K. M. Hewitt
A Life Unbroken
Prologue
Present Day
I have waited a long time for this day.
As I stand here, looking at the house I once called home, I thought I would feel elated to be here again, but I’m not. I had no idea my return would make me feel so lost, so empty, so alone.
Even though it’s been eight long years, I still struggle to wrap my mind around that reality. One day I was here, the next day I was gone. My memory wrestles with fragments from the past, desperately trying to piece it back together and make sense of what used to be a semblance of my former
life.
But it’s all gone.
My Life. My Home. My Career. Everything I was and knew to be me was taken away.
One thing I know for certain with every fiber of my being: I am lucky to be alive. I survived. I survived the darkest, most frightening nightmare I could ever have imagined. Even now, the mere sound of a rock casually tossed onto a rock pile or the smell of something remotely similar to my barbaric incarceration launches me back to the worst of those times. The stone fortress that was my prison
holds far too many bitter memories.
“Excuse me.” A woman in her sixties quietly interrupts my thoughts with a gentle touch to my shoulder. “You’re welcome to come inside and have a look around. We’re having an ‘Open House’ today,” the cheerful real estate lady says. A plastic name badge brandishing the name, Doris, dangles lopsided from her purple knit sweater. She walks past me, and with a forceful grunt, jams a wooden ‘For Sale’ sign into the ground on the front lawn.
My front lawn.
“Thank you, I might do that,” I reply with a shored-up measure of pleasantry.
As I watch Doris approach the front door I realize I’m not sure if I have the courage to walk through that door—not just yet. Maybe I’m not ready to stir up so many memories at once. Maybe I need a little more time to acclimate. I’ve seen all I need to for now and should walk away.
As I turn to leave, I notice the next-door neighbor moving about. I’m searching my mind for a name as I watch her pruning roses and weeding her way around to the front of her house. One thing I remember about this neighbor is how much she enjoyed being in other people’s business and one way of doing that in her own stealthy way was to mill around and tend to her roses. Wilma’s roses were the most
beautiful I’d ever seen.
Wilma Jackson. That’s it. How could I forget? She was always asking me about my personal life and the kind of work I did. And now, she is eyeing me with a knowing curiosity, or so it seems.
“Hello there, young lady,” Wilma calls out with a wave of her hand as she walks towards me. “Are you thinking about buying that house? It’s for sale you know. Been so for a while.”
“Ah, yes, I see that,” I reply politely, a bit nervous. I nod towards the sign on the lawn, and hope she doesn’t come any closer. I’m suddenly a little tense that someone from my past might recognize me even though it’s been eight years. Then again, how could she? Absolutely nothing about my appearance is the same and I sometimes wonder who I have become. My name, my face—all transformed.
I take a deep breath and assess the reality of my situation. What am I doing here? I’ve just returned to the states and no one can know who I really am.
Not if I want to remain alive.
Oh boy, here she comes. Already I feel her staring at my face, my auburn hair, searching and probing, but I’m sure it’s just me—still uneasy about being back on home soil.
“Have you been through the house yet, dear?” Wilma asks, still staring with a hint of where have I seen you before on her face. “It’s a lovely home. A young couple lived here for, oh, let’s see, about four years or so. It’s hard to remember such things.” Wilma rests her hands in the pockets of her garden-print apron, looking around with an air of contentment. “I’ve been living in this neighborhood for close to thirty years, so I know most of the people on this street. It’s a nice area with nice people. Well, most of them anyway.” Wilma leans in closer as though to tell me a secret. “We do have a few Mrs. Beasley types, if you know what I mean. They like to put their noses in other people’s business. But other than that, I like it here. You from around here, dear?” Wilma steps in a little closer, a little too close for my
comfort, as she stares intently into my eyes. “Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere, dear? You look…your smile…it reminds me…” Wilma says, sure she has met me before.
“No, I’m quite sure we’ve never met,” I reply with a slight British accent to throw her off, which even surprises me. I almost throw in a ‘jolly good’ for good measure, but I think it may be a tad over the top. I don’t want to engage in any further conversation. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll take a quick look about before I leave. Tight schedule, you understand. Have a good day.”
Mindfully, I tap my watch as I turn and walk towards the house. I had slipped right into a cover story and discovered I am good at it. Besides, I’m not in the mood to listen to her prattle. The images of my past are beginning to cloud my thoughts and I don’t want my emotions to surface in front of Wilma or anyone else.
I walk to the front door and as I reach for the handle I begin to tremble. From the corner of my eye I spot a stone figurine of a dog sitting protectively on the porch next to the door. That statue used to be mine. It’s too much. I’m not ready to visit my past. What was I thinking coming here? I turn and walk quickly back to my car and slide into the driver’s seat. As I collect my thoughts and get a grip on the
situation, I look up and notice Wilma watching me inquisitively. She is standing in her front yard, leaning on a rake and smiling ever so slightly. I know that look. She thinks she knows me, yet she can’t put a finger on where, when or who I am.
Good.
As I drive away, alone with my thoughts, I realize I’m far from over the horrors I endured these past years. Why? My senses are on edge. The sudden wail of a siren during a radio advertisement sends me back in time to my arrival in South America… where it all began...