Page 1 of Broken Pieces

Prologue

Raelynn

It’s the middle of May in Mississippi and it should be in the eighties. But it’s not. It’s fifty-three degrees and pouring. My teeth are chattering so hard my jaw is beginning to hurt. I glance at my cheap plastic watch I got out of a toy machine at Save-a-Lot, it’s just after seven at night. The bus was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. I blame it on the rain. It’s the only logical reason the Greyhound would be running late.

I clutch my duffel bag to my chest as I peek around the bus stop. My feet tap on the ground making an uneven rhythm of music as I bite at my nails. Logan would have noticed by now I’m late coming home from work.

I’m never late. I know the consequences all too well. I should be home by six-thirty so I can have dinner ready by seven-thirty. Exactly thirty minutes after Logan gets home from work, enough time for him to shower and drink a glass of whiskey.

Last night was finally my last straw. My brother has been telling me for a long time to leave, but I was too scared and too stupid to do it. After leaving his home in December and coming back to the abuse, I started saving the money he was giving me rather than fuel Logan’s alcohol and drug habit.

I see headlights coming down the road and pray it’s the bus, but the sound of a broken muffler sends a jolt of fear down my spine. I spring out of my seat and limp toward the inside of the bus station. I make it around the corner just as I see a car pull up and drop off a young girl. I let out a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Logan.

I glance up at the TV screen in the lobby and see the bus to Atlanta is delayed twenty minutes. Five more minutes before I can breathe safely.

I walk to the bathroom and readjust my hood to cover the massive black and purple bruise covering the left side of my face. My eye is nearly swollen shut, but luckily it isn’t so bad I can’t see out of it. To some, that’s the price you pay for overcooking the chicken.

I let out a deep sigh and pull the hood farther over my face. I hear the announcement on the loudspeaker that my bus has finally arrived. I hustle to the bus through the rain, hand the driver my ticket, and collapse onto a seat in the back. I put headphones in my ears and turn on Sam Smith, wallowing in the misery of sad songs. I look out the window, the rain pattering against it to the rhythm of my heart. I left White Creek three years ago and now I was going back for good.

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