- Home
- Brown, Michelle
Just Breathe Anthology
Just Breathe Anthology Read online
Just Breathe Anthology
Ally Vance
Ashleigh Giannoccaro
Anna Edwards
Dani René
Jane Anthony
Jennifer Bene
K.S. Marshall
Livia Grant
Michelle Brown
Missy Ann
Murphy Wallace
Natalie Bennett
Skye Callahan
Toni LeMay
Yolanda Olson
Contents
About To Write Love on Her Arms
Foreword
I. Forbidden Sorrows
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Connect with Missy Ann
II. Grounded
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Other Books By Anna Edwards
About Anna Edwards
Connect With Anna Edwards
III. Little Lies
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Playlist
About Michelle Brown
Connect With Michelle Brown
IV. Wreckage
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Connect With K.S. Marshall
V. Purged
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Other Black Light Books
Black Light Series:
About Livia Grant
Connect With Livia Grant
VI. Sickness in the Sunrise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
VII. Ashes to Ashes
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Afterword
Find Natalie Online
VIII. Tattered Pieces
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Acknowledgments
IX. Cocoon
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
X. Ignite
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Books By Ally Vance
XI. Hostile Takeover
DISPATCH
Him
Her
Him
Her
Sheriff
Him
Sheriff
Him
Sheriff
Him
Sheriff
Epilogue
XII. The Row
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Playlist
Other Books By Jane Anthony
About Jane Anthony
Connect With Jane Anthony
Acknowledgments
XIII. Awake
Monday Night
Tuesday Night
Wednesday Night
Thursday Morning
Thursday Night
Friday Night
Saturday
XIV. Unbearable
Chapter One
XV. Loops
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About To Write Love on Her Arms
To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide.
TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery. All proceeds from this anthology are to be donated to this organization.
For more information visit To Write Love On Her Arms: https://twloha.com/
If you need suffer from any of these illnesses and disorders please seek help.
PMDD: 1-800-773-6667
Call 1-800-SUICIDE / 1-800-784-2433
Call 1-800-273-TALK / 1-800-273-8255
Call 2-1-1 or go to 211.org/
Foreword
Where is the sense of belonging in our world? Are we the social outcasts? I thought we were, and maybe in some ways we are. But maybe that’s what everyone else wants us to think. Just because we aren’t “in” or “normal” it doesn’t mean we’re not people too. We are. Our individuality whether it is by choice or circumstance is what separates us from the majority, and in some ways from the corrupted influence of others.
They have names for us: Emos, Weirdos, Loners, Psychotic, Freaks, Weaklings, Addicts…. They tell us we are strange, and that we don’t belong. They are wrong. These are meaningless words and labels in a world where individuality no longer rules, and tolerance is a thing which is hard to come by. These “labels” are a collective that stifles us all.
They are misleading. Our aim is to be nothing less than who we are, and be accepted just for that. We are individuals hidden and swallowed up by a world of judgmental people. People who do not care to look beyond what they see or hear.
They will call us these things, and sometimes they may hurt. But we have a better understanding and value for each other than the people locked within the walls and confining limits on what is acceptable.
Part I
Forbidden Sorrows
Missy Ann
grief
Copyright © 2018 by Missy Ann
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For all the people who have an ugly story. That hurdle shaped you into the beautiful person you are today. Never lose hope.
Chapter One
Boom. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Gunshots echo in the hallway. If not for the desperate shrieks of my classmates, I would’ve thought someone was shooting off fireworks. Using the desk as a shield in the corner of my classroom wasn't how I pictured my last Monday morning before next week’s graduation. I struggle to get my phone from my pocket. I can’t get a grip on it as my hands are shaking uncontrollably. Finally getting a handle on my phone, I pull up the family group text where all four of us message each other daily.
Lowen: There’s an active shooter!
Lowen: I love you, Mom and Dad. Milo, are you safe? The shooter is in the senior hall. I can hear the shots. Are you safe, Bub?
Mom: Oh my God Lowen!
Mom: We love you! It’s going to be ok.
Mom: We are on our way.
Mom: Milo say something. Are you ok??
A sob rips from my chest as I read the text from my mom. I immediately drop the phone and slap my hands over my mouth before another one can escape.
My brother Milo is a sophomore, which means he is on the opposite side of the school right now. Fear for his safety consumes my thoughts and I’m scared to even consider why he hasn't answered. I need to know he's safe. Please let him be safe! The shots are so loud my body jumps with each one and the students’ screams are deafening.
Sudden silence envelopes my classroom. Students stifle their cries and whimpers as the gunman appears in the doorway. Breathing raggedly, I push down the panic threatening to overwhelm me as the gunman points a gun directly at me. My body continues to tremble as the tension grows. My breaths are short and heavy. Gasping, I can’t get enough air into my lungs to plead for my life.
I can’t see who the masked gunman is, but I brace myself for
the bullet’s impact. How much will it hurt? Will I die instantly? Please don’t let me die today, I pray to God. The gunman swings the gun away from me and shoots two other kids in my classroom. Spinning on his heel, he heads away from our room and moves on to find his next target. Several kids scramble to the injured and try to put pressure on their wounds, but blood is pouring out of both at a rapid pace.
I’m frozen in place; I don’t move an inch. What if he comes back to kill the rest of us?
My friend Ashley starts to get out from under the desk next to me, and I grab her arm as I signal her not to move yet. "We should all stay hidden in case it's not over yet." My voice is clear and strong as I address the rest of the students. I have no clue why I'm taking charge, but I know I can help without moving from my shelter. “Stay hidden. Wait for the cops to come get us.” There have been plenty of school shootings in the last couple of months and lots of media coverage, so I feel it’s best to follow the advice they gave.
Waiting is the easiest and hardest thing I have ever had to do. My emotions are at war. I’m petrified of what might happen next, but worry for Milo’s safety keeps me from losing control. I constantly check my phone, hoping for a message or any type of contact from Milo. Father, please let him be safe. One hand grips my phone and the other rhythmically squeezes my thigh. The kids around me act similarly. Some students hunch over, eyes still focusing on the doorway. Others curl in the fetal position with their hands covering their head, trying to block out what is going on around them. Friends huddle together under desks, arms wrapped tightly around each other. Tension fills the air. Our lives are in a state of suspended animation as we wait to be rescued.
It seems like hours have come and gone before police covered head to toe in riot gear rush in to secure the room and then start leading us out. We walk single file with our fingers interlaced on top of our heads and walk through the bloody halls. Escaping also means leaving behind the two classmates who couldn’t be saved. I try not to look at the bodies lying on the ground; I only glance down enough to step over them. Everything seems to be happening in a haze, but I focus on getting out.
As soon as we exit the front door of the building, we load onto waiting school buses. Ashley falls into the seat with me and sobs into my hair. I hold her until we’re a couple of miles down the road at an abandoned building. There are hundreds of parents waiting to see if their kids are safe. Ashley spots her parents before we get off the bus and runs, so I don’t get a chance to ask her if she saw the faces of the bodies on the floor. It takes a lot longer to find my parents. People crowd the doors of each bus as it pulls up. Finally spotting my parents, I weave my way through the crowd, watching them frantically searching the bus that pulled up behind the one I was on.
I pick up my pace. “Mom! Dad!” I wave my arms frantically and jump, trying to get them to see me. My mom sees me first and gasps. Rushing forward, she grabs me and almost falls in the process. Dad continues going from bus to bus looking for Milo but there’s still no sign of him. With my heart seeming to skip every other beat worrying about him and hoping for the best, I can only imagine how my mom and dad feel.
Parents who have found their children are starting to leave. What do we do? We can’t leave without Milo, but no one has even come to tell us if they have seen Milo or if he is laying in the hallway. My concern-filled gaze meets my mom’s. “He has to be alright, Mom,” I whisper. “He has to.”
Mom rubs my shoulders and wraps her arms around me in an attempt to give me comfort.
I am waiting again. Waiting to find my brother. Waiting to hear any news at all. It feels like it’s never-ending. Hours pass as we stand, then sit . . . still waiting.
The buses have stopped pulling in and there are probably thirty parents watching their hope slip away. We all know what it means. The people with injured kids have all been contacted, one by one, with the details as to which hospital children were taken.
Several police cars pull up to the curb that we have claimed as a family of three instead of four. Two police officers’ step in front of my dad. “Are you all Milo Kent’s family?”
We spring to life and nod our heads, waiting for news whether it be good or bad. We just need to know something. Anything.
“We need your family to come with us to the station.” The police officer’s tone is firm and demanding, though it is said quietly.
My dad climbs into the front of the unmarked police car and my mom and I sit silently in the backseat. Why aren’t they telling us if Milo is alive?
My dad tries to prepare my mother and me that we are probably going to identify Milo’s body. We were the first family they came to, so we aren’t sure what is going on. Chills travel down my spine as we walk into the police department. My brother and me are good kids. We have never been in trouble for anything other than a bad grade or two. The three of us trek into an office where we take a seat across from two officers. The next ten words forever change our lives. “We have reason to believe that your son, Milo, was the shooter.”
I faintly hear my parents gasp and start defending their son. I tune everyone out; I need to think. They can’t be talking about my brother; this must be a mistake.
I finally look up and interrupt everything the man is saying. “Milo would have never done anything like this!” I probably yell that a little too loud, but it’s true. “You need to worry about who the actual shooter was because you're wrong.” For once in my life, I don’t care if I'm rude or out of line. Didn’t this cop’s parents teach him not to accuse someone without proof?
I glance at my parents for backup, but they’re looking down at photos of Milo lying dead in the hallway with two guns strapped around his shoulders. My jaw drops. That one image will stay with me the rest of my life. Proof my brother was a murderer. It looks like Milo took a single shot to the head and I hear the cop say it was self-inflicted. We stay at the station for hours while my parents are questioned over practically every decision they ever made while raising us. They issued a search warrant for our house the second we arrived here. We have nothing to hide, so the three of us weren’t phased by knowing people were on a hunt inside our home.