Wasted Words

By Laikyn Meng

This is not a love story.

It started out as one, but now I am escaping mine.

People change. Or maybe they slowly remove their skin and show their tru

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Orange 9 Publishing Company LLC
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798868953286

Book preview

Wasted Words

Where Bruises Fade, Words Remain.

Laikyn Meng

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product(s) of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or meant to lend credibility and authenticity to the story. The use of brand names and locations should not be read as an endorsement of this author’s work. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

18+ Mature content explicit language and sexual content, violence, domestic abuse.

ISBN: 9798840842928

COPYRIGHT © 2022 The Orange 9 Publishing Company LLC LAIKYN MENG

Dedication

To our ex-husbands, may your torturous regrets be a reminder of the strong women who survived you. To the religion that raised us, making us believe that if we prayed hard enough and were better people, this abuse would not have happened to us. To the God that made us believe we should continue loving the men who hurt us, belittled us, forced us to cower and quiet our opinions and words. Made us endure everything they put us through, my sister and I have something to say to you, Fuck You!

To the man, I thought I would love for the rest of my life. You took it upon yourself to prove me wrong.

To my married last name, you were an identity I didn’t know I could refuse.

Author Note

Fear, it was the main suspect in writing this book. I don’t know what I planned when scripting down this story idea; I thought it could keep me disconnected from it. But as many artists know, you can’t remove yourself from your work.

I didn’t know what I wanted to say when I typed the title, Wasted Words. I figured the story would come, and I could ignore its relation to similar settings in my own life.

The story wasn’t coming, but I realized I had already written most of it in my journals because I had lived it.

Some stories are more complicated than others to share. But I can’t pretend this one doesn’t exist because it is scary to confront. Being a victim of domestic violence after divorce is a wild idea to me. There were no signs beforehand, and I wondered for so many days what triggered it.

Still, there are no direct answers to blame, so we must move on day by day. And with this, I wrote it as best as I could; I hope you can find yourself in a place to read and heal.

With all my love, we are survivors; we are not weak when others push on the bruises of the topic. You have nothing to prove to anyone else; you are the only person that matters in the story of survival being told.

Chapter 1

How can you be in love with two versions of the same person?

I don’t handle disappointment like I should. Can’t brush it off my shoulders like dust when it doesn’t belong. I channel the wrong type of energy. Drain it from the muggy swamp polluted with indecision. It’s the type of frown cremated into ashes.

I close my eyes take a few deep breaths and focus on the wind combing my hair. There’s a flutter of uncertainty, and I place my palm over the beating inside my chest. It vibrates, and the tone is essential and optimistic.

Sometimes I wonder if there was a chance it couldn’t have come true. But as far as I can look back, you are ruining me for any opportunity to be something other than yours.

Belong to anything that has nothing to do with you. Tripp, we first loved, but your mind played tricks, and it grew to see me as an enemy, worse than you saw yourself. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, but I don’t think I want to anymore.

If I have this choice, please, let me go.

My whole world has revolved around you since I was seven years old. When I moved in with my aunt and uncle down the road from your family. I was an only child, and you had many siblings to waste away. The third child, the second son. Maybe that is where it all started to go wrong, you always felt second, and you made it your personality.

Always fighting to be the best, for the first spot in someone’s attention, and maybe I was an easy target. My parents were busy with their own lives, and I was an added bonus, as I liked to think. But as you put it, I was a kid tagging along everywhere.

Noah? The therapist calls my name, and all I can remember is how you told me from such a young age I was yours, and the worse part of all, I believed you and loved you for picking me.

Hmm? I stop staring at the ground, the carpet ruining my memories with reality.

Have you talked to him since our last meeting? I loosen my grip on the past and focus on the man in front of me.

Roman McCoy sits behind his desk like we haven’t known each other for most of our lives. His office is in the state-building; my cousins thought it would be a good idea if I had someone to talk to. But this is the last place I want to be, unveiling the worst kinds of thoughts in my head to a biased man because he owed a favor.

I can’t; I try. But I can’t. I am a fully functioning individual, yet I won’t dare to face the man who created a crisis out of our love story. Every time I think about what to say, I can’t bring myself to say the words I should say instead of the ones I want to speak.

What do you want to say? This is the great thing about Roman; he isn’t invested in my answer; he is concerned about my feelings moving forward.

While I ponder how to respond, I think about our first kiss at nine. Not Roman’s and mine, but Tripp’s and mine. The protective possessiveness made me want to seek his approval even then at such a young age.

So, I try to come up with something honest, a phrase I’ve been worried about recently because it’s both raw and wounding at the same time. My words hurt me more than they ever hurt him. It’s awfully honest.

But there is power in speaking to them, letting their vibrations enter the world. Even if Tripp does not believe them, you still have the power to be heard, Little Ark. Little Ark or Nettie. Nicknames Roman and my cousins have for me. Nettie came from middle school because my history teacher said Noah wasn’t a girl’s name. My cousins took it upon themselves to torture me with it forever.

Do you honestly believe the bullshit you are saying, Rome? I flop back in my seat, exhausted from the constant mental battle in my head.

Rome reaches up and yanks on the collar of his shirt. I hate the way I wonder how much it costs, how comfortable a life filled with abundance must be. It isn’t my place to envy his life, his solitude, with no children to promise bad things won’t happen. No partner to keep satisfied long enough into retirement.

Pretend I’m him; let me have it. Roman checks his watch for the time and then loosens his tie before pulling it over his head.

You could never be him. I hate how disgust is in my voice as I make the declaration. Roman is far too sweet and gentle to make amends for how twisted I’ve become. But maybe Rome thinks he could never be my husband because he believes I am still in love with him. I am not; I haven’t been in months. But I try it because I have nothing else to lose. Everything is about you, and it suffocates me to the point I wish I could stop breathing because even just sucking in oxygen seems to enrage you these days.

Rome’s eyes gloss over as I continue on with the struggle of swallowing the fear of being heard.

I started hating myself the more I hated you. Like somehow, your actions were a result of the consequences of my choices. I hated how connected we were and how difficult it was to change my mind because I wondered what your opinion might be. Second, I was guessing myself like I wasn’t a solo person; I depended on you. That was the worse realization of all. I bring my fingers together and shake my head down at them.

Noah, it isn’t your fault. Rome extends his fingers out, and I worry I might hate him for wanting to help me. That I need help at all.

I bark out a rough laugh, but I can’t stand this. My skin vibrates, and I want to be free from this cage. I keep shaking my head, over and over again, until I can’t say any words except the ones I know by heart, in an infinite amount of tones.

I’m sorry. I grab my jacket and bag, and I flee. I run through the office building, past all the others seeking solace in their own wounds. Our traumas revolve around us like we are the source of gravity because we enjoy the punishment of being reminded of how weak we were once.

It isn’t until I am out to my car, the car that Tripp bought me. It freaks me out, and I am already panicking, so I look to my left and right, it’s like he is everywhere, and I can’t hide from his clutches. I chuck my keys at the window, turn down the alleyway, and run.

I’m breaking barriers, the wind whips past me, and I can hear traffic all around me. But I am not stopping for them or anyone else. I shouldn’t be here right now. I am not where I am supposed to be. My family is broken, and I am a mother with no courage left.

There isn’t anything left but crumbs on it.

My feet slap against the hot pavement, and I only listen long enough to move faster, making it less noticeable. The busy streets continue, I cross the road, and soon I get lost, but I have no place to go, and loneliness isn’t meant for me. I trudge through neighborhoods, through the places I can’t keep quiet about. Ending up at the one place I am not allowed anymore.

Home.

His home, now.

Tripp isn’t there; I wouldn’t go in even if he was. But I can’t seem to leave. I scrape my knees as I fall to the sidewalk. The courts will say this is why I am unstable because I’m more emotional than a good mother. But I can’t help myself as I remember the driveway where my son learned how to ride his bike.

Where my daughter took her first steps on the front lawn. How my twin boys didn’t even flinch when they bent their fingers too far backward. I can hear the laughter as I close my eyes and let the tears fall. It’s a trick, but I can almost see another version of me smiling and chasing them around the yard in a game of tag.

Was I too foolish back then to understand what happened? Was I too wrapped up in the idea of a perfect family that I didn’t see the demon lurking in the garage as he worked on his car? Was this all a trial I could never overcome?

It’s selfish, I think, feeling sorry for myself for being in this position. But I know I