Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

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sexy
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Re: Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:36

2. Francesca 5

I'm clutching the phone between the bottom of my neck and my shoulder and the position is making my body ache. I finally put the heavy, cardboard box down on the floor and grab the phone before I press it to my ear.

"What was that?" I ask breathlessly.

"How's the move?" My dad chuckles.

I look around at the copious amount of boxes ranging from all different sizes that litter the ground around me. The removal firm had just left a few seconds prior and now I'm standing in something that looks similar to a war zone.

"It's okay," I say, pacing around my new house.

The building is above the new practise for my therapy business. I've moved all the way from California, where my business began to take off, to Seattle. It's a move that I wasn't sure if I should have done. But now as I stare at all the hard work I've thrown into this move and business, I know that I'll be able to make it in Seattle.

"Don't tire yourself out," my dad says sternly and I roll my eyes.

"I won't." I smile and fall back onto the couch. "How are you doing, then?"

"I'm good, the baby won't shut the hell up," My dad sighs and I laugh at him.

My dad had been single ever since my mother died. He hadn't bothered to find anyone and I didn't blame him, but I knew that he was lonely and needed someone when I left. Trying to remain sober and work through his internal problems was hard enough and I know that me leaving jolted him a bit. But luck must have been on his side, because in my second year of college, he found someone.

Her name is Jamie and is a few years younger than my dad. I was hesitant at first. Seeing my dad with someone was a little uncomfortable after everything we'd been through - good and bad. It was a strange thing to see. But then I saw him smile. And smile and smile and smile. Then I realized that she was helping him and that she continues to help him more than I ever could have or ever did.

A year ago, Jamie became pregnant and three months ago she gave birth to Daniel 'Danny' Howard. My half-brother. It's weird to have a little brother that's only three months old. It's even weirder to move miles and miles away from them so soon. 1

But my mind is on my business and my dad understands that.

Even if it does get difficult every now and then.

"Well babies are loud," I comment.

"You're right about that," my dad mutters. "You were the worst. You kept screaming the house down at three in the morning for no reason!"

I scoff. "I wasn't that bad!"

"Oh you were, honey." My dad laughs and I just chuckle as well. "I can't believe you're all the way in Seattle. You'll have to visit soon."

I smile and look over at the large window on the far wall and I stare out at the street a little way below me. "Yeah, I can't believe it either. And I will, promise."

"Do you like it?"

I frown and glance around the room. "I don't know. It's all...new. Maybe after a few days I'll warm up to it."

"I went to Seattle when I was a teenager," Dad reminisces and I just smile, leaning back against the couch. "I went with a few friends when I took a gap year before heading to University. We went all over America, it was the best thing ever. Getting drunk and just being with friends."

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"Are you trying to promote being drunk?" I tease.

"Ha-ha," my dad says dryly.

I just shake my head. "I should probably be going. I've got a lot to unpack."

"Alright," Dad sighs. "Take care of yourself and call any time."

"Will do." My lips form a tight smile. "Say hi to the little monster and Jamie for me."

Dad laughs. "Will do, love you."

"Love you too," I say and wait for the line to cut off.

I drop the phone down on the couch beside me and sigh, looking up at the ceiling. The ceiling is a bold, clear white but the walls have been painted a dark blue which makes the entire house close in on itself. I mentally tell myself that I need to paint everything white. I hate colours on the wall and prefer the colour to be my paintings.

At the thought of my paintings, I perk up and jump up from the couch.

I wander over to the corner of the room where there's a large box sitting by itself that's been opened already by myself earlier. I lift the top of the cardboard box up and peek over the edge of the box and stare at the contents.

A worn, wooden easel that has been folded up into a box sits inside. A smile curves at my lips and with slight struggle, I yank the easel out of the box. Placing it down on the plastic, makeshift table that was in the kitchen, I flip open the locks and lift up the front of the easel.

After a tiresome fight with my own easel, I manage to get the thing up and standing in the middle of my kitchen. I grin and run out into the sitting room where I surge through one of the other boxes and grab the canvas that is wrapped up in bubble wrap.

I tear the bubble wrap away and put it on the table, pretty sure that I'm going to want to pop all the bubbles later. I grip the edges of the canvas and place it down on the easel, locking the little metal pieces in place around the edges. I take a step back and smile down at my painting but slowly my smile begins to falter.

The painting is of a model I found off the internet. I copied the face perfectly from page to canvas but now as I take a step back, it looks wrong. I sigh and my eyes wander over all the paint and key in on the blank places where paint needs to be added.

It holds no meaning. No emotion.

I turn away from the painting, my mood falling sour. Trudging back out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, I stare at the awfully coloured walls and the large pieces of wrapped up furniture. It's not home yet and even though the place is filled with my furniture, nothing is familiar.

I rub my hands together and head towards the front door to go downstairs.

Maybe I might be lucky and this move won't be so bad.

***

As I sit down in my little office that consists of a desk, a chair and a phone, the sound of my phone's ring pierces through the silence. I leap forward and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear.

"Art Therapist Francesca Howard, how may I help you?"

I inwardly cringe at what I say and hope that the person on the other line doesn't think I'm completely incompetent.

"Hello Miss Howard," a male voice comes through, "I'm Kyle Parson's." 3

"Oh, hello," I smile a little and lean forward in my seat. "Are you interested in booking an appointment?"

"Yes but...it's for a friend of mine."

I pause for a moment. "Do they know you're booking this appointment?"

"Yes, yes of course," Kyle says. "Well the thing is, he's had an accident, with his back. And he's going to be okay medically but...he's not okay mentally."

I nod to myself. "So why pick an art therapist out of everyone else?"

"He's always loved art. He's not good at it but he always says that one person taught him to love it." 27

"Alright, well I am more than happy to help him of course. But he should be the one that contacts me. Doing something like therapy through a third party doesn't sit well."

"He's a very busy man," Kyle says. "A football player, maybe you've heard of him? Madden?" 2

"I'm sorry, I don't watch football," I say.

"Right," Kyle says. "Well please, if there's any way an appointment can be made for him through me that would be great. Just a first, general one, to see if it's the right fit for him."

I wait for a moment then nod to myself. "Okay," I tell him. "Sure, I can do that."

"Great, his name is Tyler Madden. I'll just find his contact details, one second." 9

My hands stop on the keyboard and I frown. It couldn't be. That's too much of a coincidence. The name is a common one. 7

"Are there any appointments open in Tuesday?" Kyle suddenly asks and I blink out of my stupor.

"Uh, yeah," I say. "Of course. I can do eleven-thirty if that works?"

"That would be perfect," Kyle breathes out heavily. "Thank you."

I come off the phone a little while later and put it down on the table. My mind is reeling with questions but I shut them down. That's too much of a coincidence.

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sexy
Platinum Member
Posts: 4069
Joined: 30 Jul 2015 19:39

Re: Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:36

3. Tyler 8

My best friend, Kyle, sits in front of me looking nervous as I decide whether or not to yell at him. I cross my arms over my chest and look over at where he's sitting on the couch. The TV plays silently behind me and his eyes flicker over there every now and then. 2

"You did, what?" I ask quietly.

Kyle gulps and the movement makes him wince. "Well, I might have booked an appointment for you with a therapist." 2

I sigh and rub my eyes tiredly. "Kyle, I said that I was going to do it when I was ready."

"Yeah, I know that, but I also know that you would wimp out of it," Kyle speaks sadly. "It might not help but it's just some fun-"

"Last time I checked, therapy wasn't fun," I deadpan. 2

"You're just being a pessimist." Kyle brushes me off. "This is art anyway, you always said you liked it."

"Doesn't mean I'm good at it!" 1

"Its therapy, no one cares." Kyle shrugs. "Draw a stickman...with emotion of course." 15

I roll my eyes at him and head into the kitchen. I grab two beers from the fridge and walk back into the sitting room as Kyle un-mutes the TV. I throw the beer at him and he fumbles with it until he finally grabs the can.

"You'd be shit at football," I comment and Kyle scoffs.

"That's why I'm the lawyer in this friendship," Kyle mutters and takes a long sip from his beer.

"Thirsty?" I grin. 1

"Well seeing as my wife isn't giving me any, can I be blamed?" Kyle sighs and I nearly spit out my drink. 5

"Kyle!" I complain. "Warn a guy, will ya?"

Kyle just grins and leans back in his seat. I sit down slowly, trying to ignore how obvious my back brace is being. I'm thankful that Kyle doesn't seem to care about it so when I'm around him, I place the back brace over my shirt instead of underneath it.

"It's not my fault that she's decided to go without sex!" Kyle continues. "I mean, what did I do? One second we're going at it like rabbits and the next she's decided that she's taking an oath of Chasity!" 8

I sigh and reach forward to grab the remote on the table. I turn the volume all the way up and listen to the TV as Kyle drones on.

"You know, maybe she just doesn't think you're capable of sexually pleasing her anymore," I say and Kyle shuts up immediately. 1

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe she doesn't like your...you know..."

"Are you trying to insinuate that my wife of three years no longer deems my dick fit enough for sexual intercourse?" Kyle raises an eyebrow and I smirk to myself. 4

"You said it, not me."

"Tyler!" Kyle exclaims. "Man, I'm not lacking in the downstairs department."

"Never said you were." I laugh.

"I can show you for proof!" Kyle suddenly stands up and I burst out laughing, shoving him back down on the couch. 3

"Sit down," I snicker and Kyle grins. "God, you're stupid."

"Don't judge me," Kyle says. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted to see." 3

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I turn to him with a frown. "And what's that supposed to mean?" 1

Kyle sighs and sits up slightly, glancing round the room till he finds the courage to stare back at me. "Well I mean, you haven't had a girlfriend in what, two years?"

I want so badly to turn back and tell him that I haven't had a serious girlfriend since I was eighteen. But I stop myself and just give him a nod, looking down at the floor. 1

"I mean, there are rumours..."

"Rumours?" I echo. "Fantastic. Now my relationships are being questioned on top of people already questioning my ability to play football anymore."

Kyle gives me a shrug and I rest the side of my face on the palm of my hand. He turns back to the TV and I stay, staring down at the ground. Seven years and I haven't had a single girlfriend. I know that it's a little pitiful but it's not like the offer hasn't come up, it's just that I don't want to accept it. 1

Every time I'm even close to going further than a single night with a woman, one girl's face pops up in my mind. And every time, I sit on my bed and flick through my phone until her number shows up on the screen. And I stare at it for as long as I can. My mind will think up a million different ways and reasons as to why I shouldn't click on her number and million reasons why I should. 2

But in the end, I become a coward.

I close my phone and every time, I wonder what would have happened if I clicked on her number. Even now, I thinking about how the conversation would go if I was to click on her number. If I called her. Heard her voice.

Will she be angry? Happy? Understanding?

Or will she have completely forgotten about me. Have a boyfriend, husband, kids, a life.

And that's why I don't call her.

She probably changed her number anyway. 2

I don't want to call her only to find out that there's no hope for anything between us anymore. I don't want to know that she's moved on. I don't want to accept that she's finally gone. And I don't want to accept that I let her. 1

"So when's the appointment for this art therapist?" I ask Kyle.

"Oh." He jumps up into a sitting position from where he was lounging. "Uh, tomorrow." 2

I freeze and my head slowly moves toward him. Our eyes meet and I raise an eyebrow at him and then blink once.

"I guess there's no need to give me time to prepare," I sigh.

***

Clothes litter my room. Hundreds of different shirts and pants lie across the ground. Kyle comes in and stops at the doorway and his eyes widen at what he sees.

"Re-decorating?"

"I can't find any clothes," I explain. "What do you wear to therapy?" 3

Kyle steps forward. "Well think about it this way, you're painting, so wear something that you don't mind getting destroyed."

I stare down at my designer shirts and feel dread hit me. I walk over to the corner of my room where there's a chest of drawers. I flick through the draws until I find a pair of grey sweatpants and a white shirt. 1

I hold them up and Kyle raises an eyebrow but nods either way. He turns away and I slip them on. We walk out into the main part of the house and I glance at myself in the mirror, noticing how the back brace is showing through my white shirt. I have a tighter shirt on under the brace but it that doesn't change the fact that the brace is so obvious.

"You're the only one that can see it."

I turn around and look at Kyle who's leaning against the front door.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The brace," he clarifies. "You know it's there which is why you keep seeing it. I barely notice it's there, Tyler. It's only you that's constantly aware of it. Honestly, I never notice."

I glance back at myself in the mirror and slowly nod.

"Ready?" I ask.

Kyle's gaze lingers with concern on me for a second before he mimics my nod and opens the front door.

An hour later, I'm stood at the front door of the therapists with fifteen minutes to spare. I don't want to come across as desperate so I stop, my hand hovering over the door handle. Kyle is standing behind me and I can feel his presence painfully close.

"You don't have to," Kyle speaks quietly.

I turn around, leaning my back against the door. His eyes meet mine and I try to hold the emotions off my face. I'm scared and nervous but there's a little part of me that's relieved that Kyle made the appointment.

I know that deep down, I wouldn't have done it. I would call off some bullshit to my dad and then let the pain that's surrounding me eat me up. My back injury terrified me, not because it could hurt me physically, but because it's the one thing that's stopping me from getting onto the field.

The field is my only outlet. Playing football is the only thing that keeps me calm. As a teenager, I used to fight people for a high to blow off steam. Now, I have football.

I had football.

"I need to," I say quietly to Kyle.

"Call me when you're done," Kyle tells me and I nod.

I watch as he walks away and back into his car before I turn around and stare down at the door handle. Is therapy something that can honestly help me? Is it even worth it? Am I willing to pour my life away into a stranger? 5

Am I willing to even talk to a stranger? 7

I breathe in slowly and reach forward, grabbing the door handle firmly in my grasp.

And then I open the door.

User avatar
sexy
Platinum Member
Posts: 4069
Joined: 30 Jul 2015 19:39

Re: Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:37

4. Tyler 3

When I was thirteen, someone told me I was a coward.

I guess they were right.

I was dared to kiss Melinda Parker – a girl who at the time had braces and constantly picked her nose. My thirteen year old self wanted nothing more than to run away so I completely copped out of it.

My friends called me a wimp.

But I still remember that day like it was just yesterday. And on that day, two things stuck. One, was the look on Melinda Parker's face when she overheard us talking about the dare. It was complete embarrassment. But it was also sadness and I could see that she was seconds away from crying.

And the second thing, was the words they called me.

Coward, wimp, pussy, weak.

Those words stayed with me for years and years later. They stayed with me during my first speech. First production. First party. First drink. First high. First fight.

Last fight.

And those words are with me right now as I hover at the front door, my hand gripping the handle. I stand there in the opening to the therapists and can feel myself wavering, thinking too hard. A part of me wants to walk in there and get it over with and another part wants to turn around and slam the door shut.

I stand there, still as stone until I feel the wind blowing against my back and the heat from the room pressing against my front. And I stay there, standing as my mind flickers over a million different outcomes.

But in the end all I get is one.

So I slowly let go of the door handle and take a step back, letting the door shut on its own accord. The cold breeze blows against the back of my neck and I supress the shiver that wants to worm its way up my body. 18

Once I hear the door click shut, I sigh.

I turn around and look over at Kyle's car. He's sat there, looking at me and I hear him unlock the car doors and I walk over to him. I slip inside and we both sit in silence for a moment.

"Why couldn't you do it?" he asks.

I glance over at him, "The back injury's my problem. It's a physical problem. I'm not mentally sick or weak. I don't need a therapist." 10

Kyle just stares at me and I look away, pointedly staring out the front window. Kyle finally tears his eyes away from me.

"Stubborn ass," he mutters.

I don't give him an answer back.

Because he's right.

"This was probably your only shot, you know," Kyle says. "The therapist probably won't want you back after wimping out on the first day. They're not going to just waste their time like that."

"I'm not wimping out," I say between clenched teeth.

"Yes you are," Kyle sighs. "And you know you are!"

"What do you want me to do?" I hiss. "I'm not going in there. I can't!" 1

"You're doubting yourself."

"Well do you honestly blame me? It's only been a month since the accident, Kyle! I'm not ready to pour all my shit onto someone else."

"Well you're pouring your shit onto all of us!" Kyle suddenly bursts out and I become silent.

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He slowly retreats and leans back in his seat, glancing out the window before running a hand down his face. I sit there, feeling the tension seize up around us. I watch as the digital clock on the dashboard flicks the last number from nine to ten.

"Tyler-"

"I'm walking," I say, undoing my seat belt.

"Tyler," Kyle says. "Come on man, just wait."

I open the car door and step out carefully, looking in at Kyle from the sidewalk. "I'll be back later."

Kyle sighs. "Just get in the car."

I shake my head. "I need some fresh air."

"Tyler..." Kyle grimaces. "Tyler-"

I shut the car door and turn around, walking straight past the front door of the therapists and down the street. The back brace has a strong grip on me. The undershirt is making no difference and I can feel the edges digging in.

I know that I'm making a big deal out of the brace but I can't help it. Once you know something is there...it won't go away. It's like when you're a kid and think something's in your closet and you keep looking at it. When you have an itch and can't reach it and you still notice it no matter how hard you try not to.

And this back brace is a constant weight that I'm dragging along behind me.

And I feel like it is slowly dragging me down too.

I head around the corner that's filled with small shops, mostly coffee places, and is busy but still peaceful. The stores surround a large park in the middle that has numerous benches sat around it. I immediately head that way and stop in front of one of the benches.

It's old and wooden with one piece at the end sticking out awkwardly. I move to the side opposite to avoid the lethal slab of wood and the tons of bird crap that litters the surface. 1

The wind blows a harsh gust and it ruffles my hair and stings the tips of my ears. My hands are cold and stinging from the pain as well but I don't bother to conceal them in heat.

The pain is the only thing that's keeping me awake and alert right now.

Kyle's words surround my thoughts though, they have been ever since I left the car. Am I really throwing all my problems down on everyone else? Is this all really that bad to everyone else around me? But then there is the other part of my mind that screams at me, telling me that I'm going through worse. I have no job, no income. It has all been taken from me.

I am going to go through with surgery on my back. A surgery that could mean that I will never play football again if my back isn't good enough.

So can people honestly blame me for being sour over the subject? I was at the height of my career; the height of my life. And it was all take away in less than five seconds. There is no point in trying to sugar coat it.

I have no job, no stability and right now it seems like I am losing my friends and family too.

Can I honestly be blamed for that?

I think back to the therapist and my mind goes blank. I sigh and drop my head into my hands. Am I being a wimp and a coward for not walking in there? I want to tell myself so badly that I am being a wimp. I want to scream all those names my friends told me I was when I was thirteen to myself.

I want to beat myself up over it all.

But I can't.

Because I know that no matter how much I scream at myself, nothing will happen. I won't walk back into the building. I won't confront my demons and I won't say sorry. It's not the type of person that I am. It's not the type of person I'm becoming.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and stare at the blank screen.

No new messages.

I blink and look down at the screen again, seeing the date plastered across the front.

Twenty third of February. 3

I have less than a month before I am walking into a hospital to have surgery on my back. I have less than a month before disks are placed into my spine. Suddenly, things begin to feel real. I'm hit by such an intensity that I'm momentarily left stunned.

This is really happening.

Nothing can get me out of this.

It all happened. I messed up my spine. I'm no longer in the NFL. I'm having surgery. I was just about to go to therapy to help my mental state of mind. None of this is going to blow over in just a few seconds.

I have been in newspaper articles, magazines, news reports and every single sports fan knows what I'm going through. But then again, no one knows what I'm actually going through.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and pull my hood over my head, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweater. I turn around and walk away from the bench like a theif in the night. And then I realize it as I take step after step, faster and faster to get away from some invisible force. They were right. I am a wimp, I am a pussy, I am a coward, I am weak. 2

And I always have been.

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