The Broken Hearted Girl

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A little story I've been working on, its a bit long for a short story as it was intended. It's pretty much the first successful non-twilight story ive written ;) Comments and feedback welcome xxxxx
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   Thebrokenheartedgirl  I felt the slight pressure of fingertips on my arm. The fingers creptupwards, towards my shoulder and up to the neckline of my shirt. Ibreathed heavily as the fingers reached my face, my lips, and his lipsreached down to mine. Our breath mingled as his mouth crushed mine.The moment was perfect. But perfection can go wrong in an instant.“I love you, Cady,” he breathed as his mouth left mine. I was too out of breath to say much.His fingers left my arm and began tugging on the neck of my shirt,trying to lift it off. When I realised what he was doing I began to pinch athis fingers, trying to make them release my shirt and after a few momentshe gave up.“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked, appalled.I sat in silent horror, thinking of what would happen if he hadsucceeded in taking off my shirt.Because Jackson Scott, my boyfriend of seven months, did not knowmy biggest secret. And he never would. I would never tell anyone. I hadpromised myself that almost nine years ago and I was not breaking now.I settled on the easiest possible explanation for my behaviour. “I’m notready yet.”Disappointment and understanding washed over his features. Hismouth turned down at the corners and he ran a hand through his hair,messing it up but not noticeably.“Do you know what Cady? I’m fine with that,” he said after a fewmoments pensive silence.My heart lifted and my hand shot out to his chin and pulled his face,and more importantly his lips, towards me.And he truly seemed okay with it. We left his parents’ bedroom andwalked down the hall to his. His room was bright and surprisingly adult fora boy his age. There was not a football poster, a nude calendar or anyother trademark of an eighteen year old boy’s room. In fact it was tidierthan my  room, and my room was tidy. After all, it should be; I was hardlyever in it.I sat on his bed and smoothed the silk sheets absentmindedly as Iwatched Jackson move about his room. He moved with an easy fluidity  that seemed unnatural and yet compelling at the same time. He movedwith the grace a ballet dancer could only hope to achieve.Jackson was fiddling with the photo frames scattered around the room– they were the only sign that anyone lived in this room. I knew everyphoto in the room well, mostly because I was in them.Jackson and I were both in the highest rank of teenage popularity atthe local school. Everyone looked up to us and we pretty much ruled theschool. He was fiddling with the photo of the Halloween party three yearsago, the day when we had met. That picture had always embarrassed me,partly because I was wearing a bumble bee outfit that emphasised all thewrong things and partly because of the way I was hanging off Jackson’sarm with a sickly-sweet smile on my face. I had been fourteen andoverjoyed that a fifteen year-old had kissed me. He turned to anotherphoto, one taken a few weeks ago when we were at a party. I was sat on Jackson’s lap smiling and holding his hand, looking a completely differentperson to the sweet thirteen year old in the neighbouring picture.He turned away from the picture frames with a sly smile on his face. I jerked from my thoughts and realised I had been staring, and he hadnoticed.The smile stayed in place as he came to sit beside me on the bed andput his arm around my shoulders.“You okay?” he asked me quietly, a look of concern tainting his eyes.“Yeah, I’m fine. Better than fine. Great.” I couldn’t even see my smilebut I knew it was so obviously false that someone less receptive than Jackson could have picked it up.He pushed me backwards onto the bed and crushed his mouth oncemore to mine with the same passion as before. I wondered idly if hebottled up all his passion for the rare occasions like these; we barely everkissed in public and when we did it was on a par with kissing yourgrandmother. But these were the kisses I treasured, the kisses when we just let go and acted on instinct.But I hadn’t even noticed while thinking all this that Jackson’s handswere scrabbling at the neckline of my shirt again and my hands werepinned behind my back, the full force of both out weights pushing themdown.“No, Jackson, no,” I murmured around his mouth. He paid no attention.And my shirt was over my head before I could get my hands free andstop him.And the look of disgust as he surveyed my body was just as I hadpictured in my mind.“What . . . how . . . Cady?” he stammered. I knew his mind was workingaway, though, piecing together pieces of evidence it had locked away forthis moment.And realisation dawned in his eyes.He pointed an accusatory finger at my face, scrambling off the bed andtowards the door while still keeping his eyes on me.“Jackson, its okay, just calm down.” I had risen off the bed and begantaking slow steps towards him, arms raised as if I were giving myself tothe Police.  “Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME!”I grabbed my shirt and bolted for the door, tears stinging my eyes. Iran downstairs and opened the door before pulling the shirt back over myhead and running blindly down his street. I heard Jackson screaming as Iran.That was the day I decided to leave home.That was the day Cady Cooper died.And that was the day that Arcadia Cooper was born.   Chapter oneDriving through the night, my vision blurred with unrelenting tears, hadgiven me a chance to think and decide on the perfect place to run to andthe perfect story to tell.It had been only four hours since the Jackson-fiasco; I spent one hourpacking my entire life into seven boxes and a bag and three hours to drivehalfway down the country to the only place I could go.So that left me here, facing the frosted window panes of a door I hadn’tseen in almost twelve years.I raised my fist, my fingernails digging into my palm, rapped threetimes on the wood and waited. And waited. And waited . . .As I turned away from the door, tears threatening in my eyes, I heardthe distant rumble of footsteps and a low, throaty voice. The door openedand it was like a memory coming to life.The man in the doorway was a little older than I remembered, a littlebalder, a little more haggard with a pot belly I definitely had never seenbefore. But he was fundamentally the same man of my childhood.In this doorway stood my father.My parents had split up when I was five and I had lived with my motherever since. When they had been together I had liked my mother a lotmore than my father because mum was always interested in watching
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