by Loretta Lost
“No. This is happy for now,” Snow explains. “It’s a smokescreen. She’s hiding her true feelings for you behind this process. If we’re already married, we don’t have to deal with this bullshit. Go through the pathetic rites of dating, courtship, and becoming lovers. We can make jokes about it. Circumvent the system. Avoid the pain. We don’t have to be real. Or honest.”
“Damn,” I say in frustration. “You aren’t going to make this easy for me.”
She shakes her head in a slow, pensive way. “Don’t let me hide, Cole. Don’t let me stay hidden inside myself, forever.”
“I won’t,” I promise. Although I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish this.
“Someday, things will be okay,” she says softly, tracing her fingertips against my jawline. “And maybe then, I can just be me. We can be… ourselves. Who we really want to be. We can be together.”
Her hand falls to her side, and her eyes change. Just like that, she is Scarlett again.
She blinks once in confusion at how she moved across the room, but then she smiles at me. “Are we running late?”
“No,” I tell her gently. “I think we’re going to be there early.”
Maybe a decade too early.
Now, looking down at the small velvet box resting in my palm, I wonder if I’m too late. Should I have pushed harder, years ago, before she walked out of my life? Before she gave up on me and moved in with another man? No. Before she got pregnant—before she lost our baby. My eyes close briefly in pain. I wasn’t there for her nearly as much as I should have been.
This ring can’t heal our scars, or bring back what we’ve lost. Maybe it won’t change anything at all. But I have to try.
I will try. Soon. I should have tried this morning. Even the delay of one single day feels unbearable.
I have already delayed too much. I have probably delayed more than any human male has ever delayed in the history of mankind.
That might be an exaggeration, but it’s how I feel.
And we’re older now. We’re old enough. But are we too old?
I need some confirmation. I need some security.
“Wow!” says a female voice, startling me from my reverie. She lets out a low whistle.
Turning my head sharply toward the sound, I see a heavyset, dark-skinned woman smiling widely. It’s the librarian who helped me sort through the archives earlier.
“What a lucky girl!” she says, gesturing to the velvet box. “How many carats is that? Five?”
I glance at the ring, but then I look up at the woman hesitantly. “Do you think she’ll like it? She’s… not an ordinary girl.”
“Honey,” the librarian says cheerfully, “there ain’t a woman alive who wouldn’t love a rock like that. When are you popping the question?”
“I’m not sure. I was planning to this morning—or yesterday,” I say with a shrug.
“How long you two been together?” she asks.
“Like… thirteen years.”
She frowns. “So what you waiting for? You asked her daddy?”
“No,” I say quietly. “She doesn’t have one.”
“Then you asked her mama?” the woman presses.
I am about to explain that she doesn’t have one of those either, but I don’t want to elicit the woman’s pity. “I’ll gather up the balls to do it soon,” I tell her with a grin. “Maybe tonight—or the next time I see her.”
“Good for you!” she says with a nod, and seems satisfied as she returns to doing librarian-things.
Gazing at the ring with slightly renewed pride, I feel some sort of validation. It’s a good ring. And it’s a good idea. I mean, it’s not that scary. It’s not like we haven’t been married before.
I wonder if anyone else has ever wanted to marry a girl he’s already married to quite as badly as I do.
Snow would like this ring, I think to myself with certainty. Scarlett? I’m not so sure.
She is so afraid, so sensitive. I want to make things perfect for her. I know how she feels about airports—she always gets emotional when we have to say goodbye there. Would it have been manipulative of me to ask in that setting? There was just something holding me back. I’m not sure what it was. Years of holding back has led to it being a bad habit.
Now, I find myself seized by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s separation anxiety? The last time Scarlett left me, I didn’t see her again for years. What if I never see her again? Have I lost my last chance to give her this ring and show her how I feel? I know my fear is irrational, but I can’t push it aside. I wish she did have a father, or mother I could ask.
I wish she even had a friend I could talk to, but she doesn’t have friends. She only has coworkers.
I know that I need to talk to someone. But I killed one of her fathers, and I probably should have killed the other.
Maybe Mr. Bishop? He’s been the closest thing to a father figure in both of our lives for years. Plus, he has a very successful marriage. He was there at our first wedding, and encouraged us to go ahead with the crazy plan to begin with. Standing up and closing the ring box, I walk away from the useless newspaper articles about my parents.
I should probably just focus on the future, and things I can control.
But if there’s anyone who might know more details about my parents’ death—it’s Mr. Bishop.
Chapter Three
Sophie Shields, 2016
I have been trying to pry at the chains around my wrists to see if I can bend the metal and slip the links out. As the drugs wear off and I become more clearheaded, my frustration grows. I could break through any digital restraint, hack through the most heavily encrypted code. Firewalls barely present a challenge to me, so how is it possible that a few physical pieces of metal can render me so immobile?
Staring at the chains, I try to treat this situation as a puzzle to solve. If I look for all the weak spots, and target those, I am sure that I can find a way to escape.
But there isn’t much time to think, for I hear the doorknob turning, and several deadbolts being unlocked.
My face spasms in fear, and my entire body tenses. I attempt to sit up and get into some sort of defensive position before the visitor can enter the room.
But I don’t have enough freedom to move.
Staring at the door warily, it seems to take an eternity for my captor to undo all the locks. In reality, it must only be a few seconds. When the door swings open and Benjamin enters, I stare at his cane with a hateful look.
He’s going to need much more than a cane when I’m done with him, this time. He’s going to need a ventilator to breathe, and a feeding tube to swallow. Screw that, he’s going to need a fucking crematorium.
I feel chills at the viciousness of my inner voice. I somehow feel detached from all her venom, and unable to connect with my own emotions. I logically know that I am angry—but mostly, all I feel is afraid. I think of Cole. How exactly does my angry inner self expect us to get free?
I’m shackled up quite well, in this pink and pretty dungeon.
Benjamin moves to stand directly over me, staring down with a focused, hawk-like expression. His eyes have always reminded me of a predator—and they have always made me feel like a defenseless bunny rabbit, darting through the underbrush while he stalks me with laser-sharp vision. Now, I suppose I’ve been picked up and dragged back to his lair, to be eaten alive.
“My sweet girl,” he says softly, letting his hand drift forward to rest against my cheek. He lets his hand drift downward slowly, across my neck, over my breast, down past my bellybutton, and to rest against my upper thigh.
Flinching and jerking away, I try to protect myself somehow, but he only smiles.
“There is a lot more fight in you than I remembered, Serenity. Just look at what you did to my face. You didn’t mean to hurt Daddy like this, did you?”
Squinting through my blurry vision, only then do I see the deep claw marks across the side of his face. It startles me.
It looks like he had an encounter with a wild animal. I don’t remember doing that to him—but I’m glad I did. Maybe if he has to go out in public with visible injuries, it will signal to someone that something is wrong, and they will come looking for me.
But it looks like the wounds have been stitched up professionally, and covered in some kind of shiny ointment to promote healing. Of course, they won’t leave any permanent scars. A man like Benjamin has many doctors and plastic surgeons in his pockets. I grit my teeth together, feeling some of that anger spark in my chest and slowly begin to overtake the fear.
“I’m sorry that I have to do this,” Benjamin says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a syringe. “But I can’t risk you hurting me again—or hurting yourself. I know you’re just scared, and uncomfortable in your new situation. Don’t worry. I am sure you will become adjusted very soon.”
“No,” I say hoarsely struggling to edge away from him. “Please don’t. I’ll behave! Just don’t drug me.”
Benjamin hesitates. “I don’t want to give you this medicine, Serenity. But I must be sure that you’ll be a good girl. All you have to do is say the magic words, and I promise I will take you out of these shackles and stop drugging you. Just say those four sweet words, to assure me that we have an understanding.”
His hand has begun to slide between my legs, and gently nudge the folds of skin apart. He begins to roughly knead my clitoris as he speaks. I have just enough range of motion to jerk my hips away, and just enough control to avoid vomiting.
“Come on, Serena,” he says in disappointment. “I need you to be a good girl for me. Just promise you’ll behave, and say those lovely words to me. Those pretty little words in your sweet voice—they will be like music to my ears.”
“What words?” I say with a croak, as his fingers dig into my slit again. His probing fingers are forceful and greedy as I try to bend my knees to create interference. But with the way my legs are shackled apart, I am wide open to him and he has easy access with very little struggle.
“Don’t you remember?” Benjamin asks, as he crawls onto the bed and places his wrinkled cheek against mine. I can feel his hot, throaty breathing against my ear, as he huffs slightly with his arousal. “Just say it for me, sweetheart. Just say what I need to hear, and I won’t give you this needle. I’ll just give you my love, and take care of you. I’ll treat you like the darling little princess you are.”
I fight against the bile rising in my throat as I try to pull my head away from him, but he follows me and takes my earlobe into his mouth, sucking and biting it gently.
“Say it for me, sweetheart,” Benjamin begs again, sticking his tongue into my ear and wiggling it around so that his hot saliva saturates my ear and drips down my neck. “Say it or I have to poke your pretty little arm with my pretty little needle. Say it, or I’ll have to poke you in other places, with something that isn’t quite so little.”
“Say what?!” I scream out hoarsely, shutting my eyes at the disgusting sensation of his saliva in my ear.
He cackles then, the cackle of an old man. I am suddenly conscious of just how old he is. Much older than he was before. He is so old that his breath against my sticky, moistened ear, feels like death. When he climbs on top of me, and his small, wet penis rests against my thigh, even that feels like death.
Is he even capable of raping me? What is this, one last hurrah before the grave? He surely seems to be closer to death than to being a virile villain. Yet here he is, on top of me, gleeful with his position of power.
It’s some kind of psychosis. It’s in his head, not his body. It always has been.
He drags the syringe across my breast, using the sharp tip of it to prod at my nipple. He is having so much fun. My body is just a playground to him, comprised of various parts to rape and ruin. He just wants to see me completely destroyed, so that he can get his rocks off.
I should do whatever I can to stall this damage, so that Cole and Luciana can notice I am missing and begin searching for me. How long has it been? I should play along, and try to be complacent in his little game.
“What words?” I ask again, softly, trying to be more amenable.
He leans forward again, placing his mouth against my ear and licking the tender skin with his wriggling tongue. I shudder, for his tongue has roughly the texture of a dying snail that has been squashed on the sidewalk. It’s not the most pleasant texture to have, slimy and warm, inside your ear.
“Darling, you know what words,” he says breathily. “Make me a happy man and say what I’ve been waiting to hear you say for so many years.”
He reaches between my legs again, tightly gripping my flesh in his claw-like hands. His brittle, jagged nails dig into my most sensitive parts like talons.
“All you have to say is ‘I love you, Daddy.’”
Something snaps inside me. It’s the way he says it. It’s the look in his eyes, so excited and eager. It’s my sense of justice and latent fury, brimming just under the surface.
My back begins to arch off the bed, slowly, powerfully.
My body begins to tremble and writhe without my bidding.
I am losing control. I briefly wonder if this is what a seizure feels like.
My muscles clench far past the point that they should be able to clench. My muscles grow taut until they are wound like braided ropes, tightly around my bones. My body continues to spasm and thrash, seeking some sort of formidable strength, far beyond the levels of paltry strength I am aware that I possess.
I am not sure where it comes from. I am not sure how all of this could be inside me.
But I feel it coming. I feel her coming.
My soul, my heart, they quiver with some kind of transformation.
They quiver and they expand.
I can feel the swell. It’s like a tidal wave inside me—a tidal wave of consciousness.
I can feel the rush, and I can feel the rise.
I am pushed over the edge.
I am nothing. I am floating in nothingness. I am nowhere.
And I feel safe, all of a sudden.
I know I can rest.
She will take care of me. She always does.
My body no longer belongs to me. It belongs to her.
My best friend. My secret weapon.
There’s a superhero living inside me.
And I am fairly certain she doesn’t love her daddy.
Chapter Four
Cole Hunter, 2016
Ringing the doorbell of Mr. Bishop’s home, I chew on my lip anxiously. This house brings back so much nostalgia for our teenage years, but also makes me feel uncertain. Standing here reduces me to that skinny teenage boy, trying to grow up too fast, trying to take care of a girl with more issues than American politics.
I received a few texts from Scarlett on the drive over, and was replying to them when Miranda called me to ask some work-related questions. I pulled over to examine some paperwork that she emailed over, and I enjoyed the opportunity to do my job again, in some capacity. I miss architecture fiercely, but I don’t miss the pressure of having everything rest on my shoulders. The company is definitely suffering without me, but I know Miranda will manage to keep it together, along with Mr. Bishop’s son. Our current project in Pakistan is just the largest one we’ve ever attempted, and it was a terrible time for me to get shot.
Although, I suppose there’s never a great time to get shot. I’m still sort of grateful it happened at all, if it led me back to Scarlett.
Working again helped to briefly clear my mind. My thoughts keep going back to Benjamin’s suggestions about my family. I can’t seem to chase away this foreboding feeling in the back of my mind, and the black hole growing in the gut. I miss Scarlett. If I asked her for help, I am sure she could find a way to uncover this information online, even though the events in question occurred when the Internet was in its infancy. She could hack into police databases or something, but it is beyond my capabilities.
Besides, she has enough on
her mind with meeting her biological brother for the first time. Her text messages were not very positive, and it seems like it did not go as well as she expected. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t glad it didn’t work out. She could have spent days catching up with her folks, but instead, she’s coming home sooner. Back to me. I am selfishly very happy about this.
I just need to get my head straight, and prepare an epic proposal before she gets back.
And maybe find some kind of closure about my parents, so that I’m not distracted or depressed.
Not too long ago, Scarlett stopped responding to my texts. She’s either taking a nap, or already on her flight back to California. I can’t wait to pick her up at the airport later tonight.
A few hours should be enough time to find my answers—and a pair of balls.
All I want to do is call her. These long silent periods of her being on planes is excruciating. We haven’t really been separated for much time since she walked for days in the desert to find me. I don’t really ever want to be separated from her again.
Right now, I’m aching to tell her my concerns about my parents. But I don’t want her to worry about me.
I think she worries enough. She’s spent her whole life living in fear of Benjamin, dyeing her hair, changing her name. There is a chance he knows I’m alive. There is a chance that he knows that she’s alive. But if he is just spouting bullshit, I don’t want it to scare Scarlett so much that she decides to disappear and change her identity again.
Although, hopefully, if she does—she will take me with her, this time.
I have nothing to lose anymore. I’m dead, too.
We might as well be dead together.
When Mrs. Bishop answers the front door, she squeals in excitement before reaching out to place her arms around me. “Cole, my boy!” she says cheerfully. “Come in, come in. Lovely party at Miranda’s the other night, right?”
“It was mostly good.”
