Page 1 of Broken Pieces
Chapter One
Skylar
Lifedoesn’tgiveashit about me. It never has.
Not when I was thrown into one fucked-up foster home after another, passed around by strangers with dead eyes and fake promises. Tossed into rooms reeking of mildew and disappointment. Treated like I was nothing more than a broken thing no one ever wanted to fix.
I stopped unpacking my bags when I was ten. Figured there was no fucking point.
What’s the use of pretending you belong when every door you walk through slams shut before you’ve even learned their names?
You learn fast.
Hope fades.
Words dry up.
Survival means vanishing before anyone notices you’re there.
Every place promising it was safe ended up being its own brand of hell. Some were cold and cruel. Some were quiet, andthat was worse. Silence scraping against your ribs. Rules shifting with the mood of whatever fucker was in charge.
There’s no safety in this world.
Just different ways of being torn apart.
The only family I’ve ever had are these other fucked-up foster kids they dumped me with. All of us cracked down the middle, barely holding it together with secrets and whatever rage we hadn’t burned through yet.
None of us chose this shit.
We were only the unlucky ones.
Shoved into the same sinking boat, throwing our pain at each other like it might help keep us afloat. All screaming into the dark, hoping someone might hear us before we all go under.
So I started building walls.
Thick ones.
Cold, unbreakable fucking things.
Brick by bitter brick.
I laid them with every lie I was told, every slap I was given, every time someone looked at me and saw nothing worth keeping.
Now they’re so goddamn high, I don’t even know what’s on the other side anymore.
My mouth turned into a weapon. A blade I honed with every betrayal, every stare telling me I wasn’t worth the trouble. I didn’t speak to be heard. I spoke to wound. Every word a cut. Every sentence a warning. Sarcasm sharp enough to scar. Smirks cutting deeper than fists. I struck first, bled them out with language, and called it survival.
Because softness… it’s blood in the water, and I’ve already drowned in it too many times.
My heart… that died a long time ago. If there’s anything left of it.
It’s buried so goddamn deep beneath shadows, regret, and everything I never said. I wouldn’t recognize the fucker if it clawed its way out.
It doesn’t beat. Doesn’t ache. Only festers, rotting slowly inside a body built to survive without it.
I’m not standing around waiting to be saved. Shit like that’s a fairytale they tell kids to make them sleep through the night. I stopped believing in being rescued the first time someone looked me in the eye and walked away, anyway.
There’s no knight in shining armor. No white horse. No hand reaching into the flames to drag me free. Only the smoke choking me and the burn that never goes away.
