Page 42 of The Breaking Pointe

tell me you love me

I don’t think I knew what real fear was or sounded like until Noelle’s phone call. Her tone was high strung and the speed of her words were panic-stricken. Then I lose the call. He could be doing anything. Though I wasn’t far from her, my mind was imperatively convincing with the thought that I was across the world. My mind is on the fact that he has a gun, and the numerous things he could be doing to her with it. All of it is digging a beastly sized pit in my stomach and fueling rage within my veins to prepare me for whatever I’m going to have to fight off.

The sound of the banging in the background of her terrified voice was so oppressive, I could feel it in person. I don’t even want to know what he was planning to do, but I just know I need to get my hands on him before he gets the chance. Telling him to stay away has unfortunately become very similar to beating a dead horse, and I have to take matters into my own hands. It’s an unlikely action that I’m not fond of, but right now, all that matters is making my point and saving my love.

And if that means I have to throw away my years of therapy—

then so be it.

For Noelle’s sake.

Jogging up the few steps that lead to her front door, I can already hear his barbaric actions being thrust upon her on the inside.

The door swings open easily when I grab hold of the handle, letting me in instantly. Inside the dim apartment is a chaos of overturned furniture and scattered belongings. Surveying the scene, I notice tiny shards of glass on the kitchen floor, and some of Noelle’s things scattered around the couch, along with a fluffy Chucky hiding under a nearby table. All of this, but the merciless banging comes to a halt, leaving me in ominous silence.

He’s gotta be hiding.

“Noelle!”

I yell, hustling through the house to some of the rooms down the hall.

Adrenaline is working overtime to propel me forward, yet also keep every segment of my body alert for any sudden attack. The quiet makes it more intense, as I know he’s probably hiding behind some corner. Like some horror movie. I bet he loves this shit.

Hearing a few footsteps, I stop in my tracks, waiting as I spot a dark figure standing in front of Lauren’s closed room. As my eyes wander down his body, I’m already aware of who it is— but unaware of if he’s holding the gun in question. Unsure or not, I could take a few guesses at what his next moves are while holding a weapon with that much weight and affect. But I’m not about to let him have the chance. I’ll take the bullet, and I may live, but Elle can’t get her sense of inner peace back if she’s hurt. I guess he’s thinking the same thing about getting me before

I get him, but I have zero time to figure out if that’s for sure, considering my mute observance is now spotted.

He launches at me, swinging the gun above his head to aim it at me. As he comes out of the shadows and all of him becomes visible to my eye, his face reveals how twisted with greed and menace he really is. Clutching the gun, he swings it right at my head while charging, but I find the last moments before we collide to duck. Without thinking, I ram myself into his torso, creating a blustering impact made by the both of us crashing together. Neither of us have control over where we land, wrestling around as we fly into different objects in the room, wrecking them more and causing him to finally let go of the gun, sending it into another part of the room.

“I’ve been waiting for this,”

I seethe, gaining a grip on his shirt once his back hits a wall.

“I bet,”

he hassles, snatching up my wrist, then launching a fist at my gut with his other hand.

His knuckles hit me like a bag of rocks against my skin. As much as it burns like hell, I take the blow with little reaction and ball up a fist, railing it into his face. I honestly have not one real clue of what particular area of his face it connected with. I just know it connected, and that was enough to get me to keep going. Blow after blow with no let up, no mercy or regard for how much damage I can cause. My fists are now clenched so tight that my hands are on fire, and my vision turns into the longest tunnel I’ve ever been in. I can’t help but get into a boxing mindset— doing my best to figure out his every move before he makes it. After one last hit to his temple, unsuccessful with taking him down, I send another at his mouth, feeling his teeth scrape my skin, and pissing him off more.

His mindset is much different than mine. His reactions are delayed, and if I’m seeing things correctly, this is more than anger. He’s fucking possessed, and the hits I’m giving are

almost nothing but a slap on the wrist for him. That could only mean one thing—that he’s higher than a kite, and he truly feels none of this.

Rather than speaking, he makes his next attempt to take me out by shoving me away and into the couch. Rolling backward, I flip over it and land in a crouched position, just in time to notice him rushing toward me and picking up a vase on his way. I shoot up from the floor, looking around before he jumps over the couch to meet me, then lunges it at my head. With seconds to spare, I cover myself with a hand, only blocking a few of the shards, but not enough to stop the glass from colliding with my head. The sensation of the thick crystal against my skull sends it into a throbbing fit, which serves as a distraction long enough for him to get another hit in. This time into my jaw, gashing my lip into my teeth and cutting it.

“Jesus—fuck!”

I yell, hunching over and grabbing my jaw, indecisively—as both my head and lip are now throbbing.

“You did this to yourself, Kennedy,”

he says in a subdued, matter-of-fact manner.

He continues with a mini speech, to which I can’t bother to listen to. I’m sick of listening to him and watching him get away with being a shitty human being. If nobody is gonna retaliate against him, then being the first would make me a man of many fortunes. I never valued being rich—at least not physical equity—but this is the rare occasion that the winnings are all in my mind, and extremely reliant on my ego and confidence. The truth about me is that I am selfish. I lie and I have anger issues. I can be manipulative, maybe not much to others, but surely to myself. I’m picky, and I like things a certain way so much, that I curse others into nurturing my beliefs because I can’t handle change. I’m just as bad as the next man that may stand next to

me. I wouldn’t have said that with this much pride, months ago. But months ago, I wasn’t fighting the drug addict, abusive, narcissist ex-boyfriend of my current girlfriend. Nor did I think I would be lethally in love with her the way that I am, enough to want to commit an irreversible crime right in the middle of her living room. I never exuded hate. I know that I said that I hate my father, but that wasn’t hate. It’s trauma, and complicated feelings for someone who gave me life. This feeling I feel for Daniel? This is what hate feels like. Pure, unwavering,

unadulterated, bona fide hate.

I stand up straight, collecting every alert and sensible piece of myself I have, and turn to face him.

“Colton?”

A soft voice tatters its way down the hall, until a frizzy haired, pale Noelle comes around the corner, looking around all goggle- eyed. My head pans in her direction, catching a glimpse of her, but my eyes revert back to Daniel who pauses from searching for his gun to size her up like a beast in the wild. Forgetting about my existence, and the gun’s, he hurls himself toward her, briskly, reaching his arms out like some freakish monster. Just like him, I lunge myself forward, but go straight for him, running us into the dining room until I tackle his body into the dining room table—shattering it beneath us as we hit the hardwood floors.

Noelle shrieks in the background of our commotion, presum- ably watching us abuse each other from afar. I then push my forearm into Daniel’s neck, shoving it in place to keep him hostage.

“I could snap your neck, right now,”

I threaten him, exam- ining his eyes as they grow wider while he struggles under my weight.

Choking and gasping, he still manages to give me his best

comeback.

“You couldn’t.”

He coughs while smiling like a maniac”

You’d have to use more strength than this—”

he adds, contin- uing to choke, knowing his words are gonna piss me off more.

And so far, he’s doing a phenomenal job.

The front door swings open, making me turn my head over my shoulder once again, viewing Lauren and Tony, entering the apartment with confused and startled expressions. Staring one second too long, I’m interrupted by a sharp pain in my side, following by Daniel tossing me from over top of him once my hold on him grows limp. My back pounds into the glass on the floor, making me wince out loud for everyone to hear as I roll over and watch Daniel push through Tony to escape.

“Dammit…”

I groan, dropping my head back as I feel my side. It’s warm, and damp.

I lift my hand above my head to take a look at the evidence and see it stained red. My side still feels like the stinging sensation is hanging on. In fact, it feels like a large brush burn digging into my muscle. My adrenaline is through the roof as of now, so I can barely feel a thing, but with this much blood, I’m bound to feel it any second. I take a slow blink, trying to catch my breath still as I feel everyone’s presence above me. The closer they get, the more I prepare myself to get up and save face for Noelle so that she doesn’t freak out.

It’s not as bad as it looks. Can’t be.

“Colton?”

Noelle asks, dropping beside me as I sit upright”

I’m good,”

I immediately respond to her, finally looking down at my side”

Hm. Guess he got me pretty good…”

I mumble. I’m right. It isn’t that bad. Nothing deeper than a large gash, seemingly made with one of the pieces of glass. He got me, but not as good as he probably thought. That’s just not something

I’ll admit to.

“We should go to the hospital,”

Tony says, holding his phone up.

“Tony’s right—what the hell did we walk into? Noelle, what happened?”

Lauren asks, kneeling beside her to look at both of us.

When she drops to our level, I look at Noelle’s messy hair, then my view travels to her neck, seeing visible hand prints in the color of bruises going up to her jaw.

“What did he do…”

I state, already knowing the answer, but holding onto doubt as my hands grazes up her chest, afraid to cause her more pain.

“I tried to stop him—I did. I called the police like you told me,”

Noelle whispers.

“Shhh,”

I silence her, grabbing her hands”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

I quickly follow her words, stopping her from the personal blame before it begins.

If anyone should be blamed for anything, it’s Daniel, and Daniel only. Yet he’s the only one missing from this scene. I want to be satisfied, but I can’t. I didn’t get him like I wanted, but he got her, and he left his mark to prove it. She blames herself, but he needs to pay, in the worst way possible.

Threatening her with a fucking gun?

The sound of sirens wail faintly in the atmosphere nearby, making everything that just happened become all the more real. Tony reaches his arm around me, pulling me up from the piled glass. Subconsciously, I take his help, wincing as the glass pieces fall from the fabric of the shirt on my back. The higher my body rises from the floor, the more the blood on my shirt becomes visible. The solid white is gashed and splattered with my own bodily fluid, and now I can feel it dripping down my side, slowly

to my waistline.

“It burns like shit.”

I roughly breathe, looking down at my side as I yank my shirt above the wound to see it for myself.

Tony gags at the sight, letting me go and covering his mouth with his fist, while the girls stare at me in utter shock. I grab onto a counter to hold myself up as the pain is now setting in—as I predicted.

“It’s not so bad, actually.”

I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

“It looks like it needs stitches…”

Lauren says.

“Stitches?”

I ask, suddenly concerned, and shocked by my unison with Noelle with the same question.

We both look at each other and I glimpse at her neck again, my anger flaring again.

“I’m not getting stitches—no,”

I deny her assumption, think- ing about the needle and thread, then shivering.

“Well that’s not exactly up to you, Colton,”

Lauren argues back.

“Guys, the police are here,”

Noelle says, grabbing my arm”

Sit down, before you get sick. We need to get medical help,”

she commands, directing me to a nearby seat as the police officer’s boots clunk into the hardwood floor, entering the house.

I look down at my side again, running a couple of delicate fingers along the throbbing areas and twitching at the feeling of my fingers in the slightly open wound.

I don’t know how in this moment I can think of such a thing— but I can’t help but wonder if this is what it was like for my mother. Battling my father at each and every waking moment that he felt allowed. Why did he feel like he was allowed to mess with her mind? Why does Daniel feel that he’s allowed to mess with Noelle’s mind? What do they get from it? The power trip

can’t be the only thing that makes them bat shit. I could blame drugs, but I also wonder if it fulfills them. Like a replacement to get a fix. Or maybe it truly is just plain old mental instability. I wonder, not because I don’t understand. I don’t want to. I wonder because I plan to take every step to avoid becoming so empty and bitter that I physically assault and abuse the people that I claim to stay alive for. What I also don’t understand, and refuse to question any longer, is how I managed to beat the odds of becoming them.

Maybe I’m not supposed to, and that makes sense.

* * *

When Noelle filed the Protection of Abuse Order against Daniel, I stood right beside her and watched. I kept wanting to take the papers away from her so that she wouldn’t have to write down and reread all the horrible things he’s ever done to her. She said herself she’s embarrassed to even look at herself in the mirror. Mortified by her own existence. I would be, too, I suppose, if I were examined and had pictures taken of my body to prove such brutal claims. It’s not done to make you feel good. It’s like advertising how battered they think you are as a person. She’s not battered though, and she shouldn’t feel embarrassed. She has nothing to be ashamed of. It’s hard for anyone to prevail when your truths are being mushed in your face.

That’s what therapy feels like to me. Advertising how battered you are. I think maybe that’s what group feels like for Noelle. I should know what it feels like, but I’ve been too selfish to subject myself because of my past traumas. Now, it’s hard to separate those traumas, knowing that we are both a victim to Daniel, in ways. Her, more than I, for sure. Our fears are different. I’m

scared for her, not myself. She’s just scared for herself. Even if he is incarcerated until our fight. The memory of him is awful. If she can live with that, I can go to a goddamned group therapy session with her.

To everyone’s demise, Daniel has to be released on watch in order to finish the few fights he has left that are contractual. It makes sense, law-wise, and I don’t have any choice but to accept that. Except him existing in my vicinity or hers is just another chance for him to instill some inkling of fear into her, to try and gain a force of control. As someone like him would do to any woman. It’s like no matter what, he can get in her head. She can’t escape the torture. It’s painful to witness, painful to imagine, and yet, still, it’s her real life.

Out of all the things I can fix, they say this isn’t one of them. But I won’t stop trying.

She’s stayed with me since the incident. I feel God awful for trashing their entire apartment, even if it was for a good reason, therefore I paid for every expense. It almost made me feel better, on a deeper, moral scale, but I can’t get the thought of the entire thing out of my head. That, and I still had to hear it from Trey, as well as watch as my name get dragged through the mud by Daniel’s team on the internet. Nobody really knows the truth, since none of us will disclose it for Noelle’s sake and privacy, but the internet works in mysterious ways. People dig and dig until they find what they want, and well—that’s how the photos of Noelle’s neck and our entire police report was exposed on some forum. All of that goes without mentioning the twenty-three stitches across my abdomen. Figures that that’s what I’m least bothered by.

To shorten a long, detailed discussion, Daniel’s actions weren’t going ignored by the public, and though it’s not

punishment enough for my liking—it’s punishment.

In the same breath, neither were Noelle’s. From the closing of her dance studio, to the after effects of dating someone like the likes of him, and having it, and him haunting her—the rumors follow, too. Gossip about us as individuals, and nonsense about cheating. Some rumors are sinister, and others far from, but more than half of New York wants to hear her tell her story, and not in a domestic survivor kind of way. It’s more in an exploitative way. I think it’s just bored members of his team, working to cut her deeper and make her look awful. It frustrates me because I know I’m most likely correct, but I can’t prove that, though, and there’s no use in doing so. Daniel’s already been arrested, and justice is going to be served. There’s just too many emotional scars left behind.

That’s the part that I can’t let go of. Guess we can collectively say that I’m bitter.

Noelle climbs into the car, waiting as I gently close it once she’s inside. I listen as a few reporters follow me while I walk around to the driver’s side of my car. Some have cameras, and one guy in particular has some sort of recording machine, asking me questions a million miles per minute. I take one last look at the police station, praying it’s our last time visiting, as it’s the third time since the incident.

It’s been three weeks, and they still won’t leave us alone”

Mr. Kennedy, is this how you wanted things to go? Do you

feel like Daniel Aguado is getting what he deserves? Or is there more to the story?”

the reporter with the small device asks, holding it closer to me.

I look at the recording object, having trouble masking my disgust. I look around at the few people around me, and back at that particular reporter, scowling at his preppy appearance.

“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s a criminal, and I think he should have it worse. This is just how karma begins,”

I scoff, opening my door and joining Noelle in the car, starting it so we can get away as quickly as possible.

“You don’t have to be upset with them. It’s just their jobs,”

Noelle quietly ponders beside me.

She’s right, but it doesn’t make them irritate me any less.

“I know, but it’s kind of belittling to keep listening to them question us about the situation. It’s none of their business,”

I say calmly, pressing my foot onto the gas pedal to drive us away from the nosy reporters.

“I guess so,”

she quietly responds, curling into a ball in the passenger seat.

Noticing her posture change, I pull over to the nearest parking spot and stop everything.

“Talk to me, Noelle. Please,”

I adjure, resting my hands on my lap.

I’ve been doing that a lot recently. I’m too scared to touch her. I don’t want to scare her. I hate that I even have to think like that.

I hate what he’s done.

“What is there to say?”

she asks, finally looking at me through a few strands of curly curtain bangs over her forehead.

“Anything,” I say.

I will literally take anything, if it means she’s gonna let me know how she feels about all of this. For the first time, I need to talk about it.

“Do you really mean anything?”

she asks, sitting up to give me her full attention.

I nod, turning my body in her direction.

“You gotta gimme something, sweetness,”

I reason softly.

She bites her bottom lip briefly while inspecting the space between our car seats.

“I’m not over it, Colton,”

she says softly.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be, Noelle. Not at all,”

I reassure her statement.

“Okay, but I don’t know if I ever will be,”

she proclaims, quickly and furiously, causing me to keep my lips shut and resume being quiet.

Gaping at her hand movements, I can tell she is fed up. Not with me, but certainly with everything else.

At least I don’t think it’s me.

“You know…”

She sighs, pushing her curly strands from out of her face to allow me to view her reddened, watery eyes”

I love you, Cole, but I’m a lot to handle. And just because…”

She sniffles, taking another big breath after stuttering her last few words, “Just because I want you—that doesn’t mean that you should have to stay and deal with me, or wait for me to get better or any of this stuff.”

She speaks quickly, mixing more sniffles and stutters into the mix”

You know—you should just leave me. I’ll be okay if you do—”

She weeps as she forces this foul idea upon me.

I can’t even move, thinking about giving into that. I would never give into that. I’m not leaving her, not when she needs someone the most right now. I refuse. That’s not what she did to me.

“Noelle, you don’t mean that.”

I shake my head, feeling an uncomfortable tickle in my throat. Clearing it, I speak again”

I know that you don’t mean that.”

I reach out for her hand, only for her to shove it away.

“I mean it, Colton, you stay away!”

she orders, trying to fight the tears that are already covering her cheeks”

I’m damaged!

You should get rid of me while you can!”

she yells at me, now fully crying and allowing all of her feelings to be flat out on the table for me to see.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

I gaze over at her tear-filled eyes, feeling my own warm droplets drip down my cheekbones. I wipe them the sleeve of my shoulder and sniffle, clearing my throat and staying resilient”

No. I love you. I’m staying. I’m here to be your protector. I’m not him, and I won’t let him batter what we have.”

She targets me with pressed lips and a vulgar-looking stare. Without remorse, she then pushes my chest, with what I assume to be all of her strength.

“Noelle…”

I grunt, then sigh, lifting a hand to carefully take hers, but I miss it.

She then forges a slap against my arm and then my chest”

No…”

she disgruntles. Something akin to pride flashes across her eyes, but only for a split second.

Pursing my lips to the side, I let her go, because I know what this is. I know she wishes she was hitting him, but that’s just not the case. I wish there were a way that she could make him feel what she felt, in a physical manner. She doesn’t mean any of this, but it has to escape, or she’ll bottle it up more.

I know better than anyone how that goes.

She rushes some more hits at me, mostly slapping movements, attacking my chest and arms until her sobs become a little too violent for her to both cry and attack at the same time.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,”

I murmur. As her wailing arms slow down, my calm arms reach around her, containing the blows that she has left until she’s coddled into my torso, holding me instead. Closing my eyes, I keep her there, and run my fingers through her soft curls to soothe her.

“Please…”

she mutters, pulling on my shirt harder”

Tell me you love me…”

I take a deep breath in through my nose and kiss her head, lingering my mouth against it”

I love you. I’m never going to stop loving you.”

I’m not going to do it. It’s just not possible.