One Shattered Sister (Switching Tracks Series)

by Delia Steele

  One Shattered Sister

  Switching Tracks Series

  Short Story 2.5

  Delia Steele

  Copyright © 2015 Delia Steele

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or part, without written permission from the author; except in reviews or shares for the book.

  License Statement

  This book is a written act of fiction. Any places, character, or similarities are purely coincidence. If certain places or characters are referenced it is for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent except in the case of quotations and reviews.

  Dedication

  To a girl long gone from this world.

  I never met her, but her loved ones held her so close to their hearts, I felt I knew her dearly. Her tragedy became a part of something I believe kept me on a clear path. I think about her often and wonder how her life would be had she gotten to stay here with us. Would things have changed and been better for everyone who knew her? Would my life story have changed had I never heard hers? Where would I be today without her life—or loss of—reminding me of the harsher things in this world? I am forever grateful for her family and their support in a time when I needed it most. They didn’t hide the ugly parts of who they were, and they made sure I understood the obstacles in my own life. She saved me without even knowing me. I owe her my life.

  Every choice we make in life determines the track we, or maybe someone we’ve yet to meet, will follow. Remember this: In the scheme of things, the bigger picture is what matters. Be considerate. In this book, Marcy saves Mando’s life by giving her own, and she will never know it. Clay became the man we love because of his sister and her struggles. Without Marcy’s story, he may not have known what Mando needed most and may not have handled it the same.

  It’s sad to lose someone you love, but sometimes those we love have to leave so that those we will love can survive.

  Forever Loved. Forever Remembered. Forever Reminding

  -R.I.P. MG

  Marcy King

  Being perfect is unattainable, and pretending to be perfect is even harder, if that’s possible. Grade A quality, high society, upper class—that’s what my family is considered. My whole life has been brunches, high teas, tennis, and anything else the country club offers. Mother has her social event planning, and my father has his golfing rendezvous. Clay is younger than I am, but not by much. He is more accepting of this life. For now. He doesn’t revolt, and he doesn’t cause our family heartache. Me, on the other hand…

  I GIVE THEM HELL!

  I spent seventeen years trying to give them my best, but it was never good enough. I had perfect grades, perfect white teeth, perfect manners… the whole nine. However, it’s never been sufficient. I got sick of playing tennis, I was bored to tears with the small groups, and I craved a life. I wanted to be young. So I acted out, or in my opinion, I broke free. My parents never saw it that way. They called me insubordinate. We weren’t big on church like most around us; we were big on what the public eye saw. And, boy, did I give them plenty of me to see!

  I was seventeen and finally free. I went where I wanted, and I went in the shortest skirts and the tallest boots I could find. I felt liberated. It was wonderful.

  My story isn’t a happily ever after, but you already know that.

  The beginning of the end . . .

  2 Days Prior to My Death Date

  “I know. I will, I swear. I’ll have it. Don’t I always come through?” Slamming the phone down, I turn to see my baby brother watching me. “Problems?” he asks so innocently.

  “Nope, just some jerk. Don’t worry; everything’s fine,” I hear myself saying for the third time in as many hours. Derrick is making me nuts. He knows I’ll get him the money, but he insists on calling me every few hours to remind me what’s going to happen if I fall through. I haven’t in two years, so why would I now?

  “Want to rent a movie with me tonight?’ I ask Clay, knowing good and well he will say no. It’s Wednesday night. Though my family isn’t religious, they like to look as though they are. It’s church night, and they won’t miss. If they had it their way, I’d be right beside my mother in the back pew. But this isn’t Burger King, and they don’t get everything their way anymore. After years of fighting and all but wrestling me to that church, they finally decided to leave me be. They never ask anymore. I don’t think they even see me nowadays.

  “What movie?”

  I look at him and smile. This is new. He never defies them. “No clue. Maybe that new alien robot movie that just released. I could make peanut butter and jelly tacos if you wanted.” I watch him closely, waiting.

  You’d never guess we were kin if you didn’t know us. Clay looks more like our mother with his dirty blonde hair and slender athletic build. I take after my father’s mother. I am short, curveless, and transparent-toned. My father actually has red hair, and my mother is so blonde she’s almost white headed. It’s dyed of course. We’re like a bag of Skittles—every color of the rainbow.

  “OK! I’ll stay,” he says, smiling big. It floors me. I never thought he’d say yes. He leaves to go break the news to our loving, perfect parents that he is, in fact, going to defy them and stay home with his horrible example of a sister. They don’t know what my life is about these days. Or they might, but they never question it. They should know, however, that I’d never let Clay get into the things I’m into. I’d never allow him to mess up his life the way I have. I’m glad he wants to stay. I’m kind of afraid to be alone tonight with Derrick somewhere out there.

  +++

  An hour later, Clay and I are slouched on the sofa in front of the overly-large flat screen with the screams of running humans and ten rolled-up PB&J tacos between us. Both with our feet kicked out on our mother’s brand new, made-to-look-old coffee table. I don’t get my mother’s taste, but whatever. I don’t understand a lot about this family.

  It startles me when Clay speaks. I barely hear him, but the smile on his face tells me I heard him correctly, so I reply, “I love you more, you little brat.” I wrap my arm around him and pull him closer. We don’t fight like most siblings. Maybe it’s because we are so close in age, or maybe it’s because there’s never been any competition. He was their favorite from the beginning, from the moment he arrived. It’s always been about him. I never minded because, even as a child, I knew I didn’t fit in with them. He was my favorite, too. It’s not his fault. I blame it on them, like I do everything else. They are the ones who are messed up. Not us. Well, not Clay, at least.

  +++

  It’s been a good night. Derrick only attempted to call twice during the movie, but I let my voicemail get it and kept enjoying my little brother. I know the news I have is going to kill my family and may get me kicked out, so I needed this one last night with him, just in case. They can deal with knowing, or more of the not knowing, about the drugs. I know they aren’t stupid. They see me come home immobile, but they turn a blind eye. This revelation I am about to unleash on them, though… It can’t be hidden. Everyone will know. It may be the thing that pushes them over the edge. It may be what finally seals my fate. How can something so amazing be so horrible?

  After Clay goes to bed and my parents come home, I sneak out the back door and sit by the pool. Looking across the vast yard, I remember playing here as a child, before the hatred built a wall around me. My father would grill and throw the ball
with Clay as mother and I did crosswords or swam together. It’s been a long time since they loved me that way. I let the stars’ dim light wash over me, wishing it could give me the release I need, but it can’t and won’t. I pull the twisted roll of my favorite addiction from my pocket and twist it back and forth in my fingers. It’s funny—Once you start doing drugs, they all seem the same after a while. I can remember a few years ago when I smoked a joint with my friends, saying, “Pot’s not bad. I mean, come on, it’s not like it’s crack.” Everyone laughed. We’d get stoned and laugh about the day. We’d drink and pop pills. Clean drugs, we’d tell ourselves. No one ever saw us doing it. No harm, no foul. Now, two years later, I’m sitting on my parents’ patio lighting up a joint. Except now, because my body is so used to plain pot, I have to do more, get higher. This joint is laced with cocaine. It’s a wonderful effect—to speedball, as they call it. High, low, high, low… It’s wild. It’s the ride of my life every time, and I love it.

  I don’t have to worry about my parents catching me. They won’t come out here because they don’t want to know.

  +++

  The high doesn’t last that long, and when it’s gone, the after-effect takes hold of me. My phone’s still ringing, and I know I’m just making Derrick madder by ignoring him. I know I’ll pay for it later. But, right now, I don’t care. My high is almost gone, the money hasn’t been paid, and I need something to ease the tick in my eye. I hit my father’s wet bar and down half a bottle of his finest scotch before heading to take a shower. They know I mess up. It’s obvious by the missing booze. Why don’t they lock that stuff up?

  Before I know it, I can’t see straight and the floor is tilting beneath me. I stumble down the hall, knocking a frame from the wall before I make it into the bathroom. At least the tick in my eye is gone. I turn on the water and decide I need a bath. I can’t stand long enough to shower. I slide my pants off and step in, not bothering to remove my top. I just need to feel the water on my body. I need to wash away the things my mother hates about it.

  My phone rings again. “What, Derrick?” I slur. “Yes, I have your money. I told you I would get it. Now, let me bathe in peace.” I end the call and drop the phone on the toilet lid. The water’s still running. It’s hot. So hot, my skin feels like it’s on fire. But I can’t find it in me to move out of it.

  Who’s screaming? Why’s it so loud? “Shut up!” I try to scream back, but I don’t think I actually say anything aloud.

  1 Day Prior to My Death Date

  “Marcy. Marcy, wake up. Are you OK?” The lights are off, and I’m in the bed with a miserable-looking Clay staring at me, almost in tears.

  “What’s wrong Clay?” I ask, my cottonmouth explaining why my head’s bursting at the seams. “Are you OK?” A tear slips from the inside corner of his eye, and he speaks in a whisper, as though he knows my head hurts. “I’m fine, Marcy. I asked you first.” I nod my head, letting him know I’m fine. “Can you grab me soda? My mouth tastes like I licked a dog’s butt.” He laughs at me, causing me to squint in pain, then leaves to get what I asked for. Unlike my parents, Clay would do the most mundane things to make me happy. He is the only one in this family who cares about me. In return, he is the only one who receives love from me.

  +++

  I make my way down the hall towards my bathroom, hating the cream-colored marble flooring almost as much as I hate the travertine in the bathrooms. Everything looks like a museum here. At the bathroom entrance I stop and look at the doorframe. It’s busted in, splintered wood everywhere.

  “What happened?” I whisper as I walk in and find my mother—not the maid, but my mother—on the floor in her gown with plastic gloves up to her elbows, scrubbing away. I stand there, watching her back and arms move. She is cleaning with force. She’s angry. Whatever happened finally caused her to flip out. I try to back out, but I bump the mop, causing it to crash to the floor. When she turns to look at me, it’s not anger I see, but pain.

  “Mom, are you alright?” I ask. It’s the first time in years I remember caring how she feels. Something or someone has hurt her, and in turn, it’s hurting me.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Marcy Ann. I can’t take this anymore,” she spits at me in a mixture of sadness and fear. When did my mother get so frail? She’s lost weight, and I haven’t even noticed.

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” I ask in clear confusion.

  She stands up, rips the gloves from her hands, and throws them on the floor. “Clean your mess up, Marcy. I can’t keep doing this.” She walks past me, sobbing. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Why is she so mad at me? I make it a point to stay out of her way.

  I look around the bathroom and see my phone by the sink. Picking it up, I slide my finger across the screen and see a text from Derrick.

  -See you at 2

  I stare at it, wondering why he is coming by here at two. He never comes to my house. Ever. I shoot a quick text back telling him he can’t and that I’ll meet him at two at the store down the hill from my house. If he comes here, my father will shoot him without question. Or call the cops. I’m not sure which would be worse.

  Then, I remember. Not everything, but some. Primo, bath, phone, hot, noise, loud, screams, crying. It doesn’t make sense in my head, but I remember those things.

  I walk out of the bathroom—refusing to look at the chaos—and down the hall to my brother’s bathroom where, luckily, things look normal. Why is my bathroom a disaster zone?

  +++

  “I just can’t take it anymore, Henry! She’s going to kill me. I can’t watch her destroy herself and do nothing. She’s not eighteen yet. There has to be something we can do.” I hear her sniveling and carrying on about what sounds to be me. I wait on my father to say something, say anything, but he doesn’t. I hear him hush her. Likely, he’s patting her, trying to calm her. But what about me? Does anyone want to calm me or even explain what happened last night? No. They just steer clear of me.

  “Henry, tell me we’re doing the right thing by giving her space. I feel like we aren’t. Like we’re losing her.” It’s muffled against him but I’m sure that’s what she said. I could stand here and continue to eavesdrop, but I’m dying to find out the underlying cause of all of this. Stepping out from my hiding spot, I blurt out, “So, anyone want to tell me what the hell happened last night?” I look from my mother to my father and back again. “Well?” I ask, crossing my arms. Even at only seventeen, I’m taller than my mother. She’s a shrimp, but the look in her eyes tells me I’d better shut my mouth for a minute.

  “Marcy Ann King, don’t you remember anything from last night? Anything from the last two years? You’re no fool, so stop acting like one!” she screams at me, never leaving my father’s embrace. His eyes look sad, torn maybe. “You’re killing yourself and taking us right along with you. We’ve tried to give you space, hoping you’ll come to your senses, but you don’t. You just get worse. You could’ve died in that bathtub last night. If I hadn’t woken up to the sound of running water, you would be dead right now.”

  I flinch, confused. All the drugs I do, and she decides the tub is going to be the death of me? Is she seriously that naive?

  “Mom, you’re nuts. I needed to bathe. I was dirty,” I say, exasperated.

  “Bathe?! What you did wasn’t bathing! You got into a tub of running water—scalding running water—with your clothes mostly on, and you call that bathing? You almost died you… you… dumbass!” She never cusses, so it sounds funny falling from her lips. “You had water everywhere and were out cold. I drug you from the tub after your brother kicked the door in, and I had to beat your back to get you to start breathing. I was about to call 911 when you spit the water out. I never…want to see my child…like that ever again. I can’t!” I hear a clatter. My eyes following the noise, I see Clay standing in the corner, scared to move, unknowing how to correct all the wrongs he witnessed. “Don’t look at him, Marcy! Do you even care how you affect him? His friends talk a
bout you. He was expelled two weeks ago for busting a boy’s lip over you. Did you know that? He drags you from your truck at night so we don’t find you. Did you know that? He didn’t know that I knew that, but I do. I see it all, and I am sick of seeing it! Acting like I’m the one who doesn’t! Your father thinks you’ll ‘get it all out of your system’, but I doubt you even have a system left at this point!”

  I feel the tears coming, and I’m not sure if it’s hate, anger, disappointment, or sadness, but I feel them.

  “Your brother put you in bed last night after changing your clothes because I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sick of it, Marcy! SICK!” I look to Clay again, but all I find is a closing door. He left. I don’t know if he’s mad at me or upset with Mom for screaming. He’s not a fighter. Not like the rest of us.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I turn away from them. Why don’t they just ask me if I want help? They obviously know I need it.

  “Yeah, you’re always sorry, aren’t you? Why don’t you just get out of this house if all you’re going to do is destroy yourself smoking your crack. I don’t want to watch you kill yourself.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. How does she know what I do? If she knows, why doesn’t she help me? I take the last few steps without ever turning back to her. She knows. And she does nothing.

  +++

  I find Clay outside on the porch swing, watching the ground. He’s always so quiet, so reflective. I love my baby brother.

  “Hey,” I slide down on the swing beside him, “remember when I used to read to you out here?” He nods his head but never makes eye contact. I push us higher and hang my head back over the swing. I feel so old, so disconnected from him, from everything.

  “Why do you do it?” he asks, still not looking at me. I think of all the lies I could tell him, but I decide on the truth. It’s the best thing. It’s time I was honest with someone.