Autumn Falls

By Candice K. Leishman

Love and Hate...

We all come across it in our lives, experience it in different ways, and come to find one thing is for certain; you can’t live with both, one always outweighs the other. It’s like holding a flame to a highly combustible field of dry grass, or giving a child a can of red paint in an all-white room and telling them to keep clean, or it’s as simple as trying to mix water and oil. You can’t mix them; you have to overcome one before conquering the other.

For two individuals-William and Claire- these two contradictory words leave them at a cross roads in their lives, in make or break situations, and it leaves them both with secrets they are dying to tell...

For Claire Knight, a plainly gorgeous, set in her ways, well known photographer, and twenty-five year old San Franciscan, her chance for telling her secret that she’s carried with her for three long years, comes when she can no longer live with the hate she carries in her soul, and is seeking guidance for. She reveals her secret while in therapy, and while reliving every moment of her once captivating innocence, she remembers when she fell; fell in love, fell for certain conditions, and fell into darkness that all stems from the choice she made: to love William.

For William C. Chase, the wealthiest among the wealthy financial advisor and investor, beyond gorgeous and charming, but cold, flummoxed, and searching for a way out of his arranged ancestry, lightning strikes; fate throws Claire into his life in a clumsy situation, and enraptures every fiber of his being with one simple look. He has his chance to reveal his secret of his arranged ancestry that gains immense power and wealth-a secret he keeps from everyone and anyone- to Claire three years prior. And just when everything is fresh and blossoming between the two, the unthinkable happens, and the two words of love and hate come into play, leaving Claire and William to test the true hands of fate.

Unveil the love filled romance about two individuals destined for one another, and the story of Claire ‘falling’ her way back to William. Will he be there like he promised? Will he want her after she’s insisted on enveloping herself in her own hate and sorrow?

***Mature Content***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candice K. Leishman
• Release date: Jan 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301716524

Candice K. Leishman

I was born and raised in Rexburg, Idaho. I currently live in Salt Lake City, Utah with my husband, two boys, and my Chihuahua! I have loved literature and honored in it all through my schooling, and decided to pursue my dreams of becoming an author with my debut novel AUTUMN FALLS, Book One of The Seasons Trilogy!!

Book preview

The Seasons Trilogy

AUTUMN FALLS

CANDICE K. LEISHMAN

Copyright 2012 Candice K. Leishman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

in any printed or electronic form without the permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design: Candice K. Leishman

Published By Candice K. Leishman at Smashwords

Dedications

To the angels wathcing over us, sending down your warmth and love

like rays of sunshine on our cloudy days…never wavering...never fading.

Acknowledgements

To my family: Jed, my sweet husband, who’s always given me the confidence to add more when more is needed- even if it means pushing the boundaries a little bit further. His words: You can do what you whatever you want, have been the backbone for my desire to keep pushing forward…I love you. Gabriel and James, my beautiful baby boys, your names have come in quite handy and I love you to the moon and back; you’re both such an inspiration of never ending love! Michael and Belinda, my wonderful parents, who were my first readers and editors- the emails and long phone calls back and forth over this story, were so much fun, and sometimes blush worthy topics of conversations, but the words of encouragement and praise have meant the world all growing up, and to the finishing of this book, Thank you for loving me that much.

And Jennifer, my own Dr. Sullivan, thank you for all the days, months, and years of listening to me spill my guts out; bringing me back to what’s not crazy and what is normal. You too-along with those previously listed-have saved me from my falls…

Betray v. 1 [To deliver into the hands of an enemy]

delude, trick, double-cross; see DECIEVE

2 [To reveal] disclose, make known

Betrayal n. treason, treachery, disloyalty; see DECEPTION, DISHONESTY

Betrayer n. renegade, deceiver, conspirator; see TRAITOR

Chapter 1

Not now, please. I beg to myself, but the anxiety is too much. I have no control of my brain as it begins to take its own course like it is on auto pilot. The fasten seatbelt light has been lit, and the rocky turbulence of what I’m about to embark on, has violently began to quake me to my core. Slide after slide of memories like the slides of images I work with all day begin to overpower my mind. This is how my dreams and memories occur in my head. Slide after- slide after- slide; all these various moments and memories; all a swift kick and a punch to the gut. But four slides today seem to appear more vivid than the rest…

Slide one: Dinner at my father’s last night, and the disappointment that sat across the table from him… me. Ugh… next!

Slide two: My Canon Mark 3- a three thousand dollar investment- in its leather protective case, sits abandoned beside the sliding door at my dad’s house. Damn… I’ll get it later.

My heart starts to crumble like shards of glass, slicing me deep as the anticipation for the two slides that appear whenever I try to fall asleep. My breathing is hard and deep. I desperately try to calm myself, but it is no use they’re coming whether I want them to or not…

Slide three: The horror in her eyes as she looks at us both. I try to reach for her as she turns her back to me, but she merely slips through my hands and runs for the street. Claire! He screams for me to stop from across the busy road, but it never saves us because it’s too late, and I’m left with his voice echoing thunderously through my head.

My eyes shut even tighter as I let myself accept the next slide into my head, my subconscious willing it to me as quick as it can.

Slide four: Deep, hazel eyes set in the most beautiful, masculine face I’ve ever seen, stare back at me with pure want and desire. His jaw and cheek bones are chiseled with perfection on his tanned, skin that feels like soft velvet under my fingers as I graze them gently along his face, and down over his firm, muscular chest. His dark-brown hair is cut with precision, and disarrayed on top of his head. His mouth…his glorious mouth and those delicate, soft lips I achingly want to touch with mine. He is literally as beautiful as an angel sent from the Gods.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel my body vibrating around me, pounding in my ears, pulsing through my veins. I try to relax, but my hands are fists at my side as a familiar, complacent ache runs deep within my sinews; a familiar ache that I long for because he was my first, my last, and my everything in-between.

My throat constricts making me cough at the sudden itch. My eyes whip open abruptly, blinded by the sunlight slipping in through my window. I’m paralyzed in the stillness of my living room when I orient myself from my haunting memory. I’m sweating profusely when I clutch my forehead in a weary attempt to calm myself. My eyes are wet from crying at my cherished recollections. I glance at the silver clock on the coffee table; it’s just past two thirty. Rolling onto my side in a fetal position, I try to regain some sort of composure from my onslaught of stored away memories. It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. I inwardly chant as I rock bath and forth on my sofa.

Instantly, I regret my decision to take a nap after a long, exhausting morning of editing photos. I thought my tiredness from work would let me sleep soundly, but I was sorely mistaken. I’m no longer only dreaming about the two of them at night. I’m beginning to see him and her when I try to catch up on my lack of sleep during the day. Him: the man I loved for three long years that with his intense, desirous gaze, penetrating into my uncultivated soul; wants every inch of me to belong to him no matter the circumstance. And her: my best friend and confidant, whose charming wit was always simply put as intriguing and vivaciously captivating. They’re overtaking my brittle soul, haunting me with our memories, and breaking me slowly, piece by little piece.

Lying there in my own silence for about another five minutes, I clamber out of the seat and head towards the kitchen to grab my things. I pull my patched up, leather jacket from the black chair of my dining room table, and quickly sling it on. My mouth is dry and parched from my dream, so I move towards the brushed metal fridge to grab a bottle of water for my drive. My eyes habitually stare at the little, white paper taped to the steel door with the correct meaning for the word betrayal scribbled across it. I slowly zip up my jacket as I re-read the definitions for the umpteenth time. My heart aches deep within in me as I accept my reaping. You did this… I tell myself as I bow my head in sadness and leave my condo.

I park along the busy street in front of a gray stone, office building set deep in the heart of San Francisco. I check myself in my rear view mirror before I exit my car, making sure I look like a normal person, and not the zombie I felt like twenty minutes ago. My cinnamon, brown eyes are rimmed in red from my sleepless slumbers and my straighter-than-straight brown hair is slicked by in a simple ponytail…plain and scarcely presentable. I think as I bite down on my rosy, red lips that give the only bit of glimmer to my pale skin, wondering if this is the best I can do. It will have to suffice for now. I slouch down in my seat while I pout and complainingly read the address again on the business card my dad-James Knight- has so generously offered me and then quickly read the address on the building to my left, making sure I’ve found the right place. Match… Fuh me! I sigh.

My mind quickly flashes to last night and my horrible dinner gathering with my father and I can already feel the tears starting to pierce the backs of my accustomed crying eyes.

I could feel my dad’s eyes on me as he watched me trying to collect myself after something triggered my onslaught of reoccurring memories. He sighed loudly; making my eyes shoot open when I heard his reaction. He slowly shook his head back and forth apparently annoyed. We’ve been through this before… three years to be exact.

You know every time I see you, you’re wearing black or dark shades of gray? My dad uttered displeased as he handed me back my plate with a burnt slab of his meatloaf on it. I grabbed my knife and fork to start cutting my boiled potatoes. I wish he’d let me do the cooking. I rolled my eyes. I quickly snuck a peek at my clothes and realized I was wearing my black, jeans; gray, cashmere sweater, and I still had on my black, leather jacket not taking it off after arriving. I pursed my lips. And so it begins…. I wanted to glare at him for his shrewd remark, but I didn’t. I kept slicing my food not replying to his attention of my choice of clothing.

You sure don’t seem to miss a thing. I said under my breath.

"It just seems to make things... I don’t know… blah" he replied- not aware of my remark- drinking some of his beer.

I smirked to myself mocking him. "Well dad, I’ve always been… I don’t know…blah." I replied rolling my eyes again. My father threw his fist down on the glass table so hard it made the dishes and silverware rattle against the surface and me flinch nearly off my seat. I hurriedly grabbed my water glass with one hand and held onto my plate with the other, so they didn’t spill.

Claire! Enough! He yelled at me. His eyes seared me with their anger, igniting me into flames.

My head automatically lowered; cowering at the realization I had crossed the line-again- maybe too many times with my father. I knew he is trying to be patient with me, but I have pushed against him too much over the years…he’d had enough.

Every time, he shook his head in disbelief.

Dad, I’m… Is all I could get out before my throat filled up with that invisible frog; I shut my mouth. I had disappointed him and myself, and we hadn’t even put any food in our mouths. We were already fighting. Dinner is ruined thanks to me. I thought as I grabbed the bridge of my nose pinching it in exasperation.

Claire, it has to stop. He said with a more calm voice. Even my therapist agrees that you aren’t healthy, honey. He placed his hand over his mouth and wiped the corners of his lips as he tried to keep the patience that was rapidly dissipating.

His eyes softened, despair replaced his sudden surge of anger as he muttered under his breath, Every time…

I stared at him with shock. I hadn’t seen this side of him before. I didn’t know if he’s going to start yelling at me again, hitting something, or walk away. But I could see one thing for certain, the frustration spread across his face.

He got up slowly from the table and walked into his office across from the dining room. I wanted to be mature about the whole situation and apologize like an adult. But being set in my stubborn way, I said nothing. I did nothing. I was numb. He walked back into the dining room with a little card in his hand and sat back down at the table and pushed his food away- obviously in disgust and loss of appetite that all stemmed from me.

Claire, I’m done with trying to the mediate things when all we should be doing is enjoying some good, quality, family time. I can’t even come home from work and give my mind a rest from a long day because I’m worried if I’m going to get a call saying that you’ve hurt yourself because of how sad and depressed you are. Then, when I get excited about having you come and have dinner with me, I worry about what I’m going to have to battle through with the two of us. He lowered his head for a few seconds, reached across the table to hand me a card, and avoided any type of eye contact.

I looked down at the card with the name written in simple calligraphy for the therapist my dad has been seeing for years to cope with my mother’s death after battling cancer and needing guidance on raising a daughter on his own. I knew instantly why he wouldn’t look at me. Therapy… he wants me to go to therapy? For the love of all things holy! I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I had to get out of there. I had to do something. The walls felt like they were closing in around me, confining me to my chair. My breath ignited into a full out sprint; hyperventilation was on the brink.

Take it, Claire. Please. He begged waiting for me to grab the card.

I don’t want to. Stop. Pushing. We’ve already discussed this I warned him as my chest heaved for air.

Claire, I think it’s time. The doctor is very good at what she does. One session wouldn’t hurt. Do it for me. He squared his shoulders making himself appear somewhat intimidating with authority.

Dad… I tried to protest, but deep down I knew he was right, and I didn’t want to admit it.

Nothing else is working. You know that sweetie. He frowned and it broke me.

I wanted to throw up. I could feel the bile slowly penetrating my mouth. So without any more stalling, I grabbed the damned card and shoved it in my jacket pocket, and said, I think I’ve lost my appetite. Which means I have no reason being here anymore.

Swallowing hard, I mustered up all my energy that was left in my trembling, angry body, and I got up from the table. I stormed past my father and out the sliding door to the patio, slamming it shut behind me. I breathed in the crisp, dusk air heavily into my lungs as I stomped through his vast, landscaped backyard trying to relax from the anxiety that was building up tighter and tighter in my chest. I kept moving around the house- snapping branches, and crunching the dehydrated leaves as I pushed my way through the shrubs- towards the location of my car and didn’t stop. Even when I heard my dad clamoring dishes into the kitchen sink, I just moved right along. I hope he’s not breaking anything in there. My pace instinctively slowed a bit, but then I saw my vehicle, and I kept walking ... without an ounce of civility…or my camera…

I gaze down at my lap and at my splayed hands trembling on my thighs. I’ve been so hard on him. He doesn’t deserve this kind of behavior from his only daughter. I wipe the two tears that have fallen from my eyes as I sullenly pick up my phone from my purse and hit the send button when I find the number to my gallery. It rings three times before my assistant, Devyn, answers the phone.

Good afternoon, Knight Gallery, how can I help you? She says overly polite, her voice petite and mousy, just like her body type. She has natural, curly, red hair, and bright, emerald eyes. She’s worked for me for almost the entire time I’ve been comatose with guilt after all that’s happened. When I engulfed myself in work to keep me from coping with things, I got in way too deep to handle it all by myself, and I desperately needed help. She’s a college student at The San Francisco Art Institute, the same college I went to three years back. She was the perfect applicant when I was looking to hire. If I’m ever away from work, she knows how to explain and sell my images.

Hey, Devyn, it’s Claire. I don’t sound as chipper as she does.

Hey! What’s up? she asks not changing her tone.

I’ve had an unexpected meeting come up and I need to clear my schedule the rest of this afternoon. If there’s anything later, can you do a favor, and reschedule them for me? I ask nicely.

Sure, no prob. You only had one customer call in and want to talk. She sounded like she really wanted you to call her back. But other than that, I’ll be able to reschedule. I hear her typing away on the computer.

Okay, thanks so much.

Are you alright? she asks concerned. The tapping on the keyboard suddenly stops. She’s seen me lose it a couple of times and knows that clearing the schedule means I’m not doing too good.

No worries, everything’s fine. I lie. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Alrighty, sounds good! Bye!

Goodbye. I press the end button my phone and reluctantly get out of my black BMW X5. It was my first purchase after hitting big as an artistic, landscape, and portrait photographer. Most people would think my job is boring, going out into nature all by myself, and taking pictures. I can admit that sometimes it can be very lonely, very quiet, and not a shin dig of a party, but it lets me be myself and find the things in life that keep me going. My father always told me: "find a job that you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life." Voila… here I am, overly successful and broken to pieces.

I fidget nervously with my white and black pinstriped blouse under my black blazer-dad would surely disapprove of the color choice- and approach the entrance. Well…here goes nothing. I think as I press the lock button on my key fob and open the door to my first session of therapy for grieving.

Chapter 2

I walk into an elegant, medical office that is decorated with burgundy and brown hues. A short, petite, woman with black curly hair is typing vigorously on the keyboard when I approach the front desk. She looks up from the file she is updating and gives me a polite smile before she says, Hi, can I help you dear?

Um yes, I’m Claire Knight. I have an appointment at three o’clock with Dr. Jennifer Sullivan... and I don’t want to be here. I inwardly chide as I try to give her a polite smile in response to hers, but I can tell I’m not fooling her one bit.

Ms. Knight, it’s nice to meet you. Dr. Sullivan is unfortunately running a few minutes late, but she informed me to have you wait in her office. She says as she closes the manila folder. Walking out from behind her desk, she meets me by the only other door besides the one I entered in, and leads me down a short hallway with a bathroom at the very end. She opens the door on my left and walks me in.

Here you are. She motions around the room like she’s giving me a tour of a marketed house and I take a few tentative steps in.

Thank you. I slip my blazer off and drape it over my arm.

If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll take your jacket. My name is Ellen if you need anything. She informs me as she holds out her hand waiting patiently. I hand my blazer to her, and she closes the door behind her quietly leaving me alone in my own torment.

I walk into the large room a little bit more- nervous and curious- and hit an invisible veil of air freshener; pomegranate and berries; the scent reminds me of Christmas. My body relaxes a smidge while I take in more of the office. The walls around me are two toned with brown and burgundy just like the waiting area. There is a cherry, oak desk centered in the room with two burgundy, leather sofas on each side. Books of all different colors and sizes line the back wall behind the desk with greenery of all different types accenting perfectly along the way. The one and only picture in the room is centered on the wall behind me, framed in thick, expensive, oak that matches the desk. It looks like one I took… Wait, it is mine! My mouth falls open in bewilderment. When did she get this? I take a step closer to observe my own work. I can remember that morning so well. I feel as if I’m standing on the rim of the forest again, watching the fog run along the dewy grass. Tall, brown, leave-less oak trees catch the white, thick fog with their long, twig branches all around them; peeking somberly out from the hazy mist. It’s an ideal image for the situation at hand. I sniff to myself.

Hello Claire. I’m Dr. Jennifer Sullivan. A soft woman’s voice breaks me from my wandering thoughts and I flinch. I turn around quickly and smile. Dr. Sullivan is walking femininely over to her desk with a handful of papers in her hands with her tan, leather briefcase hanging in the crook of her arm. She looks to be in very good shape from the cream, blouse and plum, pencil skirt she’s wearing that all fits her like a snug glove. Her blonde hair is cut in a precise, A-line bob, adding emphasis to her heart, shaped face. She is very beautiful, but as she gets closer, her beauty only accentuates. I observe her quickly and cautiously as she strolls across the room to greet me with a firm hand shake. Years of therapy to help yourself cope…right dad, I know why you come.

Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was just looking at the picture and forgot where I was I guess. I try to hide my sly smile thinking of all the time my dad has spent coming to see her, probably fantasizing about her in some way.

I see you recognize your work. It was one of my favorites from your many masterpieces. I mentioned it to your father after I went to one of your shows, and he had it delivered when I first opened my office here in town. She smiles at me with gleaming, powder, blue eyes.

Really? I didn’t even know he did that. I am totally caught off guard…shocked would be a better way of putting it. That’s what my father did for me when I first started out. He showed all my work to pretty much anyone he came in contact with. Not long after, people were paying me all sorts of money for the perfect picture to go in their house, offices, and on some rare occasions, just for the parties they were hosting. Now my business is booming and I have only my father to thank for it. I owe him so much in return. A whisper of a groan slips my throat and I shut my eyes for second.

I’m sorry did I say something wrong? Dr. Sullivan interrupts my daydreaming… again.

No…not at all. How rude of me, I must seem like such a space case. I didn’t know he did that is all. I put my hand on my forehead trying to regain my thoughts.

I hope it’s okay he did that. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well after working together for so long. He helped me find this place and get it all renovated. Like I said, I loved this picture, so he was able to find it for me. She smiles at me again, but this time she seems to be watching me carefully, trying to gage my reaction, maybe for her notes later: Doesn’t react well to compliments. I can feel the heat from my blush spread across my cheeks. I could agree- if that is in fact what she is thinking.

Well, I hope he gave you a good deal. I straighten my slouching spine and try to act professional now.

Have a seat, Claire, and we can get started. She motions to the sofa on either side of the room.

Okay. Thanks. I walk towards the one on the left. She pulls her leather chair out from behind her desk and places it beside the sofa I chose. I’ve never been to therapy before, but it is just like the movies; the patient sitting on the couch, while the doctor holds a pen and paper in their hand, sitting right in front of them listening to the patient ramble on and on. I try to block the picture out my head because it’s bringing a huge smile to my face, I’m afraid I’ll start laughing hysterically, and then she would agree with my dad. That in fact I do need therapy for my daydreaming and sudden out bursts of unexpected laughter.

I’m glad we finally get to meet. She places a pair of black, rimmed, reading glasses gently on her nose, and settles herself in her seat.

I sit down on the couch and cross my legs nervously as I let the words fall out of my mouth. I have to be honest with you. I mean… it’s nice to meet you too, only not under these circumstances.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach past her mouth. Picture this as a simple conversation between two friends over a cup coffee. Speaking of which, would you like some? I can get Ellen to get some for you if you’d like? she offers genuinely.

Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’d probably be better off without it right now. I clasp my hands tightly together and place them on my lap.

Alright then, why don’t you tell me why you think you’re here visiting with me today? she starts writing something down on the yellow note pad sitting on her lap. My mood suddenly changes and I’m in defense mode. I don’t like someone whom I’m unfamiliar with trying to examine my feelings and tell me what they mean. No one knows how I feel or what I go through every day.

So instead of trying to be polite like earlier, I try my blatantly rude approach, and say, Because my father said so. I reply in a curt tone, pursing my lips stubbornly. That ought to catch her attention. I raise a clever brow. My father would have a coronary; mortified at my actions towards a complete stranger.

She looks up from her notepad, surprised by my tone. She takes her reading glasses off, but keeps them in her hand as she gazes at me with narrowed eyes and a bit of scrutiny. You don’t think you should be here?

Nope. I don’t think I should be here at all. I think that my life is fine. I purge wholeheartedly from the truth. I give her a slight mischievous smile; telling her that there is nothing she can do to get me to talk. But deep down I know I’m wrong because my body is starting to go completely numb and I’m going to lose all my will to keep my secrets and emotions in. I think she knows it too.

Well that’s not what you’re father has told me. Claire, he’s worried about you, doesn’t that matter to you? She says as she places her glasses back on her little petite nose and begins writing again.

Yes, on some level… I hesitate to finish.

But? she stops writing and looks up at me from under her glasses. I take a deep breath, rolling my eyes. Be nice! My inner self chastises me.

"I’m a disappointment of a daughter. A daughter…me… who keeps to herself because being alone feels better than trying to make sense of everyday life and the problems poking her between the eyes. Is that a good enough run down for you?" I knit my brows together. I’m a hermit…a damn, lonely hermit, and I lash out a people who try to help…just warning you. She sits quietly assembling her thoughts, trying to figure out a way for me to open up to her more.

Why do think things have gotten this way, Claire? Why do you think you’re such a disappointment? She interrogates; poking and prodding for more information. I shake my head in disbelief that she can’t see what I am trying to tell her. I am a disappointment. It isn’t a theory by any means, it is a given fact!

You think it’s that easy to just talk about my life, and what I did to screw it up? You don’t know me. You wouldn’t understand. I mutter my words fast, rambling into a frenzied crescendo. My throat starts to tighten and can’t fathom how I’ll get through explaining how my life has gotten this way.

That’s why I’m here, to make living your life easier, to make sense of things that can be difficult to manage, and to find the best way for you to learn how to cope. There’s that word again…I freaking hate it!

Well I hate to tell you, it’s not easy. Not for me. I hiss, protesting her even more than before.

Just try. You tell me when you think things started to go astray for you.

I shake my head back and forth quickly.

"Claire, you can do this, you need to do this. Bottling your feelings up like this is not healthy." Her eyes met mine, and give me a comforting look. I glance down at my knotted hands. My mind is telling me to just keep my feelings and thoughts to myself, but my body is aching, screaming at me to let it all out, and move on. I fight as hard as I can, but finally my body wins the war, and I unleash the fury; quickly blurting out my words before I can filter what I say.

I betrayed my best friend and it led to her death…I killed her, I immediately stop talking, trying to catch my breath. My face blanches under the acceptance of my words and how I actually said them out loud; admitting them to another person, a complete stranger, someone other than my dad. Being a little more resigned, I surprisingly continue, And, I let the only man I love slip right through my fingers. I sigh deeply feeling a sense of relief as more keeps pouring out uncontrollably. I don’t know which is harder to deal with. One is an actual death, but losing the love of my life, feels just as bad.

Dr. Sullivan is speechless. She sits in silence letting me listen to myself say the words.

I didn’t do it on purpose, but I feel like I had a hand in it all. I could’ve prevented everything that has hurt me from even happening, but I didn’t. My voice cracks making me appear as I really am…weak and ravaged.

A single tear falls from my eye and lands on my hand that rests on my lap as I finish saying, Why should I live being happy when I destroyed a family?

Once I utter the words, it feels as though the large steel wall that I’ve built up around me suddenly falls. It’s so quiet in the room I can hear the receptionist in the other room typing away on her computer keys, and suddenly, a twinge of vulnerability and exposition runs through me. Say something please. I don’t like silence. I plead to Dr. Sullivan with my beseeching gaze.

Observing me with sincere attentiveness, Dr. Sullivan asks me another question. When did this all take place, Claire?

I was starting my last semester of college. That is when everything started to… to change. I inform. The ache in my heart starts to throb with a force so hard against my chest knowing what lies ahead, I am almost certain it’s outwardly visible. I exhale deeply knowing I’m about to relive it all; every single memory…all of it. Every time I fell; fell for him, fell for his conditions, fell into darkness, and fell into my own hellish purgatory…

Dr. Sullivan leans back in her chair, more relaxed now that I am a little bit more comfortable talking to her and says, Go on, I’ll just listen, I won’t interrupt, just let your mind do the talking. I nod impassively and do as she says. I keep rambling on; my mind and body are totally oblivious to the fact every bottled up emotion from three years back is being completely divulged without reservation or editing.

I guess she is the magical therapist that I’ve always mocked her as to my father… she’s got me talking already. The only question I have is: will she be magical enough to be able to help me lift the rest of this weight still resting on my slowly breaking shoulders?

***

August 2009- Three Years Prior

I can feel the air blowing through my open sliding door as it leaves the familiar scent of my favorite season lingering in the air. Fall is beginning to make its presence known. It has its own particular smell about it, a cooler scent, like the temperature outside is beginning to drop; slightly freezing the vegetation outside. I wrap my blankets over my shoulders trying to ease myself back to sleep as I cozy in under my cream quilt.

My alarm suddenly starts buzzing and I startle, but still manage to keep my eyes closed. It continues to buzz louder and louder until I unwrap myself and reach around to my night stand, grabbing it with a tired hand (still with my eyes screwed shut so falling back asleep will be that much easier) and steady the annoying electronic in my palm. With one swift pull- hard enough to rip the cord from the outlet- I send it flying across the room to smack the opposite wall at my feet. The plastic and glass shatter against the white partition, onto the floor, making a loud, clamorous noise, the neighbors above and below us most likely heard.

I’m sure dad heard that too. I growl to myself and roll over onto my stomach.

I open one sleepy eye to see the damage I’ve done. A dent the size of a small dinner plate joins three other dents the same size. This isn’t the first time I’ve been annoyed with my alarm clock.

My dad flies into the room with his white collared shirt unbuttoned that’s tucked into his khakis, and his electric shaver is in his other hand just inches from his face, I’ve interrupted his morning. He observes the mess of newly crumbled sheet rock, black plastic, the slivers glass on the floor, and the newly added dent to my wall, all with a calmness that can only be mastered by a man who’s had to live with a stubborn, witty daughter all by himself.

Claire, this is the third dent in the wall this year and your third alarm clock. I’m guessing you’re up to about two hundred dollars in repairs now, young lady. He starts up his electric shaver again and presses it to his cheek as he leaves my room… with the door open on purpose… so I’ll get out of bed.

Shut the door, I’m trying to sleep for crying out loud! I pull my pillow over my head.

Claire, get up! We’re going shopping today dummy! Lauren yells from the living room. Lauren is my best friend and has been since we were five years old. I now realize who the culprit is to setting my alarm clock for eight o’clock in the flipping morning. Who gets up before nine or ten before the new school year starts anyways? I certainly don’t and she should know better than to wake me up this early. She is only making her day miserable because I am going to in a grumpy mood, and a torture to be around from sleep deprivation.

Ugh, I don’t want to get up, let alone go shopping all day. I mumble against the mattress.

But then it’s there, the smell that will get any stubborn, witty daughter out of bed. I can smell the aroma of my father’s breakfast delicacy creeping into my room and under my pillow…chocolate chip pancakes. He only makes them for me when he is trying to bribe me into doing something I’m usually obstinate and totally against. My stomach growls loud and long, making the debate in my head about sleeping longer or enjoying those delicious pancakes that much easier to make. You win dad. I sigh and jump out of bed.

I walk down the hallway to the kitchen pulling on a white bucket hat over my chocolate, brown hair. I threw on a pair of blue jeans, a white T shirt, and red, zip up hoodie as fast as I could, so that I could get to those decadent pancakes as soon as possible.

Lauren is sitting at the table reading a tabloid magazine and sipping on something green in a large glass when I enter the kitchen. She is into those health smoothie drinks that look absolutely revolting, but she’s always watched her figure; I guess she must have felt the need always being the most popular, prettiest, and envied girl past to present. I, on the other hand, have never counted a calorie a day in my life. I have inherited my mother’s metabolism which makes it hard for me to gain weight. Lauren says I’m blessed in that category and I pay no attention to it.

She’s all prettied up in her pink, cap sleeve shirt and white jeans. Her long, golden hair is styled in the latest fashion making her look like a model from the magazine she is engrossed in. I feel less attractive every step I take walking into the kitchen. I’m not anything like her. I’m plain and not vivaciously outgoing. Lauren would tell me different though. She always said my beauty was natural and every girl envies my features because I don’t have to wear makeup. Not only that, my stubborn, I can-do-what-I-want personality is brilliantly captivating…or so she says.

I’m glad she and I didn’t live in the same town growing up. School would’ve been tough because I know we wouldn’t have run