*** Upper New Adult Spinoff Standalone to the USA Today
Bestselling Novel, Under the Influence***
“Shhhh, Cassandra, it’s our little secret.”
Secrets are stubborn things when they refuse to remain
hidden. They tear through your soul, clawing and lashing until the pain becomes
so unbearable, you’re left no choice but to silently scream your agony. No one
hears you, of course. You smile on the outside and drift through life as though
your mind is at peace, but all the while, you remain your own tortured
prisoner. Sealed inside the darkened, soundproof room of your conscience,
deafening cries echo as you plead for someone to unlock the door and release
you from your nightmares. And eventually, when no one comes, you find ways to
cope. To dull the suffering the only way you know how.
But what happens when you’ve become so numb, when everything
around you has become so blurred, that you begin to lose focus on the saving
grace standing directly in front of you? When you’ve anesthetized yourself to
the point of losing consciousness, forced to watch as his once solid image
fades away, lost to your reach in the haze as it smothers you?
What do you do then?
You fight. You heal. Then you bring him back.
Well, my name is Cassie Cooper, and it’s time.
No more secrets.
This is my story.
***WARNING - The
subject matter of this novel centers around the psychological effects due to
sexual abuse experienced during childhood. For this reason, as well as sexual
situations, language, and adult themes, suggested reading age is 17+.***
Only
twenty-three years old, and I’m so goddamn tired.
I
used to be so much stronger. I somehow kept the voices at bay, the memories
locked away safely, contained within the confines of my mind. But with each
passing day, I feel the glow of my once-luminous strength fading. Darkness
encases me now, bowing the walls of protection I put into place years ago. My
past is an ever-present nightmare, repeatedly tapping, slowly fracturing the
window of my sanity.
I
have no doubt that it’s only a matter of time before the glass finally breaks.
Blackness will eventually seep through its cracks and deliver me from the
safety of my façade into a reality that will destroy me.
My reality.
I’ve
done my part. I’ve kept the secrets thrust upon me with dedicated
believability. My portrayal of who I am has become a blurred, hazy version of
the once very distinct Cassie Cooper.
I
read an ungodly amount of trashy romance novels.
I’m
the overtly sexual and foul-mouthed friend who will say anything to get a
laugh.
And
I have exactly zero fucks to give to what anyone else thinks about my actions.
But
the reality, the actuality, is this:
I
read obsessively to escape my own world. To live the dreams of others when, for
so long, the
reoccurrence of my nightmares has been my
reality. I
read to fall in love and find a happily ever after, even if it is purely
imagined. With each story I read, I’m able to live and love
vicariously through the characters in my books. It’s the only plausible way for
me to survive.
I
threw away my virginity at the age of thirteen just to prove something. And
when I found that proof, that vindication I was looking for, I sought it every
chance I could. Sex is about control for me. Nothing more.
The act will never
be about making love, like it is for the heroines in my books. I will never be
granted the beauty of that gift.
I
use humor as a form of avoidance. I draw upon laughter to block the pain. And I
smile to mask the agony of the eight-year-old soul who weeps within me.
And
the fucks . . . well, that’s not entirely accurate either.
I
have given two to be exact: One to my best friend of seventeen years. She knows
nothing of my past, and although she so willingly disclosed the horrors of
hers, mine remains hidden for no other reason than to avoid the pity she would
undoubtedly cast my way if I were to ever tell her. I don’t want her pity. I
would sooner die than have her look at me in any other way than with pride.
The
other died with the person to whom it was given. Anthony “Rat” Marchione. He
was my one allowance of naïveté. The one person I actually wanted to touch me, to hold me, to love me. He was going to rescue
me from my brokenness as though I were a character in one of my books. Young
and senseless, I thought he was to be my eventual happily ever after, but
tragically, he was murdered five years ago.
Black
coldness waits in vain to leech the void where his once beautiful existence
filled the pieces of my irrevocably shattered heart. Where he temporarily
healed the hurt of the innocent child and quieted the voices that tormented
her.
He’s
gone now. I’ve accepted that. And in turn, I have relinquished all dreams
associated with finding the light at the end of this miserable tunnel.
I
will keep trudging through this life . . . this sentence handed to me for someone else’s crime, my payment
shackled by secrets and weighted with lies. I will continue to do so with the
same fraudulent smile on my lips and play the part of the strong heroine so
convincingly, that even I believe it.
It’s
only a matter of time before my fictional strength wears out—when I’m no longer
hidden safely inside my protective blur—and I have to face the very real and
lucid image of my past.
But
until that time comes, I’ll do all I can do.
All
I have ever done.
I
will pretend.
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Author Bio:
L.B. Simmons is a graduate of Texas A&M University and
holds a degree in Biomedical Science.
She has been a practicing Chemist for the last 11 years. She lives with her husband and three
daughters in Texas and writes every chance she gets.
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