Title: Broken Pieces (01/??)
Author name: E.D. Fiorentino
Category: Angst
Sub Category: Drama
Keywords: Abuse, song lyrics, friendship
Rating: M
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Andrea Whalor never pretended that life was perfect, yet she was brought almost brutally to the realization of how lucky she had been after one of her best friends is found dead when a dominant/submissive relationship goes bad.
Rated M for use of language and adult content (mostly later chapters).
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on actual occurrences, although the names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
Author notes: While "Broken Pieces" is based on a true story, it is not focused entirely on one person. As you come to know Andrea, Ian, and Ashlynn, you may see in them yourself, a friend, or a boyfriend who once was, or still is, in the same position.
After witnessing a friend of mine go through Andrea's POV, and then having to go through her position myself, primarily inspired the writing of this story. I know how heart-wrenching it is to watch someone you love be abused, whether it be mentally or physically, for the soul reason that they continue to lay down their trust on the very person who is hurting them. While both of my friend's stories turned out okay, "Broken Pieces" is just a reminder that not all relationships like that can have a happy ending.

Broken Pieces
Part One: Washing it All Away
Chapter One

I wish I could make you understand
He's not for you
He's fake through and through

Why won't you listen to me?
He's not what he seems
Don't you see?I know that you think he loves you
Maybe he really does
But why does he leave marks?I wish that you were here with me
'Cuz then you would see
How much you meant to me

The tap squeaks as I turn it, letting the warm water turn to hot and strengthen the intensity of the flow. After shedding my bathrobe, I step in, feeling my hair slowly become drenched to stick to my neck, my upper back and shoulders. I stand there, letting the pounding drops soak away the filth that I feel, the stress of the day that has only just begun.

I chew on thoughts, spit them out, chew on them some more. I consider the events taking place, the events that have attacked everyone I know and love.
I don't speak of him. Nobody dares to even say his name. Not a soul. The look in everyone's eyes says I need to talk to someone, that I need to tell what is on my mind, before the dam bursts and the floodwaters flow.

The bastard…he's cut me to pieces, sewn me back together, broken me, until I am little more than a shadow of my former self.

The funny thing is, he wasn't even my boyfriend.

It all started out in October of my sophomore year of high school. My science class—all two hundred of us—had split into groups of four to work on projects. Two hundred students crammed into a wing, into a day, freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors, all of us working hand-in-hand to achieve a common goal.

He was in my group, an upperclassman among three fifteen-year-olds (I hadn't yet had my birthday, which would be a month later). Somehow our group picked the short straw and ended up with three sophomores and a senior. He didn't mind: we were all female with pleasant faces to look at. Not stunning, just pretty.

He was cute; I admitted that to myself as I glanced from my computer screen to him as we worked. His blue eyes held intensity as he considered how to build the mobile Lego car. His dark blond hair was a touch too long, blocking his view so that he tossed his head every now and again to be able to see.

Chelsea and Roberta—the other two girls in our group—were out "scouting" for ideas, while really scouting for boys, leaving us to our own devices. We agreed upon a plan: he would build the damn contraption; I would test it and make the PowerPoint.

Chelsea came back to eventually, bored, and helped us to complete the project. Our group placed second. We didn't give Roberta any credit.

I thought that was the end of him. I didn't expect to hear about him close to four months later from one of my best friends, Ashlynn.

"He likes me!" she had told me excitedly after school one day. She was so happy she was practically jumping for joy, her dark brown eyes sparkling.

"Ask him out, I suggested. That used to be my solution to any of my friends who claimed that So-And-So-Mister-Hott-Stuff liked her.

Ashlynn was very stubborn. "No; I'm waiting for him to ask me!"

I can vividly remember me sighing and laughing at her. Like I said: stubborn!

"Do you even know who he is?" she asked me.

"Maybe." Ashlynn had moved to our district at the beginning of the school year, just in time to start on the swim team at our school, and it was far more likely that I did know whoever she was talking about than not.

"Ian. Ian Simmons."

God. I wish I had never encouraged her.

Almost unconsciously, I turn off the flow of water and towel off, my shower complete.

It's strange to think that I won't be able to tell her that.

I wish I could make you understand
He's not for you
He's fake through and through

It makes me cry: I could've helped
You never would have had to yelp
When his hand hit your skin

I know now it was way too soon
He never cared for you
Now look where you are

I wish you were here with me
'Cuz then you would see
How much you meant to me