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Bruised

Tanya Boteju
Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  4. Prologue
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Chapter Ten
  15. Chapter Eleven
  16. Chapter Twelve
  17. Chapter Thirteen
  18. Chapter Fourteen
  19. Chapter Fifteen
  20. Chapter Sixteen
  21. Chapter Seventeen
  22. Chapter Eighteen
  23. Chapter Nineteen
  24. Chapter Twenty
  25. Chapter Twenty-One
  26. Chapter Twenty-Two
  27. Chapter Twenty-Three
  28. Chapter Twenty-Four
  29. Chapter Twenty-Five
  30. Chapter Twenty-Six
  31. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  32. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  33. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  34. Chapter Thirty
  35. Chapter Thirty-One
  36. Chapter Thirty-Two
  37. Chapter Thirty-Three
  38. Chapter Thirty-Four
  39. Chapter Thirty-Five
  40. Chapter Thirty-Six
  41. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  42. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  43. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  44. Chapter Forty
  45. Chapter Forty-One
  46. Chapter Forty-Two
  47. ROLLER DERBY: A VERY BRIEF OVERVIEW
  48. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cover

Cover: Bruised, by Tanya Boteju

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Dedication

If you can agree that strength is in the soft parts, this book is for you.

If you can’t agree, I understand. This book is still for you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

If you’re new to roller derby and want a little background context about this amazing sport before or after reading this book, head to page 321 to find out more. Enjoy!

Prologue

The seat belt had left a perfect diagonal stripe across my chest. Blistering red and purple from shoulder to hip like a grim pageant ribbon lifting from my skin.

When my aunt and uncle finally arrived to tell me that both my parents were gone, my aunt hugged me close and I let her, too exhausted to resist. A sharp ache seared me from the outside in and somehow, the pain felt right. Deserved. I let it settle deep inside my chest, hoping it would remain there for as long as possible. That no one else would be able to get at it but me.

Chapter One

Endless stippling spread across my bedroom ceiling, tiny bumps of white pushing back at me like thousands of stubby, pointing fingers.

Fuck you, stubby bumps.

Lying faceup on my bed, I glared hard at the ceiling for a few moments before extending my left arm above me and bringing my hand down—hard—against my headboard. The ritual, started a year and a half ago, sent a familiar sting through my palm, a kind of shield against the day ahead. I’d feel the bruising every time I held a mug or grabbed my backpack strap, whenever I pushed open a door, clutched an apple. The pain was something to focus on—like a messed-up stress ball to squeeze whenever I needed it.

I wasn’t proud of this thing I’d come to depend on—far from it—but the need to do it was so overwhelming sometimes that knowing I’d feel shitty about it afterward wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it. It was protection against other people discovering all the rot in my gut. It was punishment. It was proof I could handle everything on my own.

I forced myself out from the covers and placed my feet on the carpet. Fall air slipped through my open window, crisp and biting.