Текст книги "Shards of Us"

Автор книги: K Caverly

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Four

I drift in and out of consciousness for hours after that. Or days. Or maybe even weeks. I don't know how long. All I remember is waking up face down in a seat of some sort a while after Sebastian knocked me unconscious. It felt like there was something moving beneath me, as if I were a car, but I can't be too sure. I could see nothing but blurry sunlight for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, and then I was gone, back in a memory.

I'm twenty years old again, running down my old street in the pouring rain. I'd been at a friend's house all day, but her mom told me something had happened, that I needed to go home now, and I refused to let her drive me because I knew whatever it was, it was bad. And before I realized what I was doing, I'd started running.

I run and run, already crying and choking and gasping for air, already wanting to crumple and let everything else leave me, already knowing something is terribly, terribly wrong.

I can hear the sirens wailing through our once silent neighborhood, the buzz of energy and fear and sadness in the air. It's the dead of night, but everyone is standing outside of their houses, hugging and looking at the house the cars are crowding. My heart sinks.

They're staring atmy house. The house I'd been staying in ever since I failed out college.

Ten cop cars surround my front yard, and policemen fill the area, bringing evidence and equipment in and out of the house, talking into their radios and putting up yellow tape all around my home.

I keep running. I don't even hesitate. Tears burn my eyes and my heart pounds furiously, but I try to hide it, try to stay hopeful, even though a deep, crushing part of me knows it's really over.

"Ma'am, this is a crime scene," a pudgy cop says when I duck under the yellow tape, forcing my way over to my house. "You can't–"

But I'm already pushing past him, muttering, "I live here" in between my fits of trembles, and then I hustle inside the house, pushing past a few cops, and look around desperately.

The house is a mess. Furniture is upturned everywhere–couches, chairs, tables. Shattered glass is spilled across the floor, and torn-up pictures of me and my parents laughing and smiling several years ago litter the ground like they're nothing. And then I notice the drop of crimson on the hardwood floor in front of me, and I look up. I let out a scream as soon as see my parents, on the ground, shot and killed beside the sofa, their hands locked.

Together.

Even in death.

I gasp and cry, and my body feels frozen and numb and hurt and I can barely process what I'm seeing, what this means. Sobs rack through me and I turn away, shaking all over. A detective grabs me and steers me outside, telling me I shouldn't be here, I should wait outside, that I was going to be okay, thateverything was going to be okay even when I knew it wasn't.

The detective starts turning away and hurries back inside, but I grab her through my tears. "Tell me," I gasp. "Tell me what happened."

Her eyes look sad, so sad, sad for me. "I shouldn't–" she says quietly and tries to brush me off, but I cling to her for dear life, not knowing what else to do.

"Please, tell me," I whisper. My voice sounds so hollow and defeated it doesn't even feel like mine anymore. "Tell me what happened."

She sighs, then locks eyes with me. "It was a robbery," she says. "Your mother's jewelry was reported stolen. Suspect appears to be male. They tried to stop him, but… they couldn't. He had a gun," she adds.

My stomach twists at her words but I manage a nod, whispering, "Thank you." And then I start shaking all over again, and I collapse into her arms, screaming and crying and telling myself this can't possibly be real, this can’t be happening to me, all night long.

When I wake up next, I can vaguely hear a door slam outside, feel someone grab my arms and mutter something under their breath. And then I'm being moved away from here, to somewhere outside in the blinding sun. I feel my head loll back, and then I'm back in another memory.

It's three days after the murder. I'm sitting on the rooftop of my old house, closing my eyes and thinking. I think about my dance classes. They're supposed to be my escape, supposed to wash everything else away. The grace of my movements, the way my legs sway every which way, so nimbly, it's all supposed to free me. From what, I don't even know. My thoughts, maybe? Or is it supposed to free me from my depression? Or really, maybe it's just freeing me from myself.

Whatever it is, it hasn't worked. The ache in my heart hasn't gone away, and my parents are still dying again and again in my mind. I live with my aunt now, but I hardly care for her, and she returns the favor. I hang out here, at the house they died in, because I have nowhere else to go. Because the pain is stronger here, but at least I feel like myself again. At least, when the depression and loneliness overcome me, I can feel like Crystal Knight again. I can feel like the real me, the one person who otherwise couldn't seem farther away.

And today, I'm going to end it at all.

There isn't one particular thing that brought me here, or a certain reason why I chose today, or a breaking point that I reached and couldn't keep going on after. It's been much more gradual. I'd been sad for a long time, mainly because my parents were always away on their business trips and I'd never had friends before. But even in the thick of it, I used to cling to the knowledge that my parents were still alive, that I needed to be strong for them, that I needed to keep on pushing, but now that they're gone, who do I need to be strong for anymore?

The answer is nobody.

Nobody.

Nobody.

So for a while, I just sit on the edge of the roof and think. I think about the life I'll be missing out on if I go through with this. I think about the children I'll never have, the friends I'll never meet, the husband I'll never get to know. I think about whether I'll ever even have children if I stay alive past tonight, if I'll ever make friends, if I'll ever have a man in my life, and then I tell myself that of course I won't. Good things don't happen to me; good thingsnever happen to me. If I decide to live, I'll spend my life alone, working a dead-end job just to pay the bills, hating myself the whole way through. I'll live my life just to get through the next day, with nothing to looking forward to in between, and that's no way to live at all, right? Next I think about dance, the way it frees me. I think about the tons of performances I've been to, the awards I've received, the applause I've earned. I think about that moment when I'm on stage, when the music plays beside me and everything fades away, because my sense come to life. I think about how my body hums with energy before every performance, and then I think about myself closing my eyes and dancing, getting lost in the movements. I miss getting lost. I miss it a lot. I miss that moment when I'm moving across stage, feeling nothing but the gentle pounding in my temples and the beautiful, magical, exhilarating feeling that all of my different dance moves give me.

Finally, I think about my parents. I think about how they never deserved to die, like I don't. I think about what it must have been like–to die like that. To one moment be sitting in the living room, drinking wine and listening to music, and the next, to just not exist anymore. I think about how they went down with such a fight–they always go down with fights, that's just who they are–and how Dad and Mom attacked the robber when he stole her prized jewelry, and then I think about him holding the gun on them, taking a breath, and firing. And before everything else, I think about how my parents' hands locked as they fell backwards, think about how, even in death, they were together forever.

And then, before I fall and break my leg and end my dance career forever, I think about nothing at all.

I drift back into consciousness after some time, feeling my head and heart pounding. My ears are still ringing, not even slowing their incessant sound for a second. I try to look around, but my vision is blurry. I'm moving, though, and something hard is beneath me, like someone is carrying me away in their arms. Which makes no sense. But I definitely feel myself progressing forward, feel the nausea rise up, and the next thing I know, something warm and soft is beneath me. And then, when I try to open my eyes, there is blackness. Another memory.

It's been over a year and a half since the night I almost died, and I still haven't moved on. I movedaway , if that counts, to this dead-end town. I got a job, a tiny apartment, and I guess my prediction about living only to get through the next day came true after all. I'm not happy, not really. I have no love, no passion left in me. I'm living just to survive, doing nothing more, nothing less. This Starbucks job has gotten me less than nowhere, and so when my new friend Ash convinced me to try just one night out at a club, I said yes. "It's not like you have anything else to do," she'd said, which was all too true. I didn't have any hobbies. I didn't have any interests. Hell, I'd probably have just spent my night watching TV if it weren't for.

But instead, that night, I met Sebastian.

And then everything changed.

Anyway, Ash brought me to a club as soon as I agreed to go out with her. I dressed up in a purple dress, put on eyeliner and mascara and some makeup and lipstick, and then I let her drive me to wherever she had in mind.

So here I am, standing here, so, so out of place. The club is as cliché as ever. It's a giant room made up of multiple floors connected by a white, winding staircase. The whole place is dark, flooded with people drinking and swaying to the music, laughing and talking as the colored flashing lights illuminates the area between beats. Retro music pulses throughout the building, and everything is so loud and full and surreal that I feel like I'm in a dream.

"C'mon," Ash says, taking my arm and pulling me to the bar, where several desperate, well-dressed men sip drinks and flirt with any passing women.

Ash sits me down on the stool, then orders us both a drink. It's pathetic, really. That I'm here. That going to random clubs at midnight on a Thursday night is what my life has come to. But it has, and at least the club provides a distraction from everything else. At least, for a few hours, I can pretend to be normal.

"So how are you liking it so far?" Ash shouts to me over the music, taking her drink in her hand and smiling like she always does: like nothing in the world but this moment matters. I've always admired that about her, how she lives 100% in the present, how she never lets anything but what's happening right here, right now bother her. It's a nice way to live, and sometimes I wish I could ever be like that.

"It's fine," I manage to say, but as I look around the packed club, I couldn't feel more out of place.

"Don’t worry." Ash leans into me. "We'll find you a hot date."

I nod, not really believing it, when a man comes up to Ash. "Fancy a drink?" he says, smiling at her. He is handsome and blonde, and Ash and I can both see it.

"Totally." He sits down beside her, and Ash beams at me, totally forgetting her mission to find me a date, and then goes to talk to this fancy stranger.

I sigh to myself. Five minutes in, and I'm already getting abandoned. Great. It's like this club is a metaphor for my life. I take a sip of wine, closing my eyes and waiting for all of this to go away.

"The wine is good for making you forget," a man's voice says behind me.

I don’t look at him. I don't have the energy. After all, he's probably just a random creeper I have no interest in. "Yeah," I mutter. "It sure is."

There's a pause. "First time here too?"

"Fortunately," I manage to say, taking another sip.

He laughs then. That stops me dead. He has a nice laugh. Areally nice laugh. It's thick and masculine, warm and inviting all at once. His voice is kind of nice, too, now that I think about it. It's almost sing-song, in a sexual, growling kind of way.

So I turn around to face him.

And goddammit, was I wrong about calling him a creeper.

He is–let's face it–smoking hot. He wears a newly-tailored suit that runs the length of his body. His dark hair is wavy and slicked back, and his skin is that perfectly sun-kissed kind of tan. His jaw is thick, and his eyes are a deep blue, smoky and icy all at once, like a fire on a frozen lake. He smiles at me when I look at him, broad and toothy, revealing a pair of killer dimples on either side of his mouth.

"May I?" he asks, reaching for my hand.

I hesitate, then nod.

It takes him less than a second to take my hand into his, lean in, and kiss it. Slow. Affectionate. His lips lingering on my skin just a little too long. He lifts his head up slowly, locking eyes with me, and I feel my skin crawl, because his lips feel so good against me.

"What's your name?" he asks after a minute.

I'm so busy thinking about his lips that the question catches me off guard. I look up, startled. "What?"

He smiles, but not rudely. "What's your name?" he repeats.

"Oh. Um, Crystal. I'm Crystal."

He cocks his head to the side for a minute, then nods slowly. "Crystal," he says quietly, like the word is sacred. "It's fitting," he says at last, looking up to meet my gaze. "It means you're clear and pure, like your soul is." Then, he reaches out a hand. "I'm Sebastian."

I smile despite myself. "It's nice to meet you, Sebastian," I say, and we shake hands like we're business acquaintances or something. And for once, when I say the words, I'm not lying.

"I could say the same about you, Crystal," Sebastian says. "Now, tell me, what brings you here on a night like tonight?"

I take another sip of my drink. "Loneliness," I mutter. "What else?"

"Ah yes," he says. "I know a thing or two about loneliness myself."

"Oh yeah?" I say, smiling a little. It's more of a challenge than an actual question. I can't imagine anyone this good-looking ever being lonely.

"Yes," he says. "I'm good at… abandoning people. Things. Finding a way to push away anyone who gets close to me.

"Drinks to that," I mutter, and we clink glasses.

We drink for a while, just talking about things, the weather, what shows are on tomorrow, and all that jazz while I wait for Ash to finish her flirting so I can leave. Sebastian is the perfect gentleman. He orders me more drinks, but stops me at three, saying getting too drunk in a club can be dangerous, and I reluctantly agree.

Whenever he talks, I let myself get lost in his words, in the emotion behind them. I feel connected to him, somehow. I don't even know why. I just know that talking to him makes my pulse pick up speed, makes my heart flutter a little, makes the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach go away, if only for a little while. Talking to him is an escape; Sebastian is an escape.

After a while, Sebastian sighs, deep in thought. "This is going to sound stupid," he says at last.

I frown at him at first, not understanding what he means, but the curiosity quickly sinks in. "Tell me," I say. It isn't like I have anything else to do.

Sebastian nods. "Okay. I have a, uh… proposition."

I narrow my eyes. Oh hell, don't let him turn out to be a freak after all. "Proposition?"

"Yes." He clears his throat. "We're both lonely, right? We both know what it's like to lose everyone we care about. And now… now it sounds like we both have no one left?"

"I'm following."

Sebastian pushes his drink aside, and locks eyes on mine. He really does have beautiful eyes. Strong and intense, no matter what. "So what if we came together and… used each other to feel less lonely?"

Music continues to thump all around us, and the sound of laughter carries throughout the giant room. The whole place is stuffy and smells like beer and sweat, but with Sebastian, I feel sucked away into my own little world.

I snort. "So is this all part of your clever plan to get me into your bed so you can fuck me?" I don't mention that it's working.

Sebastian smiles vaguely. "I don't fuck, baby. I only fix your pain," he says, smooth as ever. There's a pause, and then he leans into me. His breath smells like some sort of weird mix between alcohol and mint. "So what'll it be?" he asks softly.

"Well, that depends. What does this plan involve?" I say. I'm mostly joking. It's not like I'm going to agree to some sketchy-sounding plan with a random stranger. But still, something about Sebastian… pulls me in, I guess.

"It involves whatever you like," he says. "I get us a hotel room. You come every Wednesday night, and we spend the night kissing, touching, talking. Whatever. We just stay there and we heal each other, heal our broken pasts."

I could laugh at the idea. In fact, if anyone but Sebastian had just said that, I probably would have laughed. But something about Sebastian's words feel so honest and true, like he really doesn't care about sex; he just wants me. And I guess, based off of the tingling sensation he gives me, I want him too.

"No strings attached?" I ask at last. I can't believe I'm seriously considering this. I must be a complete idiot.

He smiles. "Of course." Then, "Meet me here tomorrow night so we can discuss further?"

I hesitate. "Okay," I finally say. It's not like I have anything left to lose in my life. A little adventure can't hurt. "I… I'll see you around."

Sebastian stands up and adjusts his coat. He smiles at me. "I'll see you around, too, angel," he coos.

I laugh. "Did you just call me 'angel'?"

He nods.

"Why?"

Sebastian doesn't look at me then. He just starts walking away, giving off more of his wonderful cologne scent. "Because you're an angel," he calls back at me after a minute. "An angel who is too far out of reach for me to ever really have."

I'm too stunned to ask what he means.

Chapter Five

I wake up to something warm and soft beneath me. Everything is blurry and distant, and I feel myself stirring, feel the heat creep into my body, feel something conforming beneath me. A mattress, I decide it is. A bed. I'm in a bed.

I force myself to open my eyes. My skin is hot and sweaty, and I realize immediately that I've been panting. A lot. My throat feels hoarse as I gulp in a breath, so strained and overused. I must have screamed a lot too.

And then there's only one word on my tongue:

Ash.

Ash could be dead.

My body starts shaking at the thought. Oh fuck oh fuck. What if she's dead? What if my only friend is dead? And for what? I can't even remember. I just remember people running up the stairs, gunfire everywhere, and then… Sebastian. Screaming at me. Telling me to save her from these men. I don't even know who they were. I don't know where I am. I don't know why any of what happened, happened.

I don't know anything.

I jolt up in bed, sweat covering my face, gasping for breath. Everything is dark around me, but if I squint I can make out my general surroundings. The bed is positioned at the end of a huge, domed hall, with marble walls and several pillars at the ends of the hall. A giant door stands to my right, leading to a room with a yellowish glow. A bathroom, maybe. There are no windows in the building, no obvious signs of escape. I squint and look around to see better.

The walls are covered in paintings of sorts, long and wispy and colorful, like expert hieroglyphs of sorts. My bed is king sized, and the sheets are so soft and warm, and the frame behind me looks to be made of porcelain or something. Definitely not cheap, whatever it is. No one else appears to be in the hall, though. Besides the creaking of the heater below me, there is not a sound in the whole place.

I take in another breath. The air is thick and smells almost like soap. Odd, I find myself thinking. Behind me sits a small dinner table, with two chairs tucked in. Empty plates sit on the edge of the wooden frame, as if waiting to be used. And then, at the end of the hall, I see a door. It's small and dark, almost indistinguishable against the pitch black room, but my eye latches onto it right away and doesn't let go.

Quietly, I slip out of the sheets, and gently touch my bare feet to the cool marble floor. I take a step forward. Pain jolts through me. My legs are stiff and my muscles feel totally sore, like I'd just run a marathon and don't even remember it. Gritting my teeth, I take another step, then another, then another, fighting through the pain. My heart thrums in my chest as I approach the door, and I try to walk in rhythm to it, step, beat, step, beat, step, beat.My whole body is throbbing by the time I reach the door, but I don't even care. I walk toward it hungrily, reaching out my arm to the handle. I can see yellow light slipping out from the small crack beneath it, and it's the most beautiful sight in the world. I know I need to get out of here, wherever here is. I know that after what happened last night, I am not safe.

Finally, once I stumble over to the door, I reach out a trembling hand, wrap it around the cool brass handle, and I try to turn it.

Nothing.

My heart stops.

I try again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

I hold my breath, the fear rushing in.

No no no no no. No! NO!

I feel sick again, feel hurt and broken and sick. I try again and again, jostling the knob, desperately trying to get it to come apart, but nothing happens.

My stomach twists, and tears cloud my eyes. This can't be happening. I can't be fucking trapped in here.

I jerk the knob some more, rip at it, desperately try to jerk the door open, but that doesn't quite happen. Instead, the knob goes flying backward.

And just like that, there's no way to get through.

I break into a sob, and I scream a little, because I'm locked in a dark room and my best friend is nowhere to be seen and Sebastian almost murdered me and I don't know what's happening anymore. Not knowing what else to do, I helplessly pound on the door and beg to be let out. "SOMEONE HELP ME!" I scream at the top of my lungs, tears rushing down my face. My throat is still raw and hurt form before–whenever that was. "HELP ME! PLEASE! I'M TRAPPED!" I choke out more air and tears, feeling my heart hurt more and more, but no one comes. No one rescues me. I'm left here, all alone.

After a few minutes, I slump to the ground, defeated. My body crumples up. I'm hurt and aching and I can barely see my own hands, and all I remember is the look in Sebastian's eyes when he told me to save Ash, the look of a true fear.

I loved him. I cared for him. I trusted him.

And look what he did.

He… he knocked me unconscious. He held a gun to my head.

I thought he wanted me too. But he almost killed me… and now he's just gone. I don't know where he is. It occurs to me then that I don't even know where Iam, or why I'm here, or even who brought me here. Was it Sebastian? Did he lock me up? Did he bring me here just so he could kill me like he killed those men?

And then another thought hits me: what if it wasn't Sebastian who captured me? What if it was those men who he said were after him, the ones who would've given Ash something worse than death? What if they killed Sebastian and now they're here for me?

I bury my head in my hands. Oh god oh god. I can't die yet. I can't die. I take it back. I want my life. I want my crappy job and annoying friend. I want my loneliness. Anything is better than this. My eyes feel hot and puffy from the tears, but I keep letting them slip out, tasting their bitter saltiness, the unmistakable feel of defeat.

I'm done.

It's over.

I'm locked in here with no food or water.

I am never going to get out alive.

The defeat rushes in quickly and painfully. I'm going to die here. I'm going to die alone and the dark. No one is here, no one is coming to save me. There is no way I'll make it.

I crumple up, crying harder, when I realize it. My throat is as dry as it is raw, but my hair and body feel clean and soft… I sit up suddenly.

My whole body is clean. I smell like soap–that's what I was smelling! My hair feels newly wet and my skin is cool and relaxed, like I'd just gotten out of the shower.

But I didn't take a shower.

Then, I look down. I realize I'm wearing a dress. Not just any dress, but the black dress I didn't wear the night of what happened to Ash. My heart pounds faster. I feel for my lips. I'm wearing lipstick again too, but there's no way my lipstick stayed intact the whole night. Which means…

Someone showered and dressed me.

The thought makes my stomach churn and more tears come to my eyes. There's only one reason I can think of for someone to dress me like this, and the result is not pretty.

My body quivers. I don't know what's happening. I don't know why I'm here. All I know is that I just want to leave, with my life intact.

I haven't felt this hopeless in two years.