The Flawed Heart Series

by Wade, Ellie

  I nod. “He is.”

  “We need to talk more about the names. Have you thought of any good ones?”

  “I told you, Sarah, that’s your call. Name him whatever you want.”

  “But I want your help,” she whines.

  “Well, I can’t think of any.”

  “We should go somewhere today,” she says, changing the subject. “Where do you want to go? It’s so gorgeous out!” she exclaims brightly, holding her face up to the sun.

  “I don’t feel like going anywhere.”

  She plops down in the grass beside me. “Tell me a story of London, of your nan and granddad.”

  “Not today.”

  She continues, as if she didn’t hear me, “Remember how many stories you used to tell me of your childhood? You had so many. Do you still remember them all? Or we could play I Spy. We used to play that game all the time. I think your game and stories single-handedly stopped us from going crazy of boredom every night.” She laughs to herself. More quietly, she adds, “It’s weird that I had some of the best times of my life when I was homeless with you, you know?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Look at us now. We’ve come a long way since those days.” Sighing happily, she asks, “Can I get you anything? A sandwich? A glass of lemonade? I just made some.”

  “Okay, a lemonade.”

  “Great,” she says, standing. She squats down and smooths my hair away from my forehead before planting a quick kiss there. “You know, we’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, Loïc. I will never leave you. I will always be here for you.”

  “I know.” I nod.

  She smiles before standing again and heading into the house.

  She’s such a ray of sunshine in my life, but I struggle to feel her warmth. I’m having a hard time with life right now, and I know Sarah is trying to make it better.

  Yet, each time I look at her, I feel anxious. I can’t let down anyone else in my life. Truthfully, it’d be easier for me to have no real relationships. I think I was right about that from a young age. Relationships lead to love, and love leads to loss. Every. Single. Time.

  I can’t cut Sarah out though. I feel a strong sense of obligation to her. I always have but especially now.

  I’m just so tired. I’m walking around blind in a world that doesn’t make sense.

  There’s no light because I can’t break out of this perpetual night that I’m in. My mind holds dark thoughts, horribly gruesome visions, that I have no ability to control.

  When one thinks about a warrior, they think of a strong person who has the capacity to yield something powerful. But what everyone fails to realize is that the mind is the biggest muscle of them all. The brain controls everything. When the mind is weak, nothing else matters. When the mind is fragile, one is left helpless.

  I’m fighting to find purpose. I’m trying to find a point to it all or at least a semblance of peace. Yet, right now, all I feel is hopelessness.

  My dad was wrong. I’m no warrior. I’m a weak-minded coward. Perhaps I always was.

  London

  “I more than love him. The way I feel about Loïc is more than just a need, a want, a feeling. It’s more than a word.”

  —London Wright

  Paige and I are doing a Friends marathon on Netflix. This show reminds me of my mom. She bought all the seasons on DVD when I was younger, and she, Georgia, and I spent an entire week one summer watching every single episode from all ten seasons. This show somehow seems timeless to me. I just love it. Every couple of years, I do a marathon. I keep hoping to see the news come out that they’re going to make a Friends movie to update us on their current lives. Yet, so far, nothing.

  “Oh my God…this is the best part.” Paige chuckles as Ross’s boss arrives to visit him at his new apartment after Ross’s mandatory time off from going crazy at work, right after his second marriage—the one with Emily—failed.

  “He’s hilarious,” I agree though my voice sounds dull and way less enthusiastic than it should be.

  It was Paige’s idea to do a Friends marathon. I’m sure she thought some comedy could get me out of my funk. I wish it were that easy.

  A marginal smile crosses my face as I think of the scene about to happen. Ross is my favorite. Everyone on the show is hysterical, but there is something about him that cracks me up every time. He’s so out there that it’s funny. From his apartment window, he’s about to see Monica and Chandler having sex in her apartment, and he’s going to totally lose it in front of his boss. Normally, I’d already be in tears from laughter.

  But the laughter isn’t coming, and God knows, I don’t need any more tears.

  Just as Ross’s eyes bulge and he starts yelling for Chandler to get off his sister, my phone buzzes next to me on the couch.

  I glance down and see Loïc’s name come up on my screen. “Stop it! Stop it!” I shout to Paige as I point to the TV. “It’s him!”

  She quickly pauses the show and looks at me, wide-eyed and expectant.

  “What do I do?” I ask her.

  “Pick it up,” she urges.

  The phone buzzes for the third time. “I don’t know. What do I say…” My thoughts are a jumbled mess as I plead to Paige for an answer to a question I’ve yet to ask.

  I’ve waited so long for him to call me. I’ve dreamed about hearing his voice again. Now, he’s calling.

  My body floods with equal parts fear and relief, but both of them are drowning in my sea of panic.

  What does he want? He must be ready to talk? Does he miss me? Does he want to get back together? Is he calling to tell me that he’s sorry for putting me through this heartache? Maybe he’s calling to tell me he’s on his way over? Does he want to talk about the baby and reassure me that it isn’t his?

  It can’t be his.

  Paige shouts, “London! Pick it up!”

  I jump, startled.

  I quickly slide the screen to accept the call before it goes to voice mail and then slowly bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?” My voice is weak and shaky, but nonetheless, it sounds stronger than I feel.

  “It’s me,” he says quietly in a voice that’s low and hollow.

  I barely recognize the sound of him, but it’s him.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest. “Hi.” I pull in a deep breath. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “Listen, London, you have to stop this.”

  His comment confuses me.

  “What?”

  “You have to stop calling and texting. You can’t come over here again. It’s over, London,” he says with authority before pausing. I hear him sigh. “Okay? It’s over.” This time, he sounds less sure.

  “But—”

  He cuts me off, “No, London. But nothing. It’s over. I can’t keep doing this with you.”

  Loïc’s good-bye sets a fire to my soul, giving me a renewed sense of strength.

  This will not be it. He cannot do this to me, to us. He’s confused or scared. I have to prove to him that he’s wrong.

  “Loïc, I need to see you. We need to talk. Whatever is going on…let me help you. We can work on this together. It’s not over. Please let me in. I love you.” My voice breaks on the last sentence. Those three little words don’t even do justice to the way I feel about him.

  I more than love him. The way I feel about Loïc is more than just a need, a want, a feeling. It’s more than a word. It’s a lifetime of commitment. It’s a lifetime of love, respect, trust. It’s an eternity of hugs, laughter, passion, and lust. It’s everything I say and do forever. Loïc will be present in every thought and action I take for the rest of my life.

  Yes, I more than love Loïc. I live him. With every heartbeat, every breath, and every thought, I live him. And he will be a part of me for the rest of my life.

  “London, I’m fucked up.” His voice is pained, so desolate and sad.

  My chest aches, and I long to hold him.

  I inhale, pulling another breath into my lu
ngs, before saying, “It’s okay. Remember…we can be fucked up together? We can get through anything if we’re together. I can help you. I can love you like no one else ever can. We are meant to be together, Loïc. There is no one else on this earth for me. You are it. I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

  “I don’t believe in that.”

  “Well, I believe enough for the both of us,” I reassure him.

  “You see, my heart and its capacity to love is my biggest flaw of all. I warned you, London. I told you this would happen.”

  “What?”

  “From the very beginning, I told you that I would hurt you. I wouldn’t want to, but I would. I told you that I lose everything I love. I warned you. I begged you to stay away.” His deep timbre cracks on the last word.

  “You haven’t lost me. You’ll never lose me. And your heart’s not flawed. I know you, Loïc. Just come over. Let’s talk. Everything will be better once we’re together. I promise you.”

  “It’s over, London. We’re over. Please let me go.” His plea is so desperate, his voice so raw.

  Tears course down my cheeks. “We’re not. Please. It will be okay.”

  “We’re over,” he says once more. “I’m sorry.”

  “But…no,” I cry out in despair.

  “London, you’re hurting me. You. Are. Hurting. Me.”

  I suck in a breath at his harsh words.

  “Please…please…let me go,” he begs.

  His voice radiates with a pain I’ve never known. It’s a sorrow so tangible that it hits me through the phone, weighing down on me like a mountain of tears.

  I struggle to breathe. “Loïc,” I cry, sobbing now.

  “Please, let me go. Just let me go,” he whispers before the line goes dead.

  I’m left clutching the phone to my ear, desperately clinging to the need to hear a voice I’m afraid I’ll never hear again.

  I rock back and forth on the couch as sobs rack my body. Every inch of me mourns the loss of Loïc. I cradle the phone against my chest and hug it as the tears continue to fall in streams, physical manifestations of the immense amount of anguish needing to leave my body. I’m filled with too much grief to bear. I have to ease the stress on my soul, or it will suffocate me.

  I cry until my head throbs with pain. I sit up from my hunched rocking position, and it’s only then that I notice Paige is sitting next to me. Her face is wet with tears. She pulls me into her chest, and I hug her tight, grateful for the comfort of someone who loves me.

  She doesn’t say anything as she rubs my back, the gesture calming.

  I sit up and look to her. “What is it that they always say?” I question sadly. “If you love someone, set them free?”

  She nods weakly, her eyes filling with tears. “Yeah,” she sighs. “That’s what they say.”

  “I have to let him go, Paige,” I choke out, unable to believe the words coming from my mouth even though I know them to be true.

  “Yeah”—a tear falls down her cheek—“I think so.”

  Because I love Loïc with everything that I am, I have to respect his wishes. Somehow, someway…I have to.

  If you love someone, set them free.

  If you love someone…

  Set.

  Them.

  Free.

  Copyright © 2016 by Ellie Wade

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.elliewade.com

  Cover Designer: Regina Wamba, Mae-I-Design

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Loïc

  “The utter horror of it all comes back in agonizing clarity. Cooper’s gone.”

  —Loïc Berkeley

  Heaviness weighs on me, pressing my lungs flat. I can’t breathe. Panic rises within as a war with fear begins.

  It’s so dark.

  Where am I?

  It smells but not of earth and sweat. It reeks of chemicals and sanitation—rubbing alcohol maybe.

  My chest expands as I pull in air, and it brings torture, a shooting sharp pain to my ribs. I stop inhaling deeply and focus on taking short and shallow breaths.

  What’s happening to me?

  Where am I?

  I try to open my eyes, but it becomes way more difficult than it should be. Why won’t they open? I mentally instruct my brain to make my eyes open, and I wait.

  Open.

  Open.

  Open.

  Nothing happens.

  Fuck.

  A stabbing agony shoots through my body, starting at my head and spreading downward. The ache in my leg burns so fiercely that I know I’m dying. A pain this great can’t be sustained. I scream a hollow, tortured cry, but no sound explodes from me. In fact, I can’t hear anything at all.

  And the pain…it’s just too much.

  It’s more than I can stand.

  I’m dying.

  I clench my teeth together and bear down, trying to hold on, to sustain through the anguish.

  But I can’t.

  I’m not strong enough.

  I know it’s over—life is leaving me—but as darkness pulls me under, I’m grateful for the release.

  “Lieutenant Berkeley, can you hear me?” a male voice asks.

  It takes me a moment to register the words. I sluggishly open my eyes but force them closed again. The intrusive light hurts.

  “Sir?” he questions again.

  Breathing deep, I open my eyes again, even more cautiously, allowing them to acclimate to the brightness that surrounds me.

  I blink and then blink again.

  Scanning the room, I realize I’m in a hospital. What happened?

  When the man is in my line of vision, I stop my assessment of the room. He looks to be in his forties with kind brown eyes, but if I’m not mistaken, I see pity in them.

  Do I? That thought causes bile to rise in my throat. Why is he looking at me that way?

  Opening my mouth, I try to question him; nothing but a raspy croak comes out.

  The man raises a hand. “Your throat’s going to be dry. Let me get you some water.”

  He exits the room, leaving me to myself, as I wade hopelessly through a sea of questions. Closing my eyes, I try to remember what happened. The crazy thing is, I can’t remember much of anything. My mind is so clouded, so saturated, with a heavy mud of nothingness.

  The man returns, holding a white Styrofoam cup with a straw. He pushes a button on the side of my bed, and the section behind my back starts to slowly move up.

  “Is that okay? It doesn’t hurt?” he asks.

  I shake my head, answering his second question.

  He continues moving the back of the bed up until I’m in a seated position. He then holds the cup of water in front of my face, and the bent straw presses against my lips. Opening my lips, I take a sip. The water feels like shards of glass sliding down my throat. I take another sip and then indicate with a nod that I’m finished.

  The man places the cup on my side table. “I’m Sergeant Hannigan, your current nurse. Though Private Taylor will be replacing me”—his eyes dart to the clock on the wall—“in about an hour, and she’s much sweeter than I am. Everyone loves her. She’s a hell of a lot easier on the eyes, too.” He smiles, amused with himself.

  “What…” I try to ask.

  “Your throat’s going to be sore for a bit. Try to keep it hydrated as best as you can. You were intubated for a while. Then, you were in a medically
induced coma until the swelling in your brain went down and your major injuries healed some. Do you remember what happened?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, you’re at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany,” he says.

  Immediately, I recognize that as the military hospital where soldiers injured overseas are sent for medical attention.

  He continues, “You were in Afghanistan. On a mission to Sarowbi, you were hit by shrapnel caused by a grenade, and the explosion propelled you into a wall, which you hit pretty hard. You were evacuated and flown here. From what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Injuries?” I manage to say.

  “You had some head trauma and many lacerations that needed stitches. You took some shrapnel in the side of your abdomen, but luckily, it missed all your major organs.”

  I catch him swiftly looking down before his gaze returns to mine.

  “A large piece of shrapnel struck your left leg, causing a significant amount of damage. The surgeon had to amputate part of your leg, starting right above the knee.”

  My eyes bulge as I take in his words. Amputate?

  Warily, I peer down toward the bedding that covers me. Sure enough, the thin white sheet drops down to the mattress where my lower left leg should be.

  I lift my arm to move the covers from me but gasp as an acute pain hits, radiating from my rib area. I press my arm below my chest until the ache recedes.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you about your broken ribs. Your body’s still pretty bruised up. It will be a while before you’re healed.”

  I nod toward my leg. “Can I see it?” My voice cracks.

  “Sure.” Sergeant Hannigan pulls back the sheet.

  From beneath the hospital gown I’m wearing, my right leg lays in shades of bruises against the mattress. It’s like a messed up tie-dye of purples, yellows, and browns with some cuts thrown in the mix for variety. It’s almost nauseating in appearance.

  Then, I steel the nerve to take in my left leg, and…it’s gone.

  Just gone.

  My gaze returns to the bruised up appendage and then to the spot beside it where its counterpart should be, and nothing is there. Nothing. No matching mangled up leg is protruding from beneath the thin gown.