Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) Read Online Free PDF Page A

twenty-four hours and dream of a future filled with safety and love. For a few minutes, I imagine what it would be like to have a home and a family who loved me and cared for me and wanted the best for me. I imagine what it would feel like to be protected at all costs.
    And for a brief moment of time, I actually believe what Emma said.
    I am worth something.
    Emma just sits. Quiet. Letting me grieve and begin to heal. Finally, she glances at me and reaches for Benjamin. He starts to cry and immediately she starts to soothe him by rocking him back and forth and making soft noises. He takes to singing himself to sleep and she smiles.
    “Do you remember that one time in class last year when we did the line activity?”
    “Um yeah. It’s actually something I would rather forget.” I laugh and shrug my shoulders as I wipe the tears from my cheeks, “Wasn’t the most shining moment in my history of self-confidence.”
    “Do you remember what you said that day?”
    I sigh and glare at her. I know there’s a reason she’s talking about this, but I’m not ready for self-evaluation. Not yet. But the thoughts come anyway. “What are you trying to get at, Emma? I remember that day. I remember what I said. I remember not believing in myself. How can I forget? I used to have razors stashed in the side pocket of my backpack just in case I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore. Why are we bringing this up again?”
    I can’t help it; the anger is always there, waiting for me to tap into it. I love Emma to death, but sometimes her probing frightens me. And this? This memory? It’s something I try to forget - it reminds me of a darker time before I met Kevin. One without hope.
    I would never tell her this, but that was the day I had finally decided to end it all. I was through—
    done. Bruised and rejected and so totally fed up with dealing with being absolutely invisible to those who could rescue me. And then she stopped me.
    It was during one of her “let’s make a safe place” activities she always did for us kids. She placed a piece of tape along the middle of the hallway outside our classroom and asked us questions. If the statement applied to our lives, we stepped up to the line. The goal? According to her, she wanted to build a familiar atmosphere within the classroom walls. I remember us giggling when she said those words. I remember us looking at each other when she started asking questions. A lot of our walls and defenses crashed down around us through her questions ranging from what movie we had just seen to whether or not we had tried ecstasy. I still remember the gasps and the really? you? me too! that seemed to accompany every step forward.
    And then she asked the last question: whether we believed in ourselves despite anything others had told us. I’m sure she thought it was a gimme question. I mean, who wouldn’t step up to the line?
    Every teenager I meet seems to radiate self-confidence—a sense of immortality and entitlement oozes from every pore. Of course, every one stepped up to the line. Every one except for me. My heart started beating against the prison of my chest and I felt faint—I held on to the wall as everyone around me smiled and glanced at each other in self-satisfied appreciation of the activity. I just stood there. A blank slate. It wasn’t until Emma sent everyone back into the classroom for discussion that she saw me, face against the wall, eyes slowly outlining the shape of the blade poking out surreptitiously in my jean pocket. No one would know. No one would care.
    And then I felt her hand on my shoulder.
    “Stephanie. What’s wrong?” Her forehead bent in confusion and she glanced automatically to the list of questions in her hand—assuming one had sparked my tears—which wasn’t far from the truth. She waited there, eyes resting on mine, until I opened up.
    “I’m fine, really Mrs. Stevens, I just...the activity was hard.” I looked at her, struggling to spit out the