Behind The Mask (Nurses Book 2)

  TABLE of CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Meet Renee

  Copyright Renee Adams 2016 Behind the Mask

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Design by Silla Webb

  Interior Design by Silla Webb

  Editing by Silla Webb

  www.alphaqueens.com

  This book is for my “brotato salad” Justin. Thank you for giving me the character of Allyn.

  To my hubster, Boomer. Thank you for believing in me, even when I wanted to stop.

  To my gruesome twosome, Cori, hopefully you love it.

  Hey momma, look, I wrote a second!

  White hot searing pain spreads through my face. Blood drips down my forehead and into my eyes, blinding me. I try to scream out but blood fills my mouth, and I gag. But then the pain fades. Almost as if the nerves are deadened, and I can’t feel anymore. I know that not feeling the pain anymore is a sign that I might be dying. I don’t want to die, there is so much I haven’t done yet. So much in my life that I haven’t accomplished, things I haven’t seen, things I haven’t done. He climbs on top of me and paws at my scrubs and I know what’s next. I always know what’s next. This is all too real, the pain…the pain is too much. Vomit creeps its way up my throat and lingers in the back of my mouth, but it never actually comes out. I fight with all of my might, but I’m tired, so tired. The fighting never works anyways, he always has his way with me. He always uses me as a play toy, chewing me up and spitting me out. This never ends well, I always end up the loser.

  Please God, don’t let this be the end. Please let me wake up tomorrow and let this be a nightmare that is just a little too real. Wake up, Cori, wake up. Please, someone, wake me up!

  I wake up soaked…soaked through my clothes, sheets, and blanket. This is an every night thing, so by now I am so used to it. It has been four months since the prison riot. Four months since that bastard Xavier took over the prison I worked at and assaulted me in horrendous, unimaginable ways. Four months of nightmares, pain, misery…just four months of nothingness. Is this ever going to get better? The little voice inside of my head whispers ‘not today.’ I hate that little voice. I feel like it’s patronizing me every single damn day.

  With a resounding sigh, I get up and change the sheets, throwing my sweaty ones into the corner to throw in the laundry tomorrow. I don’t know how much more I can take of this life. How much more I can go on pretending like I’m fine. I know Olivia and Damian are worried about me, and it’s nice beyond measure that they care. But I feel it’s pity more than worry. Plus, Olivia feels guilty. She thinks that it’s her fault this happened to me, but she doesn’t know the whole story. It’s something that is my own burden to bear, and I take it on willingly because I screwed up, I let myself get caught.

  Laying back down, I try to go to my happy place. Well, what used to be my happy place. It’s the place I called out to when he was pushing himself into me; the place I called to when he was carving an X from my forehead to my jaw. Now, I don’t have one, because nothing is ever happy in this life. No, life is just filled with mistake after mistake, torment after torment, and we just go through the motions until we are cold in the ground.

  Tomorrow or today— however you want to look at it— I start my new job. I’m surprised someone wants me to work for them. I’m surprised that someone wants me to walk in public. I haven’t done that in so long, leaving the grocery shopping to Olivia. The only time I leave my house is when I go to the doctors. See I used to be a healthy person, but after everything that happened I have doctor’s appointments what feels like daily but, in reality, it’s an every few weeks thing because they have to see how I’m healing.

  I never used to be this way. I used to be the bubbly girl who was the life of the party. Girls wanted to be me, guys wanted to bang me. Now, they would probably string me up and call me names and laugh. I would probably scare small kids and make them think I’m the thing that goes bump in the night. But little do they know, the scary things look normal, not scarred up like me. The scary things walk amongst us, out in the open, free to do scary things to people who don’t deserve it.

  Getting up from my freshly made bed, I look at the sheets and blanket and know that after tonight, they will be destroyed. Shame really, but it happens every night, the nightmares and the screaming. I have to be at work in five hours at six am sharp, and I won’t go back to sleep. Sleep eludes me. We have this cat and mouse game where sleep ducks and weaves out of my grasp every night. I’m lucky if I get four to five hours of shut-eye a day. The docs have prescribed me sleeping pills, but that makes the nightmares worse. I have tried therapy as well, but that made the nightmares happen three or four times a night so that shit had to go for my sanity.

  I think starting this new job tomorrow is making the nightmares happen more frequently. Ever since I accepted the work, the nightmares have gone up in intensity, sometimes with me screaming in my sleep or waking up tear stained from crying. It all feels too real. It all feels like I’m trying to crawl my way out, of the memories that plague me in unimaginable ways.

  He took that from me. He took my sanity, my life, and my safety. He killed any and all dreams I had for myself when he took me against my will. I can’t even say the r-word because I get a sick feeling in my stomach, but I know what he did, hell everyone knows what the bastard did. On top of him taking what he wanted from my body he left not only the emotional and mental scars to deal with, but he had to take it even further and carve an X into my face. Even from the grave that piece of shit is still ruining my life.

  I’m just exhausted, purely exhausted, it’s like the lack of sleep has taken up residence in my bones, making them achy all the time. Not the great way to start my new job with a lack of sleep. But it has to be done, of course, the state is paying my medical bills from the riot, but I still have to pay my regular bills.

  After the riot, I stayed with Olivia and Damian for a while. They are sickeningly cute, and that is certainly not what I need right now. Seeing two people kiss each other, or hug makes me feel anxiety that I don’t need or want. Olivia would hold me or sleep next to me if I needed her. Damian would sit right outside my door all night. Jack, my sweet boy, was always trying to make his Aunt Corny laugh. I love each and every one of them for it, but it was all too much. I have to do this on my own, I have to survive sometime, and I can’t have people holding my hand while I live my day. I’m stronger than that, or well I used to be.

  Standing outside, the military police building at the Veterans rehabilitations campus, it’s almost like looking at
the prison again. The bars on the windows makes me break out into a cold sweat. The peeling white paint, the years of damage, all brings me back to that place. Everywhere you looked at March prison, it was despair, damage, and destruction. This is much the same.

  “Miss, do you need some help?” Some overweight cop holds the door open waiting for me to stop staring at the building.

  As soon as I look at him, I see the pity go straight into his eyes. Almost like a wall erects between us. People don’t realize that they are looking at someone with pity in their eyes but it happens. He is no different, he looks like he is waiting for me to fall apart in front of him. Instantly I don’t like him as much as I should. I don’t mean to pass judgment on someone, but I can’t stand the sadness.

  “Oh, uh, yes. I need to get my badge and fingerprints taken. I was told this is where I needed to go.” I keep my head down as much as possible when I talk to someone because I don’t want to see them when they are gawking at my face.

  Without another word he opens the door wider waiting for me to come in. I can do this, I can do this, I am so gonna rock this shit! If I tell myself that enough, it will come true. I’m sure of it. I step into the building, and suddenly I don’t feel like I’m going to rock anything, let alone rock this shit. I feel like the walls are closing in, the air has become thick and cloying. The walls are the same white cinderblock as the prison. A cell is on the back wall, for what I don’t know, I can’t imagine much crime happening here. I know this is a military police station, but I just figured they wouldn’t need cells. My vision begins to tunnel, and I force myself to take deep, even breaths. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to shut out what is around me.

  “You doing alright? Need to sit down or need some water, or something?” a gruff voice calls from behind me. Turning to look I see an older, unassuming man dressed in a police uniform. He has graying hair around the temples, and a bit of a beer belly, but that’s not what draws me to him. It’s his eyes. The warmest set of brown eyes are staring down at me. He reminds me of a dad. Not my dad because my dad was a tool bag, but the kind of dad I would read about in books. The ones who would go to the ends of the earth for their kids, and teach them a gentle lesson afterward. Fight all the battles for their kids or always have some kind words for them. The TV dads that we all secretly wish was our dad.

  “I’m ok.”

  “You have been saying that, along with ‘I’m gonna rock this shit.’ Figured before you rocked some shit you might want to sit for a minute.”

  I can’t help it, I burst out into a laughter so hard it sounds mad even to my own ears. By the time I stop, the tears are flowing, although I can’t figure out if they are laughing tears or sadness tears. All I know is, it has been a while since I have actually laughed. Then I remember the scars and hang my head in shame all over again.

  See, I used to be sweet and bubbly, I used to be just like any one of your friends. I used to be, well, me. Until he stole everything away. My pride, dignity, security, looks, my life— he took it all away. He left me a broken, battered shell of my former self. A ghost of the woman I once was. I often wonder if I will ever get that back.

  Snapping myself out of my dark thoughts, I look up at this man and crack a sideways smile, not the full on show of teeth I used to be able to do. My smile now droops in spots from the scars, it looks jagged almost. He narrows his eyes at me as if he’s unsure of this crazy person sitting in front of him. Don’t worry, buddy, I am hopefully not crazy. I mean yeah, I’m crazy, but not that kind of crazy.

  “I’m here to have my fingerprints put on file. I’m supposed to be starting here today.”

  “Ahhh, yes, Samantha told me that we had a new hire. Nurse, right?”

  “Yeah, over in the rehab unit.”

  “You ever worked with Veterans before?” He doesn’t seem to be trying to pry, but I’m still untrusting of people.

  “No, I used to work with prisoners.” I don’t want to offer too much, although he will probably recognize my name. Hell, it’s still being flashed all over the news as the one who survived. I wasn’t the only one to survive, Olivia and Damian survived too. But I was the only one who walked away with physical and mental scars. Some of the people who were tortured by Xavier didn’t walk away at all. They were carried out in body bags, leaving blood stains on the floor from where they endured the torture of a mad man.

  Like a lightbulb going off, I see the recognition on his face. But just like that, he schools his features to be soft and warm, whereas other people show pity. I hate the pity. Such a useless emotion for others to have. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me and what I’ve been through. I just want people to leave me alone, and I certainly don’t want them to stare.

  “Well, I’ve never worked with prisoners, but I can tell you, some of these guys feel like they are in prison. Maybe you can whip them into shape. You seem like the strong type.” He offers a small smile, and instead of being upset about his comments I feel like he’s a person who truly believes I can make a difference. The confidence he has in me is far from the confidence that I have in myself. I don’t know if I can whip anyone into shape anymore.

  I used to be that way. I used to feel like the world was my oyster and all that bullshit. Now I feel like I’m just going through the motions of life, just treading water. Life keeps knocking me down with those giant waves you see surfers surfing, but I don’t have the help of a board or a boat. It’s just me, treading water as best as I can and trying not to drown.

  “Yeah, maybe.” It’s all I have to offer.

  “Name?”

  “Cori, well Corinne Shawbell.” Now I just wait to see if he has the balls to ask me if I’m the girl from the news. Some people have balls the size of watermelons because they just insert themselves in your business. They act as if because you’re in the public spotlight all the time that they know you in some way.

  “Names Martin. Pleased to meet ya.” He offers a hand out to me, but I shy away. I don’t give any man control over me by touching my hand. To me, a handshake is a possibility to grab me, and that is a chance that I’m not willing to take. He drops his hand with a frown and a slight narrowing of his eyes.

  “Well then, let’s get started.” He walks me over to a computer with a big pad that looks like you use to sign your name at the grocery store. I look up at him because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. When I worked at the prison it was straight up old school style with the ink pads on paper. This fancy technology is new to me.

  He looks uncomfortable, and I’m wondering what’s next. “Well, I need to touch your hand. But I promise I will try to make it quick. All I need to do is spray it with some rubbing alcohol to dry the oils up a little, and then I can do each finger at a time then your palm. It will be quick.” He looks straight into my eyes. Maybe gauging my reaction to him having to touch me.

  I reach one shaky hand out, and I feel my skin start to crawl, it always crawls now when someone touches my bare skin. I have to swallow down the bile as soon as his fingers touch mine. Not because of him, not by any means, hell I feel more comfortable around him than I do most of my friends. But just the sheer feeling of someone’s skin on mine has me wanting to vomit. I can tell he’s trying to rush through this and for that I am forever grateful to him.

  Next is taking my picture for my badge. I don’t smile, and I don’t even look at the camera. I look out the window behind the camera. This face doesn’t need to be on film, and if I can avoid this I would.

  “All done, you did well. Now you can go meet Samantha at the rehab, and give her this.” He hands me a piece of paper that he signed off on that states I’ve completed my fingerprinting. He also hands me my badge, I guess they print it out right here. I don’t even look at the picture, I just clip it to my scrubs. I already know how that picture has turned out. A blank stare with an unfortunate scar.

  “Oh, Cori, don’t be a stranger. We are a tight-knit family here, and we look out for each other. We don’t have too m
any problems around here from anybody, patient or personnel. I know you won’t believe me and that’s ok, but we got your back here.” He’s right, I don’t believe him. I want to, but I can’t.

  Making my way out of that building, walking along the sidewalk I feel scared. Hell, I always feel scared. But this is different. This is not scared for my life, this is scared for possibilities in my life. This is scared for the future.

  Walking up to the rehab building, I can see the age on the paint chipped brick. The grounds are unkempt, and the several pole lights are blown, casting shadows around the eerie place. Run down doesn’t even begin to describe this place. It’s definitely seen better days. Kind of like me, I’ve seen better days but now I’m just battered and run down. Broken if you will.

  Walking inside, the dank smell hits me, assaulting my nose. This isn’t the smell of the prison. This is old air and sickness, this place was a hospital before a rehab. The prison was old air and defeat. I much prefer this over the prison, because even through the smell, there is a sense of freedom here. Patients are free to leave whenever they want. Not that I could ever go back to the prison. That bastard is dead, stop letting him control you! My inner voice is so wise but doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He has controlled me since that day and still does beyond the grave. I can never be the same Cori, carefree, funny, and beautiful. He ruined me. Scarred me not just on the outside but on the inside, too. The inside is what keeps me away from people, but the outside is what keeps them away from me. The X that scores my face is a constant reminder of what X did to me. Xavier regularly plays on my mind, all day every day. Because he still has the power, he is still slowly wreaking his havoc from beyond the grave.

  Walking into the elevator, I rethink taking this position. I need to work, but maybe I could have gotten a transcription job from home or something. The elevator groans to life and I guess I can’t rethink things now, because once those doors open I can’t turn back. Plus, I got bills, especially ongoing medical bills to keep up on, the state only covers so many therapy appointments.