Reviving Raven Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Three years ago

  "Ma'am, can you please tell me what happened tonight?" I stare blankly at the cop who seems to be annoyed to be here asking for my statement. "Ma'am, are you listening to me? Can you at least tell me your name?" Oh, shit I haven't even given him my name yet? Fuck how long have I even been in this hospital bed? "My name is Raven."

  "Okay Raven, do you have a last name?" Oh, I have a last name alright, the last thing I'm going to do is give it to this cop so he can find my family members, not that there's many left anyway. Ten years ago, when I was eleven years old, my family and I were driving home from a nice family dinner, laughing and talking about what we had planned to do for the following week. Out of nowhere blinding lights came rolling to us followed by sounds that cannot even be described. The excruciating pain that followed left me breathless as I began to regain consciousness. I attempted to move…that went nowhere. I looked around, through my blurred vision, and tried to make sense of what the hell had just happened. The car was turned over on its side. I was laying on top of broken glass and the pavement. My dad's body was leaning towards my mom's, her body crammed between the broken glass and the pavement in the front seat. That was when I lost consciousness again. I miss my parents every single day.

  "Hello, Raven? I'm going to need your last name sweetheart." Sweetheart? This cop just needs to fuck off. "Listen, Sir, I don't know what happened to me tonight, I have no clue how long I've even been in this hospital bed, but I just want you to leave so I can at least try to sleep." He looks down at his feet for a moment, then back to me. "My name is Officer Lincoln Rex. Raven, you've been attacked…"

  Attacked? What in the goddamn shit happened to me? “We were able to track your whereabouts of the night from eyewitnesses and your last known location was at the Old Salthouse Brewery off Oakton Street. From there your friends lost track of you through the crowd and an anonymous person called 911 to report a half-dressed, beaten and bleeding unconscious woman in the woods behind the bar. When paramedics arrived, you were rushed here and have since been treated for the wounds and the broken bones in your wrist. Now please I need you to cooperate with me and give me your last name and the last thing you remember...”

  Chills run down my entire body. For the first time since I woke up and saw this cop staring at me, I rip the blanket off of me and take a scan of my body. Holy sweet mother of god. My chest, ribs, stomach, and pelvis look like I've been run over by a car. My right arm is in a cast. My legs are scratched and bruised all over. Then the real devastation creeps in. The heart wrenching, gut piercing pain settles over me. My vagina is incredibly sore. Oh my god, I've been raped…brutally raped. I can’t stop the tears that come pouring out of my eyes. I want to shower and scrub my entire body until there’s no skin left. A female Doctor comes rushing into my room, waving the officer away while two nurses urge him out of the room. I see her mouth moving but I just can't seem to hear her or anything else but my sobs at this point. I just want my Uncle, please someone contact my Uncle. "My last name is Cole, Raven Cole, I'm 21 years old, now please call my Uncle Abel, I need my Uncle!” The next thing I know the Doctor is giving me a sedative. Finally, I stop crying, close my eyes and pass out.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  "Good morning baby doll, you need to wake up." I open my eyes to my Uncle Abel shaking me. "You need to open the shop for me today, I won't be in until close to noon because I have my physical therapy appointment this morning and don't forget to let out and feed Jameson." When I was eleven years old and the drunk driving accident that took my parent's lives happened, Uncle Abel took me in and raised me as if I was his own daughter. He and my dad were best friends since childhood and were practically inseparable. Even though I was just a young kid, we both helped each other through the grief of losing my parents. For me, I lost my mother and father. The people who brought me into this world and raised me until I was a young child. As for my Uncle Abel, he lost his best friend and the closest thing to a brother he’s ever had. We dealt with our grief together, and together, we healed.

  Uncle Abel is an Iraqi War Veteran. He served three tours in Iraq until a mission went sideways, resulting in him losing the lower portion of his left leg and his back became so damaged it's as if he's an 80-year-old arthritic man. He never talks about exactly what happened, and people who know him, don’t dare to even bring it up Although, every Thursday evening like clockwork, you can find him at a group meeting for veterans who struggle with PTSD. I wonder if they know what happened?

  It’s been three years since I was raped and beaten, and I thank everything holy that I have my Uncle Abel as my rock. The next day when I woke in the hospital, he was at my bedside holding my hand and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. He’s tried every day since to locate the piece of shit who attacked me but with no luck. The police have been no major help either. My rape kit has probably been just sitting on some evidence shelf collecting dust. I’d give anything to meet the anonymous caller and ask them what they saw. Did they stay with me? Did they just call the cops and run off? I’ve tried asking my Uncle to help me locate the caller, but he always brushes me off. “Some people just don’t want to be known, Raven” he always says whenever I bring it up. Uncle Abel was not playing any games about me getting serious in every aspect of my recovery. I spent months in physical therapy for my injuries, hours upon hours in therapy and I still need to take anti-anxiety medications when the coping mechanisms I learned in therapy won't work. Since he goes to a group meeting, he was even able to find me one that specifically caters to rape survivors.

  “Okay okay I'm waking up I just need my morning coffee and cigarette and I’ll be ready to tackle the shop duties.” When Uncle Abel was honorably discharged from the Marines, he was able to open his dream, a motorcycle restoration shop called The American Ride. He always boasts about his two loves, his niece and The American Ride.

  I pour myself a piping hot cup of black coffee and go out back to our deck to light up my first smoke of the day. Jameson, my registered service German Shepherd, comes running out behind me. Typical Jameson never leaves my side. He really is more than just my service dog, he’s my best friend.

  I've been a smoker since I was a teenager. After my parents died, I went through a bit of a rebellious stage. Just imagine that girl with dyed black hair, thick black eyeliner, random face piercings, and way too much attitude. Yep, that was me. I definitely didn't make the best of choices back then. Always going to parties and hanging out with people who basically didn't give a damn about me. The night I was attacked, I was hanging out with some of those old friends. No shocker that they totally forgot I was even there and got busy getting drunk themselves. When the police questioned them, they were far too wasted to even form a coherent sentence let alone be any help to the police. I've quit hanging out with any of my old friends, took out all my piercings and died my hair back to its natural brunette color. The one thing I was never able to get rid of was smoking. Call me weak, but it's my crutch and I won't apologize for it. I scan my surroundings out of pure instinct. When you've survived something as brutal as I have, you live in a constant state of paranoia, especially since your attacker has never been caught. I hate that I must do this every damn time I leave the house. We live in a small town in North Carolina. You would think living in a small town that somebody would know something
about what happened to me. If they do, they're just not saying shit. Uncle Abel put up a privacy fence to help me feel more comfortable going outside and Jameson has had thorough training, so he does a sweep of our backyard then carries on about his business.

  I put my cigarette out in the ash-tray and head back inside. After I throw some food in the bowl for Jameson, I head upstairs to get myself ready for the day. It took what seemed like forever for me to stop taking excruciatingly long showers, scrubbing myself raw trying to feel clean. Thankfully with coping skills, meds if needed and therapy, Uncle Abel doesn’t have to take cold showers anymore. Once upon a time, I used to be pretty damn fearless. I’d even go as far as saying confident. I’d walk out of the house, jump in my Jeep or hop on my skateboard and just go about my business. Nope not anymore, those days are long gone. I was even enrolled in the local community college. I was majoring in psychology. The traumatic loss of my parents drove me to want a career helping children heal through their own traumas. After I was assaulted, I couldn’t stand being around people, let alone a college campus. I completely dropped out and focused solely on my recovery, both physically and mentally. Some days I'm relieved I dropped out and started working for The American Ride. Other days, however, I can't help but regret my choice. How many children could I be helping today?

  As I stare at myself in the mirror, I contemplate what I’m going to do with my makeup and hair today. Everyone has always called me naturally beautiful. Long brown hair with natural blonde highlights, plump lips and intense green eyes, the night I was attacked left me with a few physical scars. One very prominent one being on the side of my face, just next to my eyebrow. The doctor's thought that must have resulted in me being knocked out. It took twenty-four stitches to fully close that wound but I still cringe every time I touch it. Most of the scars marking my chest and stomach have all almost faded away. Since my attack, however, I prefer to keep a lower profile. No men for this gal. Hell, just don’t even pay me any attention and I’ll be happy. All I need is my trusty battery-operated boyfriend, I've nicknamed Bob, of course, that sits tucked away in my nightstand is plenty. I brush out my long hair and throw it up in a messy bun. Some simple foundation, mascara and lip gloss will get me through the day for sure. I mean who am I even trying to impress anyway? Even before the assault, I was never all that into relationships. Don't get me wrong, I've had boyfriends, but no one ever really made me feel alive. Don't even get me started on sex. It was something I did just to satisfy my boyfriends, never felt any sort of pleasure out of it. As soon as I’d get the chance, I’d whip out my vibrator and finish the job they couldn’t do. My piece of shit ex used to joke that my vagina must be dead or something. I should’ve just told him how it’s not my vagina that’s the problem. It’s your tiny dick and how you have no clue how to use it. I throw on my ripped-up jeans, my work t-shirt with The American Ride logo across the back and lace-up my favorite pair of ankle boots and call it a win-win.

  “Raven I’m leaving you better get your ass to the shop baby doll!” Shit shit shit “Okay Uncle Abel I’m taking my meds now then heading out!” I run downstairs, grab my meds just in case I’ll need them, and get Jameson in his service dog vest. I never go anywhere without him. He’s trained to know when I’m having a panic attack so he can help calm me down. Also, he’s trained to know when I say, “watch him,” that’s the queue I’m feeling scared and I need you to keep an eye on that person. We hop in my Jeep and head to the shop. Jameson sits proudly in the passenger seat letting the wind blow through his fur. I’m so thankful we were able to adopt him. My Uncle and I wrote to an organization who trains dogs for a variety of different services. They got back to us right away and informed us about a puppy they were training to help with people suffering from debilitating anxiety. We got on the road as fast as possible and drove straight to their office location. The second I set my eyes on him, all small and fluffy, I knew he was going to be mine. If it wasn't for him, I don't know how often I’d even leave the house. I pull my Jeep into the shop's parking lot and let Jameson jump out. The sound of a motorcycle grabs my attention and I turn towards the road. A man I've never seen before pulling his bike into the spot next to mine and the panic comes rushing to my chest. Jameson senses what I’m feeling and comes running to my side. I don’t know what the man looks like yet because his helmet is still on, but in my case, you never know who could or could not be the man who fucked up your whole life. “Watch him,” I tell Jameson and he immediately obeys. I quickly make my way inside the shop and straight to the back office to shut the door. When I feel a panic attack coming, I always need to go somewhere and completely isolate myself, except for Jameson of course. I sit down on the floor and prop myself up against the office door. Jameson lays his head down on my lap and nudges my hand. Rubbing his head and ears, I remind myself to take deep breaths, in and out. You’re safe Raven, breath in…. breath out.

  With my heart back into a normal pace, I peel myself off the floor and open the door. I need to get my mind off the man in the parking lot. Time to get some damn work done around here. The American Ride is one of my favorite places to be. It's one of those buildings that stand the test of time. It was built back in the 1960s and still has most of the original framework. My Uncle refused to do any major renovations, apart from plumbing and electrical. Most of the interior has a vintage vibe with antique décor and exposed original brick.

  The morning seems to fade away as I get things done around the shop. Answering calls, scheduling appointments and the never-ending cycle of cleaning and organizing. You’d swear that two grown-ass men would be able to pick up after themselves and organize their own paperwork. The two mechanics my Uncle Abel hired are both veterans who suffer from war-related PTSD. I only assume they all met through the group but obviously I would never ask. Being a part of a survivor’s group myself, I know you don’t just randomly ask questions about it, at least I would hate if someone did that to me.

  By far the best mechanic we have is Big Jon. He's a 68-year-old Vietnam Veteran, about 6'6, 250 pounds and knows everything there is about motorcycles. He and Uncle Abel are the top requested mechanics. Most people won’t let anyone else touch their bikes unless it’s one of the two of them. The other mechanic I haven’t even met yet. My Uncle just hired him last week and to be honest, I’ve been avoiding an introduction. Uncle Abel has assured me that he’s a good guy who was just having a hard time finding work after he left the marines and apparently has a God-given talent working on engines. He further explained how he needs the extra set of hands because of just how bad his back is getting. He comes home every day and lays himself on the couch barely able to move because of the pain. Hiring this new guy will hopefully let my Uncle have some reprieve. I just can never get that thought out of my stupid head, what if he’s my rapist?

  "Jameson lets go out back!" I yell out to my big fluffy protector. I step out back, lean against the brick wall and light up a smoke to ease my raising thoughts. Jameson sits quietly at my side just looking around. "Deep breaths Raven," I say quietly to myself. I lean my head back against the brick, close my eyes and slowly inhale another hit. I really do hope that this new mechanic works out, for my Uncles' sake. With his back as bad as it is, he shouldn't be doing any mechanic work in my opinion. "It’s one of my biggest passions Raven, I can’t just stop doing it” he always explains to me. Yeah, I get that. I used to have passions in life. Now I just try and get through each day without having a full-blown meltdown.

  “Got a light?” I hear a male voice say. I jump off the wall as fast as I can, Jameson starts barking and standing guard in front of me. Jeez, it’s not even lunchtime yet and I’m about to have a damn break down!

  The man yells out, "Woah, Woah, Woah calm your dog! I just needed a light!" Jameson is still barking and growling at the man. My heart is racing in my chest, no doubt feeding into Jameson's demeanor. Oh, fuck! It’s the man from the parking lot this morning! What the hell is he doing back here?

  “Who
the hell are you!” I yell over Jameson’s loud barks.

  "I can't hear you through the dog!" He shouts back. I grab onto Jameson's vest and slowly pet him behind the ears, his trained queue to stop barking but stand guard. At this point, everyone and their damn mothers are looking at us because of the barking and yelling. Big Jon comes running outside. Damn for a 68-year-old war veteran, he can still move quickly.

  “Raven are you alright, what the hell happened?” Asks Big Jon. His breathing is rapid, and he seems on high alert. This man is the closest thing to a grandfather I’ve ever had. He’s almost as protective as my Uncle is over me. Whenever a customer is getting a little too flirtatious, Big Jon comes in and saves the day. “I’m fine this man just came out of nowhere and scared the shit out of me, Jameson was just reacting to my fear." Big Jon looks over at the man and smiles at him. "Raven this is the new mechanic your Uncle hired, his name is Nathan Pierce." I feel Nathan’s eyes roaming over my entire body, studying every curve, every imperfection. Even though I have on my basic, grab what you can throw on clothes, anyone with eyes can still clearly see my curved hips, round ass, and full breasts. "You can just call me Nate," he says in his deep, scratchy voice.