Chapter Ten
Present day . . .
What is that incessant sound?
I know I didn’t say those words aloud, but the pounding in my head would make me think otherwise. It sounds like a quartet is playing a full piece and using my brain as the audience, and that beeping? Will someone please shut off that beeping?
My eyes feel painfully heavy when I try to open them to find the source of that noise to shut it off or break it—whatever I have to do to silence it. I start flailing my arms around hoping to hit my target; instead, I hit something hard and warm.
I push through the pain in my head and eyes, feeling defensive, suddenly aware that I don’t know what’s happening, what I just touched, what that sound is, where I even am. Hurling myself into an upright position I fight the sensation of wanting to vomit, my equilibrium spinning me around like one of those rides from a carnival, my eyes squeeze shut even tighter as I fall back, falling onto something soft and warm.
“Jess, Jess, just calm down, okay?” a voice softly coos.
“Wher—” I try to speak, to find out where I am, but a burning in my throat stops me mid word.
“Shh . . . Let me get you some water.” That same voice speaks.
I feel a straw come in contact with my lips, and when I do, I suck greedily, relishing the relief the cool water is providing. After the last slurp, the cup is taken away. I try once more to open my eyes—I don’t attempt to sit up again—finally succeeding, only to wish I hadn’t.
The room is bare, but for a small window; a chair, vacated at the moment, but by the indentation in the seat, only recently, a hideous painting of a girl next to a horse, the gold paint chipping off the frame, and the source of the irritating beeping—a heart rate monitor.
I’m in a hospital.
Panic floods every part of me. Why am I here? What’s happening? I try to sit up, only to be held down by strong hands. “Let me go,” I scream, thrashing about.
“Jess, please, it’s me, it’s Bruce. Just calm down, let me explain what’s happened, okay? Can you calm down for me?”
It’s Bruce? For him I’ll try. He’ll tell me the truth about why I’m here. I don’t acknowledge his question except to lie down and shut up.
“You’re in a hospital. I think you’ve figured that out already, yes?”
I nod.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I stare blankly at him.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t. It would seem you had a bit of a breakdown,” he says sympathetically.
I feel the pain when my brows furrow, rippling behind my eyes and into my throbbing head. A breakdown? I don’t speak. I have nothing to say. He must be messing with me, a sick joke to get back at him for making him worry about me when I didn’t come home. Yeah, that’s what this is, a sick joke. Just then, the door opens and mom walks in, worry, exhaustion, and grief a heavy mask on her face. Where’s my real mom? Whose mom is this? This mom’s face looks like my mom, but her expression looks so hopeless I don’t want her to be my mom. Why is she so sad looking? What’s happened?
“Jess? Jess, look at me,” Bruce’s voice coaxes me back, away from the woman I think is my mom.
She says nothing.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he questions.
I think, but I can’t remember anything. Why can’t I remember? What’s happening? Fear replaces any coherent thoughts I may have had. I know who I am, I know Bruce, I know my mom, and I know Cass. Where is Cass?
Think. Think. Think. There must be something else I can remember.
“Where’s Cass?” I ask, purposefully ignoring his question since my lack of an answer is too terrifying to confront.
“She’s at home right now,” says the familiar sound of my mom’s voice, so it is my mom, I’m not sure I’m happy about that. She doesn’t say anything more.
“So, I’m guessing you don’t remember much, so I’ll just tell you everything we know. There was a party you were going to be going to. You were finished getting ready, but asked to be alone for a minute before you left.” He takes a breath, obviously giving me a moment to process this information—I wish I could say I was—before continuing. “Kyle? Your date?” he says slowly, again giving me time to catch up to reality. I do remember Kyle. I do remember the party. Oh my God, the party!
“Good, you remember Kyle and the party,” Bruce confirms, based solely on the nonverbal confirmation that must have washed across my face. “Well, when Kyle arrived, your mom called for you, but you didn’t answer. She was going to call for you again, until she heard you crying out, screaming really. She ran into your room, found you passed out in front of your mirror. She tried to wake you, and thought she had, but you wouldn’t respond to her or anything she said. You just kept saying . . . Well, you were saying . . . Saying,” he keeps stumbling on his words, making the tension overwhelming.
“Bruce,” I whisper, begging him to spit it out already. What could I have said that was so bad it’s making Bruce stutter over words?
“Rogan!” he shouts. “You kept calling for Rogan,” he repeats in a softer tone.
I close my eyes, tears wetting my cheeks as they fall, soaking the pillow I lay on. Rogan. I remember now. Oh, I remember. My heart is aching. I feel like I’m dying. I wish I were. Oh, Rogan.
“You remember now, don’t you?” Bruce asks.
I nod, eyes still shut, tears still flowing with no intentions of stopping. I roll on my side, my back to Bruce and mom, curling my legs into my chest with my chin resting on my knees, and weep.
My heart is being torn in two. No, that’s too neat; it’s being shredded like paper through a paper shredder. I’ll never survive. I don’t want to survive. This is worse than when Rogan died. This is so much worse because no one is going to believe that he was really there. I know he was there, I heard him, felt him. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, though. I guess I must be. He can’t be alive.
I’m so confused.
I feel a breath of air blow across my back, followed by some shuffling of feet and a door softly closing. Everyone must have left; left me alone, too afraid to be near me. It’s no surprise. This had to happen eventually. I mean, really, how long did I expect to go about living life mostly unscathed? I’ve been living on borrowed time and have been too dense to realize it.
I thought I was protecting myself by isolating myself, not letting anyone in or any part of me out. That was the only way I knew how to deal with things, but all I did was deprive myself of three years of living, because life as I know it is gone. A new nightmare awaits me.
Chapter Eleven
Three years ago . . .
“Rogan, please, just listen to me,” I beg.
“No! You haven’t been answering my texts, my calls, you run from me in the halls, you avoid me at all costs, and I want to know why! And no lies this time. I know you better than anyone ever will, and I know when something is wrong, and I know when you’re lying, so no more bullshit, just tell me!”
His eyes are clouded in darkness, his face red and splotchy, like he’s been crying. His clothes are hanging on him; they look two sizes too big. He’s lost so much weight and he didn’t have much to lose. He looks so sad and so hopeless, and all I want to do is take his pain away, to hold him and never let go, but I can’t lose my resolve. I’m doing this to protect him, and because Bruce told me I had to. He’s not safe around me right now, but soon this will all be over and we’ll be able to put this behind us and move on—if he hasn’t already moved on by then. No, this won’t last forever. I just have to stay away a little longer; just a little longer. I continue to repeat the words I’ve been silently speaking for two months now.
“Rogan,” my voice comes out like a choke. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Rogan, this just isn’t working for me right now. I’ve tried telling you this already. I just need some time. I’m sorry.” I turn to walk away, not making it two steps before I’m spun around, familiar arms wrapping tight around me,
holding me in place with nowhere to go, not that there’s anywhere I would rather be.
I breathe in the scent that is my Rogan. He’s not wearing the cologne he normally wears, but beyond that, he’s just as I remember him. I can’t stop the tears as they begin to soak through his white t-shirt; this is where I’ve wanted to be, this is who I’ve wanted to be with. All the restless nights, tossing and turning, wondering if I’m being watched, if someone will kill me in my sleep, or mom or Cass, my thoughts always come back to Rogan.
“I know you miss me. I know you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, like this, with me. Just tell me the truth. I love you so much. This is killing me. Is this because of our anniversary? I mean, what we did that night? Did you not want to go that far? If that’s it, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. We didn’t have to go that far; I just thought you wanted to,” he says as his voice trails off, dripping with sincerity and unmistakable pain. I could let him think that, this could be a way out for both of us, but that would kill him. I just can’t do that to him.
“Absolutely not, bab—Rogan.” I catch myself before calling him baby like I always did. I hear the catch in his throat as he processes what I just did, that I just avoided calling him baby, instead saying his name. I never called him by his name.
I force myself to keep going. I have to get this out and get away from him. It’s just too hard being this close. “This has nothing to do with that night. That night was beyond perfect, you were beyond perfect, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. There’s just some stuff going on at home and I need to focus on that for a while. This is better for both of us, trust me.”
Neither of us moves. Neither says anything. What is there to say? I don’t know if he’ll let me go; I just know he has to. I also know it’s going to kill me when he does. I know I’m a terrible person, but the fact that our separation has been so hard on him has made it a little easier on me. I know. I know. It’s a terrible thing to say; it’s just nice to know that he cares for me as much as I care for him. It was more than words he spoke. He had given me all of him, and I’m throwing it all back into his face, at least that’s how he’s going to see it.
I wish I could tell you! I so wish I could! I silently shout, in the protective hold of his arms. But I can’t! I can’t! I am so sorry! I love you so much. I’m doing this because I love you. Because I love you more than anything in this world and whatever is beyond that. Please wait for me! Say you’ll wait for me! I can’t do this knowing you won’t be there in the end. I don’t say any of this, of course, but I do hope that some part of him heard it, that maybe the Cosmos will help him hear all I can’t say, but I won’t hold my breath where the Cosmos are concerned.
With both hands pressed flat to his chest, I push away, feeling defeated, deflated, and damned to a miserable existence. “I love you, Rogan, and I always will,” I tell him as I turn and run. I don’t look back. I don’t need to look back. Neither of our hearts will ever be the same, and all because of some nameless asshole! Whoever is doing this better hope they don’t get left alone with me!
Days are all a blur now. It’s been six months since I first found out about the stalker, six months since I was technically still with Rogan, and six months since my life was normal. It’s been six months since this stalker stole everything from me that meant anything to me.
I quit volleyball. It was too hard to pretend to be fine around so many people, and it was especially difficult avoiding the questions over why Rogan and I broke up. There were plenty of rumors, though; from me having cheated on him, to him having cheated on me. I was pregnant with Rogan’s baby. I was pregnant with someone else’s baby . . . Needless to say, my life has been one long Jerry Springer show.
I don’t talk much to my friends anymore. Since they were mostly all from the team, they aren’t home much, between practices, home games, away games, socials. You get the idea. I’m okay with that anyway. There’s only one person I want to be near and I can’t. I think it’s better for everyone if I stay to myself; my life is too complicated to burden someone with anyway.
I talk a lot to Bruce. He actually does text, and he is up late, which has saved me from my rampant thoughts in the middle of the night more times than I can count.
Mom and Cass have been . . . okay. I know they mean well, but they want to act as if everything is fine, to ignore it all, but my mind won’t let me. I can’t stop thinking about it, and if it weren’t for Bruce, I would have no one to talk to. No one knows; not my friends, the school, Rogan—no one!
I missed my prom. That was a hard pill to swallow. Keeping tabs on Rogan was my self-inflicted torture during those weeks leading up to it. I wanted him to go. He didn’t deserve to miss his own prom, but I was also preparing for the pain I would feel when I found out who he asked and all the questions that would go along with that, like “Are they dating?” “Does he like her?” “Does she like him?” “What will happen after prom?” That was the question I couldn’t stop asking and the question I never wanted answered.
He didn’t go. He never asked anyone, although I do know of at least three girls who asked him. I had mixed emotions over it. On one hand—make that one and a half hands; I’m not trying to be a bitch here—I wanted him to go. I wanted him to have a good time, but then on that other half a hand, I was relieved to know he was sitting home while I was sitting home, and maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of me like I was thinking of him. It was almost like we were on a date, a sick, pathetic, twisted date, but a date nonetheless.
I made popcorn and watched one of his favorite movies—a movie I absolutely hated, but always watched because he loved it so much—and pretended we were doing it together. I snuggled up with my body pillow so I could pretend I was lying on him. I didn’t eat much of the popcorn; he would normally eat most of it before I even got a couple small handfuls. I drank regular soda, even though I only ever drink diet. I ordered a pizza with meat, and I hate meat. I didn’t eat any of it, but it reminded me of him so I dealt with the horrible smell of pepperoni and sausage all night.
I was doing okay until two or so in the morning. I had fallen asleep on the body pillow and, thinking it was him when I woke up, I was crushed when I realized it wasn’t.
I texted Bruce after that.
I hadn’t received another note, which honestly was starting to piss me off. It seemed I was going through all this pain for no reason. I think the phrase “Be careful what you wish for” could sum up the chain of events that followed. I suppose I should clarify, I didn’t actually wish for anything to happen; I had only stated that nothing had happened. The phrase just seems applicable.
About a week after prom, I heard something outside in the back yard. I tried to see what was there from my window, but we have too many trees to see much of anything from two stories above. Mom wasn’t home yet, and Cass was out with friends, so I was alone. I debated about calling Bruce, but talked myself out of it since it was probably just a stray cat or something. I didn’t want to seem jumpy, or annoying, or stupid if I called because of a strange noise. I think more important I didn’t want to seem like a girl.
I could be brave.
I padded quietly down the stairs, all James Bond like, plastered to the wall along the hallway as I made my way to the back sliding door, peeked through the curtains covering the doors, and when I didn’t see anything I unlatched the lock as gently as possible, sticking my head out a foot or so.
I didn’t say “Hello?” Or “Is anyone there?” like all the morons do in movies right before they get abducted or murdered or boiled alive or whatever other sick, twisted, storyline is out there now, and when I felt the coast was clear, that it was probably just an animal, I stepped back inside and started to slide the door closed. That’s when I saw something resting on the railing near the steps leading into the yard. It probably counts as a stupid move, but I did go to it and pick it up. I did it fast and ran and locked the door even faster, but it still counts as a moronic move, I’m sure.
It was a large manila envelope with my name in black Magic Marker written across the front. My body surprised me with how calm it remained; my brain on the other hand more than made up for my seemingly serene mentality. In hindsight, this would have been the time to call Bruce, but curiosity is a bitch.
I opened it carefully, not knowing what I might or might not find, terrified of both. A letter with a picture paper clipped to it is what I pulled out. The picture was old school, one of those Polaroid cameras I think they were called. I was intrigued by that fact, probably more than necessary, but who uses those cameras anymore?
I did finally snap out of it, I wish I could say I hadn’t. The picture was of me sleeping, clearly from prom night since I recognized the movie that was playing, the soda cans on the floor, and the clothes I was wearing mom had just given me. The worst of it was that the picture was taken from inside. Whoever took it was only a few feet from the foot of my bed.
I dropped the photo. Driven by morbid curiosity or just plain insanity, I began reading the letter. Here’s what it said:
My dear, sweet, Jessica,
I would first like to apologize for my tone before. I was angry and rude. That’s no excuse I know. Please apologize to Cassie. I should never have included her in our relationship like that.
You cannot know how hard it has been to stay away from you these past few months, but I wanted to give you your space. I know you have been through a lot. It’s terrible what that boy did to you—I would never hurt you like that. You’re better off without him.
I am so pleased that we will be together soon, that there won’t be any further distractions between us. I hope you see how much stronger you are now and how much stronger I will make you. The challenges in life are what shape us. They mold us into the people we are meant to become. When we finally meet, you are going to be the strongest person I know, maybe even stronger than me!
Stolen Page 14
