Page 178 of Edge of Unbroken

I could tell her that the sound of her footfalls alone instilled me with fear, that I’m a god damn pro at reading body language and facial expressions, at listening to inflections and intonation to determine if I was in danger. And speaking of threat level, I could tell her that I’m always living in a heightened state of awareness with increased adrenaline and cortisol levels. I would tell her how stressful, how deeply exhausting that is.

And then I should probably also tell her how on guard I was whenever she and I were in the house together, how my home felt more like a torture chamber where I never knew what kind of new horror lurked around the corner.

I could tell her how damn envious I was of my friends and their relationships with their parents, the support they received, even when they screwed up or got a bad grade, whereas I was deathly afraid of failure because I knew it would result in pain. How I killed myself to be perfect at all things, not because I wanted her to be proud of me—even though I did; I really, really did—but more because I didn’t want to give her a reason to hurt me again.

I could tell her about the deep loneliness that came with having to lie—always and to everyone. How exhausting it was to keep my story straight, to come up with plausible excuses for injuries, to always listen to questions extra carefully and think about my responses because I didn’t want to slip and say something that might rouse suspicion. How much it sucked having to drag myself to school or hockey practice when I had a concussion, a painful bruise, or a broken bone. How I lived through the most horrific pain with a fucking smile plastered onto my face because I was never allowed to feelanything. If I was happy, she’d take me down a notch; if I was sad, upset, or angry, she’d make sure I knew she didn’t tolerate me being anything but fine.

Or I could tell her what a mindfuck it was to have her beat me, only to tell me a minute later that she didn’t want to hurt me. How on edge her unpredictability left me day in and day out. How badly I tried to be better, to be perfect, even while knowing perfect wasn’t enough. I’d beat myself up striving for more, knowing it wouldn’t matter yet pushing myself further because maybe, just maybe she’d let up.

I might tell her that I don’t allow myself to truly feel happy or loved because a huge part of me believes I’m not worthy of good things. How her words have affected the way I think and feel about myself and my relationship with others. I worry I’ll never be able to live up to what my family and friends expect of me, that I’ll never be able to give Cat everything she deserves.

I want to tell her how isolated I feel, still, even from my own family. How I find myself unwilling or unable to trust—the good times, the peace, or myself.

And I’d tell her that even after everything she’s done to me, after all the pain, the fear, the violence, the physical and emotional wounds she’s inflicted on me, I still have love for her. And then I’d tell her that I hate myself for that. Hate myself for not being strong enough, for allowing her to hurt me, for not being able to withstand her, for not ever being enough for her.

I could tell her that I haven’t shed a single tear—not one—in ten years, even after she broke over twenty bones in my body, even after she left me fighting for my life, and even after the abuse finally,finallyended because I’ve been conditioned—programmed—to shove pain deep down inside me.

I yearn to tell her how desperately I just wanted her to say, “I’m proud of you. Good job… I love you.”

But as much as I want to say all these things to her, as much as I want her to feel even just one iota of the pain I’ve felt growing up, I know it won’t change a damn thing. Pouring my heart out, making myself vulnerable to my mother once more, will accomplishnothing. It won’t change my mom or the way she sees me. She won’t ever look at me as anything other than a mistake, a failure, a worthless screwup who should’ve never been born. It won’t erase the past or undo the pain. It won’t stop the nightmares, the anxious thoughts, the doubt, the fear, the uphill battle I fight every day.

Telling my mom that all I ever wanted was for her to love me won’t save me. Nothing and no one can. Not my family, not my friends, not even Cat. I know that now. I have to do that myself. Iwilldo it myself.

I break the eye contact with my mom and turn my attention back to Darren Cooley.

“Nothing,” I say simply.

“Nothing?” I think I detect the slightest smile in his eyes.

“Nothing.”

The attorney nods. “Thank you, Ronan. I know this was hard today. I have no further questions, Your Honor.” He turns around and takes a seat in his chair.

I close my eyes, noting their sting. I’m wiped out, completely drained, and the prospect of having to go through hours of cross-examination, of being attacked, accused, and made to defend myself is almost unbearable. I just don’t know how I’m going to muster up the strength, how I’m going to stop myself from submitting just like I did anytime my mom hurt me.

“Mr. Halbrocken?” the judge says to the defense attorney who stands from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket like he’s getting ready for battle.

“No cross-examination of the witness, Your Honor,” the attorney says.

It takes me a second to register the meaning of his words. He’s not going to question me. There won’t be an attack. I’m done. I did it. It’s over.

Holy shit. It’s over.

“You’re excused,” the judge tells me.

I slowly stand, my body fatigued, muscles aching with tension. I’m met by the bailiff and am ushered out of the courtroom, Rachel walking close behind me.

I don’t make eye contact with my mother and even find myself unable to look for Cat in the crowd as I’m led back to that small room from earlier. I’m afraid of what I might find in Cat’s eyes. I’m afraid I’ve lost her.

***

My head is swimming, adrenaline crashing. It’s so damn quiet in here, so damn quiet in my head, yet noisy at the same time. It’s over. It’s all over. But… now what? I had hoped it would feel better, that I’d feel relieved, lighter maybe, but for some reason it doesn’t feel better. It doesn’t feel better at all. Instead, it feels like I’m cracked all the way open, fresh blood spilling from old wounds, revictimized, reinjured by having to relive every painful memory—not in isolation, safely locked away in my head, but out loud. I had to remember it, I had to say it, I had to hear it and see it. Everyone knows now. They all know! They knoweverything. And worse: Iremembereverything.

Before today, I had significant gaps in my memory, and a lot of what I did remember—especially from my younger years—was hazy. It was a survival mechanism—shoving the trauma into the deepest, darkest corners of my subconscious—but it’s all been brought to the surface during the past several, long hours. It’s overwhelming me, threatening to bury me like an avalanche.

My heart doesn’t want to calm down, beating fast and loud in my chest. What am I supposed to do now? Start over? From what? I have no foundation. All I’ve ever known is how to survive. I don’t actually know how to live. I’m dizzy, the room is too hot. No, actually it’s too cold. I feel adrift, unanchored, yet weighted down as I begin pacing.

Rachel’s voice wafts through the space, barely audible. “Ronan?”

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