Coming Undone

By Melyssa Winchester

Every hero has a villain.

It’s been that way since the beginning of time.
If you’re looking for a present-day example, look no further than Batman.
He had a slew of them, but my personal favorite was Harvey Dent.
When you think about it, with the way my life has been, I could easily be considered his far more evil brother.
The only real difference between us, I have more faces than two.

You see, monsters aren’t born, they’re created.
And just like every villain that’s come before me, I’m not going anywhere.
Not even when faced with my biggest challenge yet.
Jail.

I’m not walking away until they all pay for what they turned me into.

The monster with so many faces, he has no real face at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melyssa Winchester
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781928139348

Melyssa Winchester

Melyssa Winchester is a mother of four from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. When she’s not knee deep in adolescent awesomeness, she’s falling in love, one book boyfriend and girlfriend at a time. She is a lover of all things romance and will forever believe in a real and true happily ever after.When she’s not off being a mom or writing you can find her doing one of two things. Reading or buried under the covers watching Supernatural, Sons Of Anarchy or Veronica Mars.Melyssa is currently working on Through The Storm (Count On Me #7), along with Tempered Grace (Love United Series #6) and the standalone title Remembering Sunday.You can find her on the web, either at her personal site, Facebook (which she just might have an obsession with) or Twitter (@WinchesterBooks) where she talks incessantly about her kids, her writing and all things book boyfriend related.

Book preview

The following story is both fictional in aspects but also depicts some real-world instances in the life of someone closely related to me as the author. With their permission, these instances have been shared, though, for the matter of keeping with the fictional nature of the series as a whole, names and places have been altered as not to reflect to easily back on the person in which they depict.

Much like one of the previous books within the Count on Me series, Take Me with You (Book 3) to be more precise, this story tackles the subject of sexual abuse, especially as it pertains to abuse by family members. With that being said, it also tackles the abhorrent act of pedophilia and sex trafficking (locally, within a city), between a group of individuals all known to each other. All told and shown through the eyes of the victims of said abuse.

There has been a lot of debate on whether or not I should even publish this story, given the subjects touched on, and some of the liberties I took in the fictional aspect, as my goal with this story is not solely about making money off tough issues, but instead, wanting to start a conversation. After a lot of internal debate and speaking with multiple readers in general, I feel this book should be published, but in doing so, I also pledge to take 50% of any of the revenue made from both the e-book sale of this novel, as well as any paperbacks sold and donate it to the organization RAINN.

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization. RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800.656.HOPE, online.rainn.org rainn.org/es) in partnership with more than 1,000 local sexual assault service providers across the country and operates the DoD Safe Helpline for the Department of Defense. RAINN also carries out programs to prevent sexual violence, help victims, and ensure that perpetrators are brought to justice.

My goal moving forward with this story is that before you even turn to begin, you’re aware of the triggering nature of what has been mentioned above, and if you or someone you know has lived through abuse the same way someone in my own life has, you do not attempt to read this alone. If you are triggered, please reach out to someone you trust and love or the lines listed above. Your mental health will always matter most to me as an author and human being.

So, moving forward, if you do read this story, if it sparks a conversation, no matter your feelings on it, good or bad, thank you for taking a chance on me and Tim’s story from the Count on Me series.

Table of Contents

Authors Note

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART TWO

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Coming Undone Playlist

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by Melyssa Winchester

Prologue

Tim

Every hero has a villain. It’s been this way since the beginning of time.

If you’re looking for a more present-day example, look no further than Batman.

He had a slew of them, but my personal favorite was Harvey Dent. Otherwise known as Two-Face.

When you think about it, with the way my life has been, I could easily be considered his eviler, ten times as dastardly brother.

The only difference between us being, I have more faces than two.

It wasn’t always this way. I was born with one face, just like the rest of the world, but time, circumstances, nature versus nurture bullshit, it all changed me and left me with the monster the world sees now.

The monster I see every day in the mirror.

Pretty sure this is the part where you expect me to apologize for the things I did to Isabelle, Ames, and even Eric.

It’s not.

If you’re looking for a story of redemption, where I meet some random girl, fall head over heels in love, and try and change for her, think again.

I’m not the one who needs to change.

Hey, I warned you. I’m an asshole of the highest order, but what you might not get is, I like being the asshole.

I am Superman’s Kryptonite, Batman’s Joker, and with everything that happened last fall, the devil. I’m okay with it.

In fact, while all those other pansy asses are off living happily ever after’s, I’m the one over here on the sidelines figuring out the person to bring down next.

"The world needs a leader."

"Only the strong survive."

"Someone needs to show these idiots the way."

"I’d rather you be the one kicking ass than the one whose ass is getting kicked."

So many lines, drilled into my head time after time, and though they didn’t sink in at first, this useless thing in my chest commonly referred to as my heart driving me in the beginning, it’s sunken in now.

Call me an asshole. Call me a villain. Hell, call me a bully. I’m okay with it.

The more you do it, the more I feed into it and it makes me stronger. I’m the king of the heels, the ultimate jerk, and I’m not going anywhere.

But in order to understand how I got where I am, I suppose we’ve got to go back to where it all started. Where I developed the first of the many faces that would make themselves apparent over the years.

Back to the time where this heartless monster still had a functioning organ inside his chest that was capable of feeling.

Back to Timmy.

You see, monsters aren’t born, they’re created.

And just like every bad guy who has come before me, I’m not going anywhere either. Not even when faced with my biggest challenge yet.

Jail.

I’m not walking away until they all pay for what they turned me into.

The monster with so many faces, he has no real face at all.

Chapter One

Write It All Down

2015

This is fucking fantastic.

Kick the shit out of an idiot at school who was attempting to break up something between you and your girl, get expelled, booked on assault charges, wasting away in jail until you’re finally able to get to court, and this is the shit you get saddled with.

Therapy with a court-appointed therapist. Even worse, anger management.

I don’t have an anger problem; I just have a low bullshit tolerance.

The world is seriously screwed if they think any of this is going to work. That doing the same convoluted bullshit they tried when I was a kid is going to make me a whole new person.

I’m damn sure the judicial system is even more fucked up than the school system, and I didn’t think they made anything worse than school.

Why do you think you’re here, Timothy?

Tim, I grunt, not that the old bag of bones even cares what the hell my name is. I’m his current cash flow, not someone actually worth fixing.

Fine, Tim. Again, why do you think you’re here?

Because no one wants to deal with the real issue so they’re taking it out on me?

Obviously not the right answer with the way his pen starts scribbling across the pad currently half hanging off his lap. Too bad I don’t care. If he’s looking for me to have some sort of fucking epiphany while sitting here, he’s got another thing coming.

I’m not going to waste his or my time with bullshit. I’m going to give it to him straight. Exactly the way I’ve been doing it my whole life.

What do you think the real issue is?

Everyone’s inability to see that they’re being played.

I am going to need you to be more specific, Tim. Who do you believe is playing everyone?

Belle, Eric, even the deaf bitch.

This guy is even more deluded than the rest of them.

It’s guys like him who label people like Belle and Eric, making them think they’ve got all this shit wrong with them, when the reality is, they’re not different at all. Just air suckers who should have never been born.

‘Oh, I have special needs. You must baby the fuck out of me.’

Please. Special isn’t even the right word for those idiots.

I’d clear this up right now and tell him what I really think of them if it wouldn’t earn me even more time in this place.

You don’t have a come back huh, Doc? Could it be because you know I’m right?

There is nothing about your method of thinking that is right. Do you honestly believe if you were in fact right as you assume, you would be forced to come here three times a week?

The only reason I’m here is because the judicial system is fucked.

There are many who would say it’s the other way around.

Nice one, Doc. Would have had more of an impact if you’d just said you think I’m fucked.

Is that what you want? Do you need to hear what I think of you?

No way I’m answering that. I’ve been through this bullshit before. I know how these guys work. They’ll twist words around until they’ve got you spilling shit better left quiet, and you won’t even realize it until it’s too late.

Some psychiatrist he is if he’s already showing his cards this early on.

Say whatever you want. That’s why you’re the one getting paid the big bucks, isn’t it? Sit here and judge someone for a few sessions, slamming them in the end with a label that only you think they deserve.

You’ve obviously given my job a lot of thought.

Nope, just been through this horse and pony show before.

When?

Who is this guy kidding?

He’s sitting with a legal pad in his lap along with my file, a combination of my medical reports, school reports, and the court documents. He knows all about the last time I did this. Probably even better than I do.

Motioning toward his lap, I laugh. You tell me since you’ve got my life story right there.

I’m not sure what you mean.

Right there! I shout, pointing again to his lap, only this time leaning in toward him to get my point across. Are you really gonna sit here and tell me you don’t have every fucking thing I’ve been through and done sitting all neat and orderly in the file? Is that really how you want to play this?

I wouldn’t dream of it. He admits and I can’t lie, I’m surprised as shit. Since I already know this entire thing is complete bullshit, I’d been expecting him to lie. I’m more interested in why you believe that what’s in the file is your life story.

It’s filled with all the crap I’ve done in school and the shit that happened at home, right? When he nods, I continue. Then you know it all, which means being here is pointless.

I don’t agree.

Of course, you don’t. I scoff. So just tell me what you do believe so I can get the fuck out of here.

All this file tells me is what you’ve been through over the last eighteen years. It doesn’t tell me one thing about the person who went through it.

You sure, Doc? You want that to be your final answer?

I know what’s in the file. The shit with Eric in the spring, the bullying before that, every single time I’d been written up, mixed with the domestic calls placed on my parents until I ran away, only to be put right back. It’s all there. He’s full of shit if he believes the person I am isn’t written all over those reports.

Unless you can tell me something to the contrary, then yes, I do believe it is my final answer.

Your final answer sucks, because it’s wrong.

Then why don’t you tell me what it should be.

Yeah, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re dying to psychoanalyze me. Not happening.

It’s merely a question, Tim. Here, he responds before picking the pad up, along with the file and throwing it on the desk. You don’t want to be analyzed? I won’t do it. Now answer the question.

Why? Why the fuck does it even matter?

Curiosity.

Spare me. I’m not gonna fall for your crap.

Is there some reason you can’t answer the question?

Gee, I don’t know. You ever think I don’t want to?

I can sit here with you and do this all day, Tim, but considering I’ve extended an olive branch to you, the least you can do is answer the damn question.

Now I’m getting somewhere. I’m getting under his skin. He’s finally getting a clue about who he’s dealing with.

Didn’t think you had it in you, Doc. Isn’t that frowned upon?

My office, my rules. So, are you going to answer the question or not?

I’m a bully, an asshole. I’m the worst kind of creep, and if you ask certain people, I’m a sick fuck too. A pervert who likes to play with unwilling victims. Happy now?

No, but I think you knew I wouldn’t be.

He’s wrong.

I thought what I said would have been the straw that broke this old camel’s back. If my language hadn’t gotten to him yet, I figured admitting who he was really dealing with would seal it, but it doesn’t even make him bat an eye.

Didn’t you hear me?

Oh, I heard you, and you’re right to a certain extent. All of those things are alluded to in your file, but as it pertains to who Timothy Bradshaw is underneath all of this forced and fake bravado, it tells me nothing.

Now I know you’re full of shit.

Care to explain what you mean?

I am the person in the file, Doc, and the sooner you realize that and stop trying to get inside my head, we’ll both be able to do what we’re here to do.

And what is it you think you’re here to do?

Complete my sentence.

No other reason?

Nope, and just in case you’re getting the idea in your head, I’m gonna stop you now. The reason won’t change. I’ll do what I have to so I don’t end up back inside, but nothing else. We clear?

I can tell by the scowl on his face we’re not clear, but try as I might to actually give a shit about any of it, least of all anything he might have to say, I can’t.

Truth is, I don’t give a shit about anything. I haven’t since I was six and no dude with a pen, bifocals, and a Ph.D. at the end of his name is going to change it.

Whether you like it or not, Tim, you’re stuck coming here for the foreseeable future, and it means more than just sitting in a chair for an hour a day. You’re required by law to report here and participate in these sessions. And I think I found the first way you can.

Oh, this I gotta hear.

We’ve got maybe ten minutes left before I can leave this hell and head home. Whatever he’s got in his head for me to do, it had better come with a time limit because once I walk, this place and this guy, are no longer my problem.

Lay it on me, Doc. What are you going to do with me for the next ten minutes?

Nothing.

Say what?

What you do for the last ten minutes is up to you. Whether it be deflecting from what’s going on with you or opening up, I could care less. I get paid either way.

Then what the hell was that shit you just spouted off?

What you’ll be doing for the remainder of your sentence.

And that is?

I know the minute I ask, I’m going to regret it, the satisfied smirk on his face right now enough of an indicator, but no matter how much I hate it, I know he’s right.

The court, they’ve made it so this idiot has me trapped here. I’m being screwed so hard that they’ve got a death grip on my balls. I can’t get out of this unless I want to go back to jail, and there’s no way in hell I’m going back there, which means putting up with it.

The real Tim Bradshaw, he’s not in this file. So, from now until you’ve completed your sentence—meaning all aspects of it—you’re going to show him to me.

This again? Really? Did he not hear me the first time?

The real me is in the file.

Waste of time, man. I already told you. What you see is what you get.

I don’t believe that, and deep down I don’t think you do either. So, to show me the real you, you’re going to do the one thing I know you’ll hate more than anything.

And that is? I repeat my words from earlier, wanting to get this over with since my ten minutes are officially up.

Write it all down.

What does that even mean? Write what down?

Every moment in your life that defined you, what turned you into who you are, both the guy sitting here now—the one in the file—and the person you really are underneath. I want it all.

Fantastic.

Let the life sentence begin.

Chapter Two

Sierra

I can’t believe I’m doing this crap.

Sitting here and doing what the damn psychiatrist asked me to do. Writing down and speaking out about instances in the story of my life.

A compilation of Tim Bradshaw’s greatest hits. What made him—me—into the monster I am now. When his face changed from the cherubic blonde one it used to be, into something equal parts twisted and destructive.

I almost didn’t do it.

When he handed me the notebook and I rolled my eyes at him, batting it away, his hand continuously coming back until I finally grabbed it, I seriously thought about hitting up the trash bin in the lobby and ridding myself of it.

Thought for a second that jail would actually be a walk in the park compared to what he wanted.

Yet here I sit, on an off day in between appointments, hardwood desk in front of me—a donation to the halfway house I’ve been staying in, tapping the pen against the notebook, thinking of a good place to start.

The guy is clearly better at his job than I gave him credit for.

Thinking about the alternative, what I would do if I stood up and headed out, though, it’s this or nothing.

You see, anger management and court-appointed therapy sessions weren’t the only things I was saddled with when the judge sentenced me. No, they had to add insult to injury, acting like I murdered someone, and hook me up with an electronic monitoring device.

They gave me a fucking leash.

All because I’d gotten in the face of some moron who was attempting to steal my girl from me. Now tell me the logic in that.

Fuck.

Eric and his bitch Amelia are the last things I want to be thinking about before writing this. I focused enough on them when I was thrown in the cage as it is. I’m out now, so on to bigger and better things it is.

Like this damn assignment.

Expelled from high school and still having to write pointless crap no one will ever read.

Some shit never changes.

Doctor Williams words from the end of our session haunt me again as I stare down at the empty notebook pages.

"Every moment in your life that defined you, what turned you into who you are, both the guy sitting here now—the one in the file—and the person you really are underneath. I want it all."

I guess if he wants the story of me, even if I think he already has it, I’ve got to start from the beginning.

Go back to the girl I thought about while sitting in his office, and the one who even now, twelve years later, still haunts me.

I’ve gotta start with Sierra.

*****

Here’s a newsflash for you.

An extra, extra, read all about it moment if there ever was one.

Pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable for what I’m about to tell you. It’s epic.

I wasn’t always a complete douchebag.

For the first five years of my life, I remember being an all right kid. Not the guy who went around saving neighborhood animals or anything, but decent overall. Though, with all the shit that’s gone on since a lot of my memories from back then are hazy, so I can’t exactly be trusted.

There’s only one part of that time not hazy and muddled, though sitting here, writing it out, I really wish it was.

All the sick shit I’ve done—things I’ve been a part of and liked—no matter how twisted they were, they never had the reach to touch the part of my life I still believed was good. They couldn’t take away the first five years of my life and the time I had with her.

People like to say evil isn’t born; it’s created. Not sure how much I believe that. I go back and forth a lot about it, but if there had to be a place where life went from Technicolor to shades of grey and black, losing her would be it.

Who’s the girl? This mysterious her I keep alluding to, but don’t seem to have the balls to write down on the paper?

Her name is Sierra and she was my twin.

We’ll get into the whole reason I’m using the word was in a second. There’s still more you need to know about her first.

Like for instance, how she was the person who by the time we turned five, was both my partner in crime and the biggest pain in my ass, respectively. It was so back and forth that if I didn’t have her tear-stained doe eyes on me begging for a tea party, she was dragging me into her room to make her girl Barbie’s fall in love with my infinitely more masculine wrestlers.

Sierra Bradshaw was everything right about the world.

When Dad would come home with his face bloody and bruised, reeking of liquor and sex, taking his anger out on our mom, she was the strong twin. Putting herself front and center and taking on the brunt of his rage to keep me safe. She might have only been four the first time it happened, but she was a badass four-year-old.

Sierra was also the first one of the two of us to know what it felt like to throw a punch, hitting one of the neighborhood kids in the nose for talking shit about me a couple of months before we turned five.

Sometimes, when shit gets muddled and distorted in my head, reality blurring with the more violent unsavory thoughts, I wonder if had she lived, would I have ever gotten the chance to return the favor.

Be the brother she deserved, instead of the one who got left behind to rot.

It’s crazy as hell, but sometimes, I swear when I walk down the hall to where I sleep in this shithole, I can hear her calling me, her heavy feet pounding into the floor the way they used to when I’d stolen one of her toys.

In those moments, it’s like nothing’s changed at all.

She’s still here, we’re still stupid little kids, and none of what came later happened at all.

What came later being the nightmare.

*****

"Timmy! Give it back! Now!!" she whines, and all I can do is laugh.

"You want it back so bad, catch me." I grin, sticking out my tongue quickly before making a break for the stairs and the sanctuary of my room.

Taking them two at a time, wanting to put as much distance as I can between us, I don’t stop until I’ve slid my way into my room, slamming and locking the door behind me.

What she wants is the only doll in the world she truly cares about, but it’s more than just the doll. She wants the scissors too. She knows that if left to my own devices with them, the doll will end up looking worse than the last one did.

The one I deflowered a couple of weeks ago.

Shaven head with a hole poked straight through the throat and missing a pair of tits due to the little swiss army knife I found in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

"If you don’t open the door, I’m telling Mommy!" she shrieks loudly through the hardwood, and I snicker quietly.

If the way she’s been stuck in bed for the last three days is any indication, our mom’s not a threat and Sierra knows it.

"Go ahead!" I yell back before looking down at the doll in my hands.

Blonde hair and blue eyes just like us, but without the cherubic face both she and I were born with and share. The Barbie’s face more sunken in with color all over her eyes even though