I married, maybe my boys would be here now.

I sat at the kitchen table staring at my plate, wondering why I was there. It crossed my mind several times that no one could see me. They were all carrying on, eating, conversing, as if I had left the room, because I had made myself evaporate into thin air.

God, please, give me some wine and a bed, and I could make it to tomorrow.

Force me to sit and smile and listen and be, I would only cower away like demons to light.

Mom, Karter whispered. He gestured toward some dinner guest – a man whose name I had forgotten.

Mom. I hated that word.

Monroe, what do you need, love? Kat's slightly parted mouth, and the way she cocked her head told me I had worn out my welcome at the dinner table. I wasn't eating, could hardly keep up with the conversation, and was probably reaching for my wine far too much.

What did I miss? I'm so sorry. I shook my head and looked down at my plate. So sorry.

Sorry why? Dominique's eyes seemed to glow as he entered the kitchen. Built like he spent his days and nights in a swimming pool training for the Olympics, his shirt stuck to his chest and abdomen.

Kat's attention switched to her son, and a layer of tension melted from my shoulders. Her husband, Lonnie, threw up his hand and mumbled hello as he bit into his roll.

You're late, baby, said Kat. I'll fix your plate. Will you really sit there sweating like that? Clothes stuck to your body? At the dinner table.

Dominique responded with a grunt and reached for a roll.

You heard your mom. Go wash up.

Another grunt. A sound most young men and boys made when nagged by their parents. Suddenly, I had no control over my eyes, and as they welled with tears, I wondered how I would get through dinner watching them fuss over their son, when my boys …

He was asking you how much of the city you've seen, Karter whispered.

I could give a damn about this city.

Karter had always been too polite, overly concerned with who was watching and what people thought. Yet lies poured from the mouth of this mannerable boy like lava.

I finished my glass of wine and looked at him as if he spoke a foreign language.

You need a nap, Mom? he asked.

I cringed.

I said, I'll get his plate. You sit down and relax, said Lonnie.

The tears came, again. They were a perfect couple, if perfect ever did exist. Lonnie was an average-sized man, with what I imagined was a Goliath-sized heart. He was quiet, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly, as if deep down, he knew that time was far too valuable to waste on impatience or rushing around like ants. A bit scruffy from working long hours at the hospital, Lonnie was quite handsome. Both he and Dominique bore a complexion like agave, identical under bites, which were nearly undetectable, and five o'clock shadows. Kat, a hefty woman who did not look a day over eighteen years old, was a gentle spirit. She spoke in what could be considered a whisper, but nearly every sentence she spoke had some sort of double-meaning.

I watched as Lonnie leaned down and urged his wife to relax. He squeezed her shoulder and told her to let him help her, that she had been on her feet long enough. It had been one month since Carter stole my life. It had been several months since I had been spoken to or touched as delicately as Lonnie touched Kat; the thought of being touched made me ill. I observed them as if I watched a movie, and felt a tremor in my legs. Placing my hands in my lap, I squirmed in my seat. The tremor moved to my hands. My body ached. And without my permission – without my knowledge, a tear fell from my eyes, followed by more tears. I scooted my plate around and pushed my fork off the edge of the table. Moving quickly, before Mr. Mannerable, prince of knavery, could fetch it for me, I leaned down, wiped my tears on the table cloth, and grabbed my fork.

Dominique sat down across from me, disregarding his mother's request that he change clothes. He peered at me, then averted his eyes. I knew he could see the tears. Again, I was reminded that I was painfully alive for all to gawk and point at me.

After clearing my throat, I said, Excuse me.

I moved with purpose and walked as if I was late for a business meeting. Once I reached the bedroom, I collapsed at the edge of the bed. Then, using aching, trembling arms and legs, I crawled to my nightstand.

Meds. Wine. Sleep. Meds. Wine. Sleep. Pour pills in hand. Open bottle. Guzzle. Close your eyes. Vanish.

Forget the bed; the floor was fine. I pulled down the comforter and curled up with the bottle of wine. This was the moment when my boys knocked on my door and bothered me about snacks and boredom. Karter would shoo them away and tell them I was sleeping, then turn around and beg me to let him off punishment, so he could go to some silly party. Wasn't this supposed to be the moment when my decorated hero came and lifted me off of the floor and placed me gently on the bed? Was that not what I deserved? If I am a mother, why am I on the cold, hard floor, drugged, shaking, tired, unable to sleep?

When do my boys call me mom, mommy, momma, and bother me about new shoes? Didn't I give birth? Aren't I a mother – a mother of four boys? No? Then who am I? Who am I and why am I here? Somebody make it all stop and tell me why the hell am I still...

Chapter 3

Karter Song: Labels

Both funny and scary how the words of someone who won't remember hours after their tongues pierce, can sculpt us – stamping our frontal lobes. Glimpses into humanity – illusions – beautiful and heinous are the epitome of childhood. One would think by adolescence the imaginary worlds we created would have become solid, viable. But, no. Adolescent girls are fragile, hormonal, and neurotic; boys are just as fragile, and just as neurotic.

For instance, I, by the age of ten, knew myself as nothing more than secretive, liar, sneaky, oldest son, who was breaking his mother's heart. I was convinced that my lying would lead me to a life of burglarizing and hurting people, maybe even jail. Once I reached eleven-years-old, I became accustomed to my mother's