White Horse
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Fiction
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
Moral rights
S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
External content
S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Authors Note:
While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. As is the case with the following story. This piece is based on events from my life.
Mom stabilizes, and I continue to live with Dad. He and I have none of the same problems she and he did.
Living on the scary side of town with my father became a twisted sort of normal for me. I grew accustomed to the fear that used to grip me, but along with it, I discovered a newfound freedom that tasted both exhilarating and dangerous. Little to no adult supervision means I now have complete autonomy. I've also learned if I throw my dad a couple of dollars, he'll go down to the local bar, and I won't have to deal with him. I've adapted so seamlessly to this life I fearlessly wander the streets at all hours, embracing the unknown.
Within this unpredictable world, I found solace in a tight-knit circle of girlfriends who have become my chosen family. They are my pillars of support, and their persistent presence has given me the courage to explore opportunities I never thought possible. One such chance arrived when I was invited to try out for the cheerleading squad. At that moment, I felt as though I owned the world. No longer the shy, bullied girl, I transformed into a savvy, street-smart teen, ready to conquer any challenge. I confess I used to look down on cheerleading and didn't want to contribute to the negative stereotype of air-headed bleached blondes. Furthermore, I couldn't picture myself as a cheerleader. I'd always been the type of girl more interested in playing the sport than cheering it on from the sidelines.
Regarding boys, I learned the hard way trust is a rare commodity. I dipped my toes in the dating pool, only to find disappointment lurking at every corner. The one who took my virginity shamelessly spread the details as if it were something to be ashamed of, and I was just another conquest. The next guy I dated ended up behind bars. My fellow women and I laugh, jokingly claiming our "man-picker" must be broken, but it's a pattern inherited from our parents. My heart is drawn to dark-complexioned men with slightly longer than socially acceptable hair. Just as some guys prefer skinny blondes, I have a type. Tall, dark, and dangerous.
Rumours begin to circulate due to jealous girls. They think I have designs on their boyfriends when the opposite is true. They try to draw others into their ire and incite them to violence. I've developed a sense of bravado, thinking whatever they could bring, I've seen worse. Despite the lies that are spoken about me, they hold no power over my self-assuredness. I ignore their falsehoods because I know my truth deep down. I've always known who I was at my core because I am my mother's daughter.
One late autumn night during my ninth-grade year, a new boy with long, dark hair and a pair of tight black jeans walked onto the scene. I was spellbound. My gaze fixed on him as he moved around the dance floor, dancing with no one before abruptly leaving. I began a frantic search for him, but he seemed to vanish.
I know it sounds dumb to say, but it was as if a lightning bolt had struck my heart, igniting an inexplicable connection. I don't indulge in such nonsensical or mystical notions of karmic connections or cosmic destinies. Even as a youth, I prided myself on a more logical mindset, but it was how I felt.
I left my girlfriends and their crushes behind, opting for the local arcade where I knew I could have a blast for the next few hours. Immersed in a martial arts game, I broke records and dominated the leaderboard, playing as many hours as possible with a single quarter.
Again like a flash of lightning, he entered, coming to stand by the game I was playing. He stayed silent, watching the game. He congratulated me as I moved through the levels, then turned to leave. I deliberately threw the game, catching his attention before he could go. I wanted to learn more.
I mustered up the courage to ask him for his number. He confessed he had just moved to town and wasn't sure if he intended to stay. My heart sank, only to soar again when he handed me his address. Not everyone was tied to a phone those days, especially those who couldn't afford a landline. Instead, we relied on sharing phone numbers with friends. Our story began that day.
Young love is fierce as it is. Let alone us two love grenades. He, too, came from a broken home, his home life even worse than mine. We were like matches and kerosene. Our first fight came because of another blonde draped over his arm. I asked her if she'd like it if I hugged her boyfriend in such a way. Unbeknownst to me, this poor girl was also dating him. I'd just managed to dissuade her without knowing. When I found out, I walked away. I came home, my heart in tatters. Mom came over and listened to my tears.
I went back for the first time. When I arrived, his mom was trying to calm him down. He had ripped his room to shreds and was crying. I had evidence of his care for me, or so I thought, and our relationship from that moment bloomed. I fell deeply in love, but what I had formed was my first trauma bond. I would leave for a short amount of time, and it was during that time I discovered I was pregnant at the age of fifteen. Then I began to run away repeatedly to be with him, eventually living on the Cree reservation with his family. Mom managed to lure me home by saying she needed me to stay because of surgery she was having. It couldn't have come at a better time. I was malnourished, and it was the first time he tried to hit me.
When you grow up in trauma, the relationships and situations that feel best to you are closest to the connections you grew up with. All that drama and extra endorphins from the bat-sh*t crazy way your parents barely let each other survive feels normal. I know it's not normal, and I will not be my mother. I would repeat this as a mantra deciding early on within myself that if a man ever tried to hit me, it'd be him going down instead. I also chose not to smoke for this reason. I would not be my parents.
The first time the boyfriend and I tangled, he had returned to his mom's house from running around with another girl. He lied about it, but I had finely honed senses from years of living in a dangerous environment that poked holes in his lies. That and the fact rumours had gotten back to me.
We argued as I was coming from the shower, and he made the mistake of trying to punch me in the stomach. Furious that he was trying to hurt my baby, I fight as though my life depends on it until I see my crazed naked form in the steamy mirror above the washroom sink. It feels like a film cameo of another person's life. Something inside me snaps. On the reserve, this occurs so commonly they refer to it as blacking out on another person.
In many ways, I am grateful we were in the washroom. I only stopped punching him because I looked up and saw myself and snapped back to reality and threw him off me. I'm not a fighter, but it appears if you push me far enough, I am. It would be something his brothers talked about for years. The girl called me later to let me know he was cheating on me and took pleasure in telling me she was boffing my boyfriend. I already knew and had prepared an answer.
When she called me several years later to let me know our sons were in the same class, she asked me if I remembered what I had said. I have a long memory when it comes to things that hurt me. I knew full well what I'd said but felt it was not my place to rub it in. I knew her future because I lived it. Instead, I told her I was no longer the scrapping fighter on the reserve. I was a grown woman married to another man, and the past was in the past. She went on to tell me they had three children, and he had repeatedly abused her. Then left her for another woman. Vindication is a sweet wine, and I drank it deep. I have always believed what you sow, you reap, and I was thankful I didn't reap the sorrows this woman or my mother had.
That lightning bolt that struck me had a purpose all along—to burn an even deeper hole within me. It would take three children, a failed marriage, and another ten years to muster the courage to trust another man with my heart.