The Bulletproof Boy

by Loretta Lost

  “See?” I respond, gesturing at her with both hands. “So much anger! This is why you can’t be here all the time. You just lash out at everyone before they can lash out at you. You think me stopping meant that I don’t care about you or Scar, but I do. I’m in this, one hundred percent. We just need to talk it out, first. Okay?”

  She lowers her head and nods. “I know. Maybe you’re the rational part of me, Cole.”

  Her words cause warmth to spread through my chest. Quickly making some scribbles in my notebook, I look back up at her. “Is there anything more, or do you want to tell me that big one you were saving for last?”

  “Yeah,” she says, as a small smile slowly overtakes her face. That dangerously sweet smile.

  Swallowing down a bit of saliva, I feel that I know exactly what she’s going to say before the words leave her lips.

  “You need to kill Benjamin.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Exhaling slowly, I tap my pen against the paper.

  “You have to kill him,” Snow says again, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Or at least put me in the same room with him, so I can do it.”

  “Honey, I tried to take him down,” I tell her. “I tried to gather evidence to put him behind bars.”

  She shakes her head. “I guess that could sort of be good. But it would have to be a long sentence. It’s not as dramatic as death, and definitely doesn’t please me as much, but it might be good enough for her. Serena is a nice girl, much less bloodthirsty.” Moving closer to me, she fondly ruffles my hair with both of her hands. “I don’t care how he dies, or gets put away, but bonus points if I get to see it. That would be deeply satisfying. If you killed him, you’d be my hero for life.”

  “Aren’t I already?” I ask her teasingly.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Not until he’s gone. You know… I would really like to get my hands on that bastard. Did you see what I did to his leg?” She giggles lightly.

  “You did that to him?”

  “Of course, I did. But when I threw him off a hotel balcony, I was hoping to smash his brain open or paralyze him, not just give him a bum leg. Life can be so disappointing.” She sighs sadly.

  Sliding a hand around her wrist, I squeeze gently. “I really thought Benjamin was behind me getting shot, until you told me about Brittany Brown. He is a piece of work, and he’s threatened me on multiple occasions. I am sorry you weren’t successful—the world would be a better place without that man.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I know this sounds terrible, asking you to kill someone for me. But Scarlett still lives in fear of him finding her, every single day. I feel that fear every time she looks in the mirror and sees her roots showing. She still dyes her hair black, constantly, to look different than the girl she used to be. She wears dark contact lenses if she’s going to be anywhere with cameras. She keeps heavy bangs that fall into her eyes, and she wears sunglasses and scarves. Even gloves to conceal her fingerprints! You still can’t take a picture of her easily, because she turns away reflexively to hide her face. All her social media profile pictures are so vague and blurry in dim lighting that you can barely recognize any of her features. And she still has nightmares. You know that! How many nights has she woken up screaming, and you had to calm her down?”

  I nod slowly, unable to answer.

  “Part of the reason she’s so afraid to have children comes from years of being molested. How can she easily bring a child into a world like this, without being scared out of her mind?” She takes a deep breath. She looks unsteady on her feet. “I can’t ask you to kill every child molester in the world to make it a safer place, but maybe you could help her with this single one. Serena would sleep a lot better at night.” She pauses. “We saw Benjamin a few days ago at the police station… and she was not okay.”

  “You saw him? Face to face?”

  “Not exactly. Detective Rodriguez was interrogating him, and I was on the other side of the mirror. But it was like he could see right through the glass.” She shivers visibly at the memory. “I could’ve killed him right there and then, but she wouldn’t let me do anything. She freaked out and ran out of the police station. Walked all over L.A. barefoot for hours, in a trance. I don’t know how long it was. She shut me out. He said such disturbing things about us…”

  When she closes her eyes, I reach out to hold her. I pull her to sit down beside me on the bed, and wrap an arm around her as she leans against me. If this is difficult for her to talk about, it’s no wonder Scarlett couldn’t face it at all.

  “You don’t have to say any more about this,” I tell her. “I understand. I think he should die, too.”

  “Maybe I’m the monster,” she whispers. “I can never forgive. I am filled with so much hate.”

  “Shhh, no. That man violated you for years. He destroyed your mind, made you rip yourself apart into different pieces so you could cope.”

  “Did he?” she asks with frustration. “Or was I always like this? I can’t remember. Maybe this is just how I am. Maybe I’m just as bad as he is.”

  “No. He caused you irreparable harm. He adopted you under the pretense of protecting you, and then made you pregnant when you were twelve years old. He hurt you so much it stole the easy happiness we could have had. After all you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense that murdering him would be high on the list of things you need to do to heal. You need to be free, so that you can someday be a mother, without the shadow of him looming over you, and the memory of that first abortion.”

  “Abortion,” she repeats with a sadistic laugh. She pulls away and closes her eyes for a moment, shaking her head. Finally, she looks at me with the coldest expression I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are the color of liquid nitrogen, and her words pierce me like artic ice. “I killed it myself. I used a coat hanger.”

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  Standing up, I place a hand over my mouth, rubbing my rough stubble, but mostly concealing my facial expression and fighting down bile. “You could have died.”

  “I sort of wanted to.”

  “Scar—” I say, feeling deeply unsettled. Her words have chilled me to the core, and it feels like my organs are growing brittle and shattering to pieces inside my chest. “I—I didn’t know.”

  “No one knows. Not even Serena. It would have been nice to get an abortion from a medical professional, with clean utensils. But he locked me up in my room, refusing to let me leave. I tried to run away countless times, and he kept finding me. He put bars on the windows.” She pauses, grasping a strand of her black hair and twirling it around her finger noncommittally.

  “But he miscalculated. He shouldn’t have locked me in a room with coat hangers.”

  I can feel the horrified expression on my face as I lower myself to the floor, placing my head in her lap and hugging her legs tightly. I try to speak, but no sound comes out of my mouth.

  “That’s the danger of letting a young girl read too many books,” she tells me, as she gently tousles my hair. “She learns things. Books always look so innocent, sitting harmlessly on their shelves, but they are the greatest weapons you can find. When I was locked in that room, going crazy, I could only think that I needed to get it out in any way possible, even if it killed me. The more horrible the method, the better—and I had read about the coat hanger thing in a Sidney Sheldon novel, once. I felt like I had the spawn of Satan growing inside me. I know logically that it was just a little hunk of tissue, spongey cells just starting to form a brain and liver... but it was part of Benjamin! Attached to me with a cord, sucking the life out of me! It was disgusting. It wasn’t enough for him to hurt me almost every day, he had now installed a personal parasite to leech away my energy every single minute. I couldn’t think about anything else, until it was gone. My whole life was completely out of my control. I was filled with so much rage. So I shoved that coat hanger up into my cervix—which was difficult as hell. Painful as hell. It probably didn’t actually stab the embryo. It
just introduced bacteria, which caused the uterus to cramp and expel the tissue later on. But it felt like I was stabbing it, right in the eye. It felt like I was stabbing him. I took out all my anger at him on this little part of him. It was all that I could control.”

  “Jesus, Scar.”

  “He tried to put me in an institution after that, but I was gone. I had to become smarter, more evasive, difficult to find. I had to become a master of escape, even from myself, and leave behind that stupid girl who let all those things happen to her.”

  Lifting my face from her lap, I look up at her with tears in my eyes. “Please tell me that I didn’t make you feel that way again, five years ago.”

  “No,” she says softly, looking at me with hurt. “No, no, no. Cole—I love you. You’ve always made me happy. But it made me remember. And all that guilt and horror and fear just came rushing back, and I was twelve years old again, locked in that room.” She hesitates, folding her hands in her lap. “Don’t tell her what I did. Please? I’ve never spoken these words out loud. I try to avoid thinking about it so that she can’t overhear my thoughts. I know I’m a monster, but I care about her. I did it so she could live, so she could be free. I’ll bear this burden alone. I just… I wanted you to know why I want him dead. I need him dead. She needs him dead.”

  “You will never have to bear any burden alone,” I tell her. “Even if you can’t tell Scar, you can always tell me.” Fuck, I feel like such a piece of shit. I had this complicated plan to send him to prison—but it all seems so small now. It’s really not enough. Men like him always seem to somehow escape the law.

  Grabbing my notebook and pen off the bed where I dropped it, I scribble down another note.

  #2. Kill Benjamin Powell

  She smiles, but it’s a tired smile. “Cole, this is hard for me. I need to lie down. Can we continue discussing this another time?”

  “But when you wake up, you won’t be you anymore,” I tell her in alarm.

  “Then you better kiss me goodbye.”

  Sighing, I lean over her to place a soft kiss on her lips. “I wish you wouldn’t return to being Scarlett every time you fall asleep. I always miss you when you’re gone.”

  She reaches out to squeeze my hand, before lowering her head to the pillow. “You know how to find me,” she says faintly, gazing through half-lidded eyes. “I live inside the cracks running through her mind. If you want me, just break me. And I’m yours.”

  As her eyelids flutter closed, I watch her for a few minutes, processing everything she has said.

  When do I get to stop breaking her, and start finally putting her back together?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I am not sure how long I stand over Scarlett’s sleeping form, watching her with my gut twisting up in knots. Finally, I sit on the bed and grasp her hand, sighing as I interlace my fingers with hers. I am definitely not going to be able to sleep tonight. Looking down at the notes I’ve written in my notebook, I begin to wonder about the practicality of each item.

  Almost all of her recommendations would require us leaving the desert and returning to society. I know that I’m not ready to do that, at least not so soon. Reaching up to touch the bandage on my shoulder, I can still remember the impact of the projectiles hitting me. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind. It was more shocking than it was actually painful. But now, it’s extremely fucking painful.

  After the physical exertion of our lovemaking, my shoulder hurts so much that I want to rip it off. I ignored the pain while overwhelmed by pleasure, but I think I’ve aggravated the injury. I want to take a hammer and smash my shoulder to make it stop. I want to take a pair of scissors and sever all the nerves, tendons, and muscles so they are no longer attached to me.

  Breathing deeply, I leave Scarlett and move across the cabin to grab a few pain pills, which I’ve been trying to avoid since she got here. I don’t want to miss a moment with her, or have any of my senses dulled. But the pain is growing so intense that I can no longer think. Popping the pills into my mouth, I chase them down with a bit of water.

  If we go back into the world, we will both be exposing ourselves to harm like this again.

  I am ashamed to admit how much I still think about the moment I got shot. The memory of a bullet is far worse than the bullet itself. It is similar to rape. Long after the foreign object is removed from your body, the feeling of being victimized remains, torturing you endlessly.

  I was not feeling my best before getting shot, or even before getting poisoned, but now I wonder if I will ever be back to 100% healthy. The cadmium has left my lungs raw and sore, as if I have permanent bronchitis or strep throat. I have been trying not to complain so that Scarlett doesn’t worry. But my shoulder injury has compromised the speed and strength of my arm, and the giant gash across my face would make it very hard to disguise myself if I ever needed to go out in public. Looking down at my notebook again, I rewrite the list and organize the points in estimated order of importance.

  #1. Meet biological family

  #2. Kill Benjamin Powell

  #3. Justice for Annabelle

  #4. Work on our intimacy

  #5. Hacking is life

  #6. Female friendship

  #7. Therapy?

  It’s not enough.

  I am vaguely reminded of the labors of Hercules, and I wonder if my trials will be even more difficult. Physical strength is one thing, but many of these challenges are psychological. I should keep contemplating this and eventually add some more tasks.

  I know that if I succeed, my prize will be greater than the immortality promised to Hercules by the gods. I mean, technically I’m already immortal. I’ve already died once, and proven that my legacy will live on. But there are different kinds of immortality. There are different kinds of happiness. And there is only one kind of love that endures.

  That is what I’m fighting for. I am still young, and I could live many more decades than the three that I’ve seen. Four more decades? Another six? If I’m really lucky, I could push it to six or seven. With the wonders of modern medicine, some people my age might even get to see another eight.

  But none of those years will mean anything if they aren’t lived right, and if Scar isn’t beside me at the end of all that, surrounded by our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

  That’s the kind of immortality, happiness, and love, that truly matters.

  So I study the list. Number two gives me some concern. Killing a senator is a massive undertaking, and will attract a lot of attention. Even if we wait until he is no longer an elected official, he will still be a public figure and an important businessman. This step will require a lot of planning and deliberation so that we can execute it successfully without compromising our own freedom or our lives. We would need to get it right the first time, and there is absolutely no room for failure. If he figures us out, he could come after us.

  I really don’t want Scarlett to go anywhere near that man. She has been through enough. I should just figure out how to deal with Benjamin myself. It won’t be easy, but I know I can manage. Maybe I can ask Roddy for some help, with his connections. But I’ve already cashed in a lot of favors lately.

  And what about Scarlett’s family? From what I understand, they are in New York. I would need a solid new identity and a passport to fly—it’s an extremely long drive. Though I do seem to recall her mentioning that she drove the Bugatti here, we probably should try to be more inconspicuous than that. Should I encourage her to go alone? I can’t bear the thought of separating from her now. As it is, I want to handcuff her to my wrist so that I can get some rest and not worry about her disappearing again.

  But I know she could find a way out of those handcuffs, if she really wanted to.

  As I stare at the list, I try to develop a plan of action, but I just feel immobilized.

  I feel like I’m suffocating in this mobile home, from all this thinking.

  Moving to the door and turning the handle, I walk o
ut into the dark and starlit night. I put both of my hands into my hair as I look up at the sky in frustration, hoping that it will recharge my emotional batteries. I find myself thinking about my parents, and missing them powerfully in this moment. I also think about the unborn child I lost that I never even knew about, never had a chance to grieve. I think about what could have been. I think about what still could be.

  My body is weighed down by a heavy melancholy, and I can’t seem to move in any direction.

  Between my pain, my fear of going back to society, and my fear of losing Scarlett, I don’t really know how I’m going to be able to help her. I wasn’t even able to help myself lately. The only way I could be healthy was to physically run away from it all. Although her preferred method of escape is usually psychological, I think that I am growing to understand her need to run a little too well.

  I hope I’ll be able to help her, but it worries me that I am such a mess. I don’t know what scares me more: being unable to really accomplish any of these goals to try and help her, or successfully making everything on the list happen, and still failing. Many of the items are out of my control. When I was younger, I never had any fear of failure, but now I know that even succeeding doesn’t always have the desired results.

  I’m still going to try. All I can do is try.

  Life is a little like architecture, and this is what it means to be a man: you are the foundation on which the whole house stands, and you must be absolutely unshakeable. Everyone needs to lean on your shoulders and borrow from your strength. So, if there’s a flaw in your design, a point of weakness, damage from years of weathering storms and earthquakes—you can’t let them know.

  If they realize you are also broken, they will sacrifice themselves to help you get better, and they never will. It becomes a sick cycle, for if they never get better, you never will. It is wrong to take from those you are supposed to protect. It is wrong to emotionally drain those you are supposed to uplift. It is wrong to let your loved ones experience any suffering that you could have shielded them from, and absorbed on your own.