by Loretta Lost
“Are you on my side?” I ask her in surprise.
“Not really,” Luciana admits. “Those two have serious history. That’s a deep connection you can’t possibly compete with. But if for some unimaginable, preposterous, highly unlikely, bordering on impossible reason, Sophie decides to give you another shot and move back to D.C.? Well, I get one of my best hackers back, and the only person around the office I actually want to hang out with on my lunch break. So, I might as well pretend to root for you, for selfish reasons.”
“Thanks,” I tell her bitterly. “I really appreciate your vote of confidence. Will you redirect the plane?”
“No!” she says in annoyance. “Do it on your own time, after we land. I’m going back to sleep.”
When she curls up on the seats like a cat, folding her hands together under her cheek, I feel the frustration growing inside me. I briefly consider the possible repercussions of the actions I am about to take, but there is strange kind of electricity in me, causing me to spring into action almost against my will.
Grabbing my handgun, I point it at the sleeping CIA agent before me.
“What about now?”
She pries one eye open and stares down the barrel of the Beretta.
“Seriously? Are you seriously doing this?”
“Yes.”
“I gave you that gun. And the concealed carry license. And a job!”
“Some things are more important.”
Luciana sighs and opens both eyes, before sitting up and stretching. “Fine, fine. I’ll go tell the pilot. Lower the gun.”
I try, but I can’t seem to stop pointing it at her. My hand is shaking, and my finger is on the trigger.
“Wow,” she murmurs. “You’re seriously serious. Okay, okay!” She holds her hands up in surrender, before rolling her eyes and moving to the cockpit.
I still can’t seem to lower the gun. I am pointing it at Luciana’s back, finger still poised to shoot.
She glances back at me warily in the middle of her conversation with the pilot. When she returns, her face is no longer tired. She stares at me with appraisal before sighing and reaching for her phone. She cautiously moves over to sit beside me, and I keep the gun pointed at her the whole time.
“I know you’re hurting,” she says softly. “And I have the perfect cure for that. Put down the gun and let’s play Candy Crush.”
A muscle in my jaw clenches. “Candy—what?”
“Just trust me on this. It’s unbelievably therapeutic. I wanna shoot people all the time, too, Zack. But I can’t go around doing that, so I just play Candy Crush. Want to join me?”
“I… I don’t know how to play.”
“It’s easy. Look, you just try your best to match up three candies, but ideally four or five.”
I stare at the grid, looking for matches. “Like this one here?”
“Yes!” she says excitedly. “That’s great. Here’s another good one—”
She interrupts herself to slam her palm into my wrist, shoving the gun away, before grabbing my arm and twisting me to the floor.
However, I am prepared for this, and I counter her every motion, twisting and restraining her until I have her pinned to the floor, with the gun still in my hand and pointed at her.
“Damn,” she mutters. “I thought that would work. If I can’t disarm a man with Candy Crush, how can I even call myself a CIA agent?”
Releasing my tight grip on the gun, I spin it around to show her the handle, before placing it on the floor near her head. I lift my hands in a gesture of peace.
“I just wanted to show you that I didn’t let my guard down,” I inform her. “I couldn’t let you physically disarm me, but I don’t want to keep a gun pointed at you. Besides, I am intrigued, and I do want to play Candy Crush.”
“Yay!” she says with excitement. “Okay, let me show you some cool tricks for getting a higher score. The most annoying part is when you need to break the jellies, and these stupid chocolates keep growing everywhere—”
“How can chocolate ever be a bad thing?” I ask in surprise.
“Boy,” she says, shaking her head. “Now that you’re done taking me hostage, I’m about to teach you.”
Chapter Six
Serena
Time is passing in a strange and distorted way.
Half the time, I am not even completely sure that I am still alive. I feel like I am locked away in a basement, and I can only see a bit of light streaming through the cracks. I can hear echoes of people shouting upstairs, and the floorboards creak and shudder with their heavy steps. Sometimes, when they are violent, it causes dust to rain down into the basement, coating my hair and clothes, and making me cough. The basement is where I sit, quietly in a corner, hugging my legs to my chest. I am waiting. Always waiting, and hoping that nothing too awful is happening upstairs.
Hoping that I survive.
I can’t stay down here forever, hiding. I have to come up for air, eventually.
Sometimes I worry, when the floors and walls shake too much. I worry that I will be locked inside this basement forever, and never be able to return to my body. As long as I am downstairs, my body does not belong to me.
It belongs to her.
This is both a blessing and a curse. For one thing, she is tough. She is always willing to take a beating, so I don’t have to. But she is also too impulsive, aggressive. Although I trust her unconditionally—more than I could ever trust another human being, I do wonder if she does extra harm to my body, beyond what is necessary. She pushes me to my limit, to my breaking point. Sometimes, even from down here in the basement, I can sense what is happening in my bones. I can almost see what is happening through the cracks in the ceiling and the walls.
It’s only snippets of violence—little slivers of dreadful moments that I cannot bear to watch.
But she is always smiling. She is always prepared.
She terrifies me.
And yet I love her.
I wait for what feels like years, until it’s safe. When it’s finally over, I hear the little click of the basement door unlocking. I walk up the staircase—a winding, terribly long staircase that is somehow difficult to climb. I must grasp the rails and use my upper body as well, to pull myself up and keep from tumbling back down. The staircase is so steep that it is nearly vertical—it is almost a ladder, hanging off the side of a cliff. She always meets me at the top, with her arms outstretched, and tells me it’s going to be okay. It’s time for us to trade places now, and for her to return downstairs until she is needed. She puts her arms around me, embraces me, and tells me who I can trust. Who I should stay away from. She tells me where it’s safe to go. Where I should never go.
And as she retreats, and I step over the threshold and back into the world, I always forget everything. I forget all of the wisdom she’s shared with me—I forget all of the knowledge I gained while sitting in the basement and thinking deeply about things.
It’s like the basement exists in another realm—another plane of consciousness.
The basement is so deep under the house, so far away from the upstairs, that every moment spent there feels like a dream.
And every time I wake up, I forget that I was ever trapped downstairs.
The only way I can really tell is through time. Sometimes I look at the clock or the calendar, and I see that there is a huge portion of time missing from my memory. Usually, when I notice these time gaps, I also discover that my body is covered in new bruises and cuts, along with sore muscles that I don’t remember overexerting.
I wake up feeling hung over, as though my entire existence amounts to drunken nights of partying, with so much alcohol that the days are a blur of nothingness. I sometimes feel like I have been date raped, or perhaps I willingly slept with someone—but I will never know. Except for the odd occasion, when someone tells me what I did. The stories are so outlandish and bizarre that it is usually difficult to believe them.
And sometimes, I get sudden moments of m
emory. They hit me in flashes that freeze me to the core. However, the memories are so dreamlike and fuzzy that I am not sure if they are real. It could just be my imagination, trying to fill in the gaps.
The problem with these violent flashes is not the harm that is being done to me, but the harm that I am doing to others. Am I really capable of such dreadful acts? I suppose I will never find out. These memory gaps have just become something I have learned to accept.
But they are becoming clearer.
And for the first time, as I step over the threshold and leave the basement, I think I can hold on to some of the awareness of the situation. I can hold on to the memory of her. Maybe it’s because she hugged me extra tight this time, and told me to be strong. Maybe it’s because even as I step over the threshold, I know what waits for me on the other side. I am bombarded with the scent of Benjamin, and I know that as soon as I pry my eyes open, he will be there, staring back at me, waiting to harm me.
Even as I step over the threshold, I feel bile rise in my throat. I wonder if I will even be able to continue out into the upstairs, out into the daylight. I hesitate and step backward cowardly. Should I turn around and run? Should I let her take over for me completely?
Looking back toward her, I see that she is already waiting. She knows how weak I am, and how much I need her. I reach out for her, touching her hand, gripping her arm, squeezing tightly.
“I’m here for you,” she tells me softly. “You never need to do this alone.”
I feel the warmth of her arm, and the strength of her muscles beneath my grip. Yes, she is far stronger than I am. She has been doing this for most of my life. Stepping in when things get tough, to handle the situation for me. She is the master handler. She always, always succeeds when I fail. But as I study her face, I see something I’ve never seen before.
There is a certain look in her pale blue eyes. A certain… weariness. I move close to her, so close that I can feel her breath tickling my eyelashes, and I take her face into my hands.
“Snow?” I whisper fearfully.
She seems surprised at the touch, and I notice a tiny flicker of vulnerability in her expression. An unmistakable sheen of moisture coats her eyes. It disappears as quickly as it comes.
“I’m ready,” she tells me. “I’m always ready.” She stands taller, and straightens her shoulders, lifting her chin like a soldier preparing for combat. “Just let me at him. He will never touch you.”
Moving closer to her, I let my forehead fall against hers as I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Tears stream from my eyes as I cry for the both of us. It is so strange to embrace a better version of myself—her height and build are identical to mine, yet her posture, demeanor, and identity are so different.
“Stay down here, Serena,” she tells me, but her voice quavers slightly. “As long as you’re locked away down here, he can’t touch you.”
I stroke my hand over her hair comfortingly, knowing that she needs to be comforted.
Because I do. And I think she needs what I need.
“You should get some rest, Snow,” I tell her quietly. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me try to handle this.”
“No,” she says with alarm. “I don’t want you to see what he’s doing to us. You’ve already been through so much. You don’t need to suffer anymore, Serena. If you want to just sleep until this is over—until we escape and find Cole—I totally understand. You need to protect yourself, first and foremost.”
“You are myself,” I tell her. “And it’s not fair for you to absorb all the damage, while I get all the fun.”
She laughs softly, a derisive laugh. “It’s much more than damage. You have no idea what he’s doing to us.”
I shudder. “But I think I want to. We should share it all, Snow. I should bear some of the burden of pain, and I should share some of the joy with you. I should share Cole.”
“Don’t worry,” she says teasingly, poking me in the stomach. “I share him plenty. I get my share of everything you feel and experience, more than you know. The major difference between us is that I was born to shoulder the pain. I was born to be your punching bag and shield. Whatever you need is exactly what I am. I exist only to protect you. So, dammit, girl. Let me protect you.”
“Not this time,” I tell her with a quiet determination. “I have to do this. I have to face him.”
“You can’t, Serena. You’re not capable of dealing with this. I know you.”
“Well, maybe it’s time I stopped relying on you. Maybe I should get stronger.”
A deep frown settles on her face. “You have no idea what you’re saying. This is dangerous. You could destroy yourself. You could destroy us.”
Smiling, I trace my fingertips over her cheek, so much like mine. She is so angry and beautiful. It’s funny how I find her beautiful, even though she looks exactly like me, while I only feel disgust when I look in the mirror. I think it’s her strength. I can see it in her face, in her eyes—that same unshakable power that first attracted me to Cole. She can survive anything.
She is so much like him. Maybe she deserves Cole more than I do. Maybe she’s his soulmate, and not mine. Maybe I’m just the broken shell of a girl.
And she’s the girl.
Inhaling deeply, I promise myself that I will try to be stronger this time. For her.
My best friend, my sister.
I will protect the protector. I will be the first line of defense.
Because I can see her cracking. Tiny cracks, but cracks nonetheless.
Cracks like that can get out of control quickly. A tiny chip in the windshield can be unnoticeable at first, until the wear and tear of many miles causes the damage to run deeper. It spreads, like a sickness, in the starburst pattern of a spider web, infecting, splintering, expanding throughout the entire fabric of the glass, until it eventually shatters and breaks.
And if she breaks—if she shatters—what will become of us?
Nothing will be left of me. If I lose the pure, unbridled strength of her, I will have lost everything that keeps me standing.
Chapter Seven
Sophie Shields, 2016
“You have changed a great deal, Serenity. I don’t think I like the person you’ve become.”
My eyes slowly flutter open to the sound of his voice. There is pain in my body. Pain all over. Pain in my leg. Pain in every orifice.
I feel blood dripping down the side of my face, and I try to wipe it away.
But my wrists are still shackled.
My tongue darts out instead, to collect the heavy bead of blood that is slowly trickling down over my upper lip. It has painted a path, rolling down over my eyelid, cheek, and around the corner of my nose, before settling on my lips. A few more droplets follow, and I start to piece together that I have some sort of head injury. There has been trauma to my scalp, and even small injuries there tend to bleed profusely.
So, is my dazed state due to the head injury, or the heroin that he has been using to keep me drugged up? Or both?
Did I fall asleep naturally, or was I knocked out?
Correction: was she knocked out? My superhero.
If she couldn’t escape, what chance do I have?
I take a deep breath. Blinking the blood out of my eyes, I look down to see that I am tied to a chair instead of a bed. An ugly, uncomfortable chair, that looks like it belongs in an asylum. Please tell me he hasn’t been using electricity on me. When I see that I am hooked up to wires and a strange machine, my eyes widen. He wouldn’t! Would he?
This seems extreme, even for Benjamin.
I expected a lot of unimaginable behavior from him—as a child molester, and my personal villain. But somehow, I didn’t expect to be tortured with electricity. I guess it’s nice that I can still be surprised by all this? I didn’t think there were new things to feel. But I didn’t feel anything. He didn’t do it to me, I remind myself. He did it to her. I feel a sudden rush of anger and regret, as tears spring to my eyes.
It�
��s my fault she had to suffer that. And she was only trying to keep me safe. To be my shield, and my sword.
Why do I always subject her to such pain? That’s it. That’s quite enough. I’m done with this. I can’t call upon her again, voluntarily or involuntarily. I need to be strong enough to get through this on my own.
I want to reach inside myself and summon up all my strength, but she is my strength. I will have to find something else to summon. I must have some quality—some resilience or tricks up my sleeve. Can I tell stories like Scheherazade, or seduce like Mata Hari?
I must find a way.
“You used to be so sweet and innocent,” Benjamin says, as he sits across from me, holding a knife in one hand and a hammer in the other. “You used to be the perfect little girl. Now look at you. You’re a monster.”
It’s hard to get my vision to focus, to keep there from being two of him. But I try. I know I need to find my voice, and say the right thing, but I am not sure what to say. I am afraid. I want to live. That is all I know.
I need to live.
“I’m sorry about what I did to your leg,” Benjamin says, wiping his knife off on his pants. “It’s just, after the way you crippled me back in Florida—after the way you pushed me off that balcony and left me there to die, I wanted revenge. I’m sure you can understand the need for revenge. That is why you pushed me, after all, isn’t it? But I know you didn’t mean to do me harm. You didn’t really mean to kill me. And you were so young. You were afraid—afraid I’d be angry about the baby.”
My head droops as I listen to him. I don’t remember much of Florida. Snow was the one who pushed him. I only wish she’d finished the job. Back then, I was a delicate animal. He’s right. I was sweet and innocent. But now, I think I’d have the gumption to push him, too. And then I’d go downstairs and make sure his brain was properly smashed on the concrete. Irrevocably smashed. I would do it myself. I wouldn’t even need her.
