The Shatterproof Heart

by Loretta Lost

  Gasping out, I grip the bedsheets in my fist and clench my teeth as he tries to enter me anally. My damaged muscles are locked tightly, and the area is already so sore that it sends blinding pain throughout my body. When he forces his medicated member even deeper, I find myself screaming, and I bite my own arm to brace myself. It is just awful. It feels like a ripping, searing, impossible stretching. Of course, he would use no lubrication, just to add injuries to my injuries. Luckily, the sedative is working quickly, and my body is growing numb and limp.

  At least Joy is safe.

  Even though he is laughing while I scream, I almost don’t care. I find myself taking heart in the fact that Cole is looking for me.

  And he’s close to finding me.

  Maybe he’s even close enough to hear these screams.

  I hate to be a damsel in distress, and depend on someone else to save me, but there is very little I can do when I am being drugged half the time, and losing control of my body most of the other times. I try to formulate a strategy as my body is pounded brutally from behind. I manage to grow so detached that the pain seems very far away, and I feel like I am floating above my body, and thinking about more important things.

  “Stop!” shouts a little voice from behind us. “Uncle Benjamin, stop hurting her. Please.”

  The voice pulls me from my drugged stupor. I then realize that I have been lying limply on the bed while Benjamin rapes me, with saliva dripping down my face. I blink away the cloudiness, and wipe the saliva away, startled by how corpselike I must appear to Joy, or to any onlookers. I know that I must look this way, because it is how I feel.

  I feel nothing.

  I feel close to death.

  I feel inches, maybe seconds away from death. And it doesn’t seem so terrible. It’s a seductive sort of peaceful nothingness.

  What if there was no one else to take over my body earlier? When Snow and I felt the earthquakes. What if we were simply unconscious, and this is what was happening?

  “Give me one good reason to stop, Joyjoy,” Benjamin says with a laugh.

  “Because she’s nice!” Joy says tearfully.

  Then I remember what she said about being impetrabble. I don’t remember saying that, and I don’t think Snow had any screen time. So, someone else must have commandeered my corpse-adjacent body. I am not sure how I feel about that if this what ended up happening to me. Whoever she is, she must not be very smart.

  Benjamin temporarily stops raping me to study the young girl.

  I try to crawl away from him, but I have no strength. My motions are listless, and my limbs feel like jelly. When I see him taking a step toward Joy, I choke on my own breathing.

  “No,” I mumble hoarsely, stretching out my hand. “No.”

  When Benjamin picks up Joy, and puts her on the bed beside me, I try to touch her arm protectively. Or reassuringly. But my vision is so distorted that I am not sure where her arm actually is, and I think I end up just foolishly touching the air near her arm, in a drunken circle.

  “Don’t,” I tell Benjamin. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Oh, did you think I was going to do something bad to this sweet little thing?” he asks. “No, my dear. You are.”

  It’s difficult to speak. It feels like my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my mouth is filled with sticky cotton balls. Like, if you took all the dewy webs woven by a thousand spiders, along with the thousands of tiny insects caught in them, and bundled them up into a silken ball of sticky death, that would be what my mouth feels like.

  “I’ll stop hurting you, Serenity. All you need to do is hit Joy, and I will stop drugging you and abusing you.”

  “Wh—what?” I gasp through the spider webs.

  Benjamin leans forward, very close to my face. “I’ll untie your feet and hands, and let you walk out of this room immediately. I’ll give you your freedom, on one, and only one condition: You need to hurt Joy.”

  I do not respond. I cannot respond.

  What a terrible deal—not even counting the fact that he rescinded his last deal with me, where I promised to cooperate if he would not kidnap another innocent young girl. I would rather die than walk away and leave Joy in his hands.

  And in my current condition, I just might. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get a really bad infection. It’s been a while since death has been so desirable to me, but I am getting tired of all the pain. I can’t seem to remember all the reasons I stopped wanting to die. I can’t remember anything good to live for.

  There was something good—someone.

  But he seems so far away. I wonder whether he ever existed at all.

  Maybe he was just a dream. Just my imagination.

  “What do you think, Serenity? Will you hurt Joy?”

  “She won’t,” Joy tells Benjamin defiantly. “She would never, you big meanie.”

  It is only then that I realize Joy is holding my hand. I was so numb from the drugs that I couldn’t tell when she placed her hand in mine and gave a gentle squeeze of solidarity. I squeeze back with gratitude.

  My eyelids flutter closed, but not before I am able to whisper, “Fuck off, Benjamin.”

  They are not supremely elegant last words.

  But I guess, if I never wake up, they will have to do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cole Hunter, 2007

  I’m in a great mood today.

  With my backpack pack slung over my shoulder and a cup of Starbucks coffee in each hand, I step through the door to my tiny dorm room. I have just finished the last of my winter exams—actually the last of my exams, period. It’s hard to believe that I’ve actually fulfilled all the requirements for my degree, and I am kind of in a daze.

  I just want to give Scarlett this coffee and a giant hug. She still has one or two exams to go, over the next few days, but she has been working so hard all year that I am sure she will ace them with minimal studying. Besides, she is such a natural that I am sure she could teach a class here. She has actually corrected some of her professors. Some of her MIT professors.

  I’m honestly a little jealous of her—I always have to work my ass off and stay up for days on end to feel confident enough to get the grades I need. I usually feel like a braindead, rotting zombie after exams, but today, I feel strangely high on life.

  “Scar?” I say, surprised not to see her at the little desk where she normally sits. Her books are open, but her computer screen is dark. My eyes dart to the other side of the room where I see a familiar lump huddled deep beneath the blankets. No skin is visible—not even a few strands of black hair.

  A lump of a similar size forms in my throat. I let the door close behind me as I walk forward and place the coffee cups near her sleeping form. I hope the smell will infiltrate the blankets and revive her, but I am worried that I know what this is.

  “Scar?” I ask softly.

  She does not respond. She does not move. She’s not sleeping, but she’s also not awake.

  She’s gone to her dark place.

  Sighing, I place the coffee cups on the nightstand. Removing my backpack, I toss it to the floor before sitting on the bed and contemplating the situation. Scarlett gets like this sometimes, and she won’t get out of bed for days. She will barely eat or drink, or go to the bathroom. She barely talks, except for grunting assent or refusal. I have noticed that it usually happens a few times a year, like Christmas, and probably on the anniversary of certain events she’d rather not remember. I can understand that, because every year on the anniversary of my parents’ death, I go a little crazy. I try to avoid Scarlett so she doesn’t see me like that. A few years ago, I got drunk out of my mind with college buddies and started a bar fight. Not some of my proudest moments.

  I was just angry. Angry at life for taking them away from me. Angry at everything.

  Nowadays, I try to hit the gym as much as possible, and just exhaust myself instead whenever I feel that way. Except when I’m already a zombie.

  “Come on, Scar,” I tell he
r, rubbing my hand over her sleeping form. “Don’t you have the exam on pseudo—uh, pseudo-randomness? Or was it discrete math?”

  She does not respond, and I gently pull the blanket off her face to make sure that she’s actually under there. Her face is pressed against the pillow, and one of her eyes scrunches up in protest when I allow the light to reach her.

  “I don’t remember which exam you had next,” I admit. “I was really focused on computational design last week. Thanks for helping me with that, by the way. I think I got lucky this year—the exam on Cairo today was a breeze.”

  She does not respond.

  “Scar,” I say softly, combing some hair away from her face. “What do you have next? Algorithms? Can I help?”

  Her lips part slightly, as though she is about to speak. I stare at them hopefully, but nothing comes out. Finally, the faintest of sounds.

  “Automata,” she murmurs.

  I exhale, not realizing that I have been holding my breath.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No,” she tells me, “but I don’t think I can make it.”

  I press the back of my hand against her forehead, checking for a fever. “Do you need to see a doctor? Or is it just…”

  “I can’t do it, Cole.”

  “Yes, you can. Even if you can’t study more, you’ll be fine. Just rest up, and…”

  She turns away from me and pulls the blanket back over her face.

  I stare down at her with worry. My mind starts racing with how to deal with the situation if she can’t make the exam. Can I get her a doctor’s note? Maybe they’ll excuse her for depression. She might need counseling. Maybe I can wake Snow up to take the exam for her. Does Snow even know anything about computer engineering, or will she just get frustrated and go on a killing spree in the exam room? I frown.

  Moving over to the desk where her book is open, I pick it up and begin leafing through the chapter. I swallow nervously. I don’t understand half the shit on these pages. “This looks easy,” I try to say encouragingly, although it seriously does not. I’m sure it does to her. “Did you know that architects actually have to put in the most hours, compared to any other major? So, compared to my classes, this should be a breeze.”

  She does not respond. I start to feel guilty. Scar has been taking additional courses every year in order to keep up with me. Has she burned herself out? “All my classes are done for now,” I tell her. “Would you like me to read some of this book to you? Maybe give your eyes a rest.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I can quiz you?”

  “No,” she whispers. “You should just leave, Cole. Just go away.”

  My eyebrows lift. “What do you mean? Do you need some space to study?”

  “No!” she says, and her voice breaks. “You can graduate now, so just go.”

  Moving over to the bed, I pull away the blanket to see tears staining her cheeks. “What are you talking about, Scar? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You got what you wanted, right?” she asks. “You got your degree, and now you can start your career. You don’t need to wait around here for me to catch up.”

  I open my mouth, thinking that I’ll respond and explain that I still have plenty of schooling ahead of me, along with graduate school, and all the side projects that I need her help on—but then I stop. This isn’t about school. This isn’t about graduation. It’s about family.

  It’s about her parents leaving her on the side of the road when she was a baby.

  Lowering myself to my knees beside the bed, I take both of her hands in mine and squeeze them. “I’m not going anywhere, Scar. You’re stuck with me. For as long as you live. We’re married, remember?”

  “It’s not real,” she says.

  “Well, do you want to make it real?” I ask her.

  She looks at me with surprise for a second. “No,” she mumbles, looking away to conceal her emotions. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re only friends. You’re my foster brother.”

  Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’m probably going to graduate with my bachelor’s degree soon. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t slept in days, and I’ve had way too much caffeine. Maybe it’s too much reading about the architecture of Cairo. But I’m feeling unusually strong and optimistic, and I find myself leaning forward.

  I place a kiss on her cheek, very close to her lips. “Just friends?” I ask gently.

  She does not respond, but I see that she has grown suddenly very still. She is almost frozen. Feeling unusually bold, I place a kiss directly on her lips, trying to infuse her with all of my strength. I try to unfreeze her with my warmth, and bring her back to life.

  “Maybe a little more?” I ask her, before sliding my hand under the blanket to caress her side. I lean forward again and press my mouth against hers, trying to coax a response out of her. “Scar?” I murmur against her lips. “Just a little more than friends, don’t you think?”

  She moans against me and begins kissing back all of a sudden. I relax a little and move closer, gently sucking and nibbling on her bottom lip. She grabs me by the collar, and I reach up to begin unbuttoning my shirt.

  I am startled when she pulls away and slaps me in the face.

  “What are you doing, Cole?” she asks me angrily. “It’s not a good time for her.”

  I study the look in her eyes. “Snow?”

  “Yes, of course it’s me.”

  “Thank god,” I say with relief. “I need your help. Can you do that test for her?”

  “What the fuck? No, I can’t! Do I look like a hacker?”

  “You look exactly like Scarlett,” I remind her.

  She frowns. “Well, I’d rather be a pole dancer. Or a bouncer at a strip club. Or a hitman. Or a Navy SEAL. I’m not cut out for fucking algebra and shit, Cole. I’m the physical one.”

  “But she can’t handle it right now,” I tell her desperately. “You have to help. Maybe if we study together…”

  “This is the weirdest booty call ever,” Snow tells me crossly. “You can’t just summon up a girl with the promise of hot exam-week sex, then tell her that she has to actually study instead. That’s gross, Cole. That’s like reverse-rape.”

  “Snow, please. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Find a way to fix her,” Snow tells me with a shrug. “Some intellectual or emotional shit. Don’t worry, Cole—you’ve got this. You know how to reach her.”

  “I’ll try,” I tell her softly.

  “Then after the exams are over,” she says suggestively, fixing my collar, “you can come find me. Grab a shovel and dig, and I’ll be just beneath the surface.”

  “Why don’t you need anything emotional or intellectual?” I ask Snow. “How do I fix you?”

  She gives me a tender smile, and touches my cheek. “You’ll never need to fix me, my love. I’m perfectly fine.”

  I watch as her eyes close slowly, and when they open again, they have changed. The sparkle is gone. Her clear blue irises are afraid, and tired. She looks lost, and alone.

  Moving away from her, I head over to my stack of books in the corner. “I’m going to read to you,” I announce.

  “I don’t want to study,” she tells me. “I’ll just stuff my ears with cotton if I hear one more thing about computers. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Not computers,” I tell her, picking out one of my favorite books. “Fantasy. About dragons and magic and evil wizards.”

  “I’m not in the mood for Harry Potter,” she says with annoyance, pulling the blanket back over her head.

  I smile. Pulling out a thick, worn volume, I remember when my old friend from prison gave me this book at our wedding. I never pegged him for the reading type, but I had quickly figured out why he loved this series. The hero is totally awesome, and the heroine is even better.

  “It’s Terry Goodkind,” I tell her. “The Sword of Truth series. Little Ricky gave it to me a long time ago.”

  She does not respond,
and I move over to the bed and sit. I open the book to the first chapter, and begin reading. After only a few sentences, I am sucked into the story and I recall why I loved it so much the first time. After a few paragraphs, I pause, unsure if she is even paying attention. I listen for her breathing, and I am uncertain—but I continue anyway. After a few chapters, Scarlett removes the blanket from her head and sits up beside me. She cuddles against my side and rests her cheek on my shoulder, and stares down at the book along with me while I flip the pages.

  My heart soars. I feel like I have earned a small victory.

  I have engaged her mind and brought her out of her funk. At least for the moment. I am sure she will slip back into it around Christmas, but maybe this trick will work again in the future. It’s a long series, and there are many more books to read.

  I don’t even realize when my eyes close and I stop reading. It feels like only a few minutes later, but I wake up and see that Scarlett is sitting at the desk with the lamp turned on, flipping through the pages madly. Both cups of coffee are beside her, probably empty.

  “Scar?” I say groggily.

  She turns around to give me a funny look. “The main character locked part of himself away inside his mind.”

  “Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “You’re already that far in the book? How long was I asleep?”

  “He locked his mind away to protect himself from harm,” she muses. “When he was being tortured.”

  “I remember.”

  “Like me?” she asks hesitantly. “I mean, maybe. Sometimes I feel like… never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What is it, Scar?”

  “I just wish I’d read this book years ago. Like when I was living with Benjamin,” she says softly. “Maybe I could have known how to deal with it all better—the torture. It was torture.”

  Rising to my feet, I move across the room and squeeze her shoulders, placing a kiss on top of her head. “You handled it amazingly well, Scar. You were just a child.”

  “No one ever tells you how to handle situations like that,” she mutters. “No one ever tells you that if you get out, it doesn’t matter. You never really get out. And even when many years pass, it’s still going to hurt like a bitch. And you’re still going to want to die sometimes.”