BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  BONDED

  S.D. HARRISON

  BONDED

  Copyright © 2019 S.D. Harrison

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.

  Contact information: sdharrisonbooks@gmail.com

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

  First Edition

  Mom, thank you for teaching me I can accomplish anything my heart desires. And for putting up with me.

  Particularly that.

  “You sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

  – J.K. Rowling

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m standing on the train tracks, the crisp air whipping auburn strands of hair around my limbs like a cyclone. In the distance, I see the bright beam of the train billowing along the tracks toward me. I twist and pull at my body in vain. My feet vibrate beneath me as my fate approaches.

  I am stuck.

  I am going to die.

  I am going to be twisted, and mangled, and broken beyond recognition.

  I hadn’t intended to die.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  He appears suddenly, his body a solid shield wrapping itself around me, encasing me in its warmth. When the train hits him, shattering his back into a million fragments, my scream finally escapes. His body absorbs the shock. The train halts. It’s as if he is made of steel, not flesh and bones.

  The man looks down at me, his face a mixture of pain and relief.

  He should be dead.

  I should be dead.

  He looks at me with deep brown eyes as his fingers twist into the hair by my temples. My body becomes a warm glow. Heat, and heat, and heat, and heat, and–

  The sound of my alarm shoots me out of bed and away from the dream.

  Not again!

  It was the same man. He was different than before–taller, maybe, with red hair instead of black–but it was him. I can feel it in every part of my soul. I’ve dreamt of him every night for the past week, and every morning I wake with the same panic coursing through my body: He’s dead. I couldn’t save him.

  I can never save him.

  He never looks the same and he never dies in the same way, but the plot never changes.

  Short, with a fat beard and blazing green eyes: Shot in the chest at close range.

  Tall and skinny with pockmarked cheeks: Decapitation.

  Dark and muscled with the sexiest pair of arms known to man: Cancer.

  I don’t know how I can always tell it’s him. It’s a feeling, I guess; an all-consuming, gut-wrenching feeling I can’t ignore. Sometimes dreams are like that.

  All things considered, there is one good thing about watching someone die every night while you sleep: Eventually you wake up completely numb to the idea.

  Desensitization is a beautiful thing.

  The flashes distressed me at first, until finally, they became more of an annoyance. What do I care if some random guy drops dead in a dream? It says more about my twisted psychological state than anything, and that awareness isn’t anything new. Years of therapy have taught me my mind is not prime vacation real-estate.

  By day four I was back to a blissful eight hours of sleep, able to continue with my day like nothing had happened.

  They’re only dreams, after all. No need to get emotional.

  In the back of my mind, I am particularly thankful my visits to Dr. Dallas ended three months ago–a congratulations on passing tenth grade with an A+ average gift from my mom. That man would have a field day with my latest dreams. He would mention Freud a half-dozen times and task me with a dream journal. I would complain, and he would talk about repressed feelings. We would fight, and I would lose.

  Some teenagers want the newest technology or designer clothes. All I wanted was to put an end to my three-times-a-week visits to the shrink.

  I don’t need a professional to tell me I’m damaged goods multiple times a week; my dreams can do it on their own. Why dish out the cash?

  Sighing mournfully, I hit the off button on my alarm and drag my legs out of the bed, knocking a couple of throw pillows to the floor. I glance over my shoulder to the window, bracing myself for what is sure to be a terrible day. The sky is horrifically bright and cheerful, which usually means the opposite is in store, at least for me.

  We are two weeks in to the new school year, and I already have a quiz on Shakespearean comedies and three chapters of algebra review to look forward to. Junior year is not to be taken lightly, according to every teacher at Stonewall High School. “This is the year universities care about most!” every teacher on my timetable said at least four times during the first week back.

  As much as I hate to admit it, acceptance into a good school is one of the few things I actually care about, which means showing up and putting in an effort not to fail. Not that failing out of high school is easy; only drug dealers drop out around here, and even then, I suspect they still receive a diploma in the mail.

  I hastily make my bed, pausing long enough to enjoy the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets brush against my skin one last time.

  After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I take my sweet time untangling the waves of my long auburn hair and applying a thick layer of mascara to my matching lashes before I head down to the kitchen.

  Our home is modern and perfect, exactly what someone would expect my house to look like if they had ever met my mother. Stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and dark-stained wooden furniture that is more aesthetically pleasing than it is comfortable. Even the freshly painted cream walls are perfect, just the way my mother likes them. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she cares. We never have visitors.

  “Morning, honey,” Mom calls. She doesn’t bother to look up from her newspaper or put down her extra-large cup of coffee. Our mornings have become a science over the past year:

  “Morning, honey/Raye/sweetheart.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Will you be home after school?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Do you feel like cooking, or should I pick something up?”

  “I’ll cook, Mom.”

  “Okay, honey/Raye/sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”

  The brief conversation is enough time for me to pour some coffee into a travel mug and grab a cereal bar before heading out the door. No mess, no fuss, and no unnecessary interaction.

  I love my mother. I do. She’s a decent woman, a phenomenal lawyer, and she was an incredible wife. The ‘was’ before that last one makes it hard to spend more than five minutes with her at a time.

  Things were...bad after my dad died. Mom took to working eighty-hour weeks, and I took to drinking and taking various drugs while skipping class–which, according to the principal, was not behaviour becoming of a young lady.

  Two and a half years later, Mom now works seventy-five hour weeks, and I traded illicit substances for straight A’s and the promise of moving out the second I graduate.

  My mom notices when I rebel. She doesn’t notice when I’m perfect.

  And I am perfect. Like our home, our cars, and my mother’s freshly dry-cleaned suits. Because that’s what my dad would have wanted. He would have wanted me to study and be on the cheer team and have friends. He would have wanted me to go off to medical school, become a doctor, and save the world. He wouldn’t have wanted me to hit things, get high, or yell at tho
se who love me. He would have wanted me to be happy.

  So, for him, I try.

  “Hey, Mom,” I call back as I grab my travel mug out of the sink and fill it to the brim with steaming coffee. The smell alone is enough to wake me up.

  “Will you be home after school?” she asks, flipping to the last page of her paper. Her left hand is absent-mindedly stroking her cropped auburn hair, which means something unpleasant is happening somewhere in the world.

  “Yes, Mom.” I grab the box of cereal bars. Empty. Damn. I mentally add go to the store and buy food to my after school to-do list.

  “Do you feel like cooking, or should I pick something up?” She looks up from her paper for exactly three seconds. The sound of the cereal bar box dropping into the recycling bin must have thrown her off.

  “I’ll cook, Mom.” I snatch the last apple from the bowl on the counter.

  “Okay, Raye. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Apple in one hand and coffee in the other, I head to the door. The last bits of summer are still in the air, although the ash trees lining my house are already showing signs of change. I prefer the winter because that means cheer practice ends and I have a valid excuse for spending the majority of my non-school time locked away in the warmth of my bedroom.

  Regardless of how hard I try to be perfect, I can never force myself to socialize with the parasites that roam the halls of my school for more than a handful of minutes. Mom rarely complains, so I figure it isn’t that big of a deal. I can’t excel at everything.

  I walk around my mom’s sleek black Audi and head to my little red Honda, tossing my backpack and apple on the passenger’s seat. My coffee remains clutched in my hand, where it will stay until I arrive at school and am forced to abandon it within the confines of my locker.

  The twenty-minute drive is calmer than usual, even though I am running late. I typically time my arrival perfectly, parking my car exactly three minutes before the 8:55 a.m. warning bell. It gives me enough time to walk to my locker, remove my books, and say hi to some friends without having an awkward amount of time to kill talking about who is dating who and what so-and-so did to what’s-his-name.

  “Raye! There you are!” Lindsay sighs, wrapping her tanned arm around my shoulder in greeting. “You’re almost late,” she teases, batting me a wink.

  Lindsay is tall and stunning, a mixture of Filipino and Caucasian, with waist-length brown–almost black–hair and honey coloured eyes that twinkle when she is having a mischievous thought–which is always.

  “I know. I must be broken,” I joke back, releasing myself from her embrace. Most people wouldn’t dare touch me so casually in fear of having a limb snapped off, but Lindsay is the one–and the only–exception. We have been friends since we were six, an unbreakable pair. She stuck by me through my dad’s death and wasn’t scared away by the aftermath, even though I called her every mean name in the book and threatened to snap her fingers off if she came less than ten feet from me.

  “If you think I’m going anywhere, those drugs have done more damage to your head than I thought! If it takes one of us, it takes us both. So pull yourself together, okay?” she snapped at me on more than one occasion. She was the only voice I heard when I had given up on hearing anyone ever again.

  Lindsay has definitely earned herself hugging rights. It was even her idea for me to join the cheer team, although I’m still a little bitter about it. At least it counts as social time and looks good on university applications.

  “Another nightmare?” she asks knowingly, teasing her hair through her fingers and twisting it into a bun. She always gives up on wearing it down before second period. I have tried to convince her to chop it all off on more than one occasion, but she refuses to part with what she calls her ‘feminine beauty.’

  “Not really a nightmare.” I make a grab for my algebra textbook, which has somehow managed to wedge itself in the back corner of my locker.

  Lindsay gives me an exasperated look, her eyes rolling and her head tilting back. “You’re dreaming about death,” she says as if I don’t know. “If it’s about your dad, you know you can talk to me, right?”

  “It’s not,” I reply, slamming my locker shut a little harder than necessary. I don’t like to talk about my dad. Not even with Lindsay. It’s part of what keeps my perfect charade going.

  Rule one: Emotions are for the weak.

  Lindsay, noting her mistake, recovers. “Okay, well, can we please discuss physical attributes? I’m not going to lie, I’ve been thinking about your dark, muscled man since yesterday.” She fans a hand in front of her face, heaving a dramatic sigh.

  I told Lindsay about the dreams because of the feeling they gave me, like it was the same guy even though he looked so different. Honestly, I just wanted another human to tell me I wasn’t going crazy. Although she seems amused by my vivid descriptions, she tries not to listen to the dying parts. It’s not particularly helpful.

  I hum, considering. “I didn’t get a good look at last night’s dream guy. My body was sort of blocking his face. He was tall, though.”

  “Your body?” she gasps, feigning disbelief. “Sweet Raye, have you been keeping naughty bits of these dreams to yourself?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, Drama Queen. He was saving me from a train.”

  “Wait, you’re not usually in the dreams, are you?”

  “Nope. This one was different. I was there, but I wasn’t me,” I try to explain. It hadn’t occurred to me last night’s dream was different from the rest until this moment. “I was watching as an observer as always, but this time I was observing him and myself. Oh, will you shut up,” I say when she gives me a delightedly scandalized look. “I don’t mean it like that. Keep your dirty mind to yourself.”

  “That’s no fun at all.”

  The final bell rings, saving me from the rest of the conversation. Lindsay bids me a graceful farewell and heads off to biology, and I make a beeline straight for math. I receive a few waves and hellos as I make my way up the stairs to my classroom, but my tardiness saves me from having to stop.

  “Move,” I hiss at a particularly slow freshman who thinks it is a good idea to stand at the top of the stairs like an idiot.

  I make it to class with seconds to spare, sliding into my front-row seat and flipping my book open before the announcements begin.

  I’m naturally good at math, so the class doesn’t require my full concentration; after the morning ramblings, I begin to tune out. As the lecture drones on, I find my mind slipping back to my dream. I begin reviewing my English notes in my mind, frustrated I’m allowing myself to be distracted by such trivial things. Yet, even iambic pentameter can’t fully shake the dream from my brain.

  I get a near perfect score on my Shakespeare quiz, and the algebra homework I hand in is met with an approving nod, but neither is able to pull me from the desire to flee back home and crawl under the covers.

  I can’t explain what is different about today, but I’m on edge for no reason at all. Well, I’m on edge more so than usual, anyway. Maybe the dreams are affecting me more than I initially gave them credit for.

  When lunch finally rolls around, I’m already mentally done with the day. I seize a chair next to Lindsay in the cafeteria, ignoring the way the bright orange plastic screeches across the cheap tile floor. The smell of thousands of greasy meals is embedded into the walls and every piece of furniture, probably a result of the poor ventilation system. I find the smell clings to me for hours after lunch, no matter how thoroughly I wash my hands. The school is in desperate need of a renovation, or at least a good cleaning.

  Blowing a wave of hair from my face, I begin digging for my wallet. The special is three cheese ravioli, so I decide to break away from my strict yogurt and vegetables routine, allowing myself to indulge. Pasta is my weakness. Well, one of them–it isn’t exactly a short list.

  The line for food is long as usual, but the wait time is a good excuse to avoid lunchtime gossip, so I usually buy my food. I would
do anything to avoid the torture of teenage girl drama.

  A gentle tug on my sleeve causes me to snap my head around, giving the guy in front of me a face full of hair. “Whoa, calm down there, Tiger!” Mitch says, putting his hands up in mock-surrender. “I come in peace!”

  I ignore the guy in front of me when he grumbles something about the brief assault from my hair. “What do you want, Mitch?” I flick a piece of lint off my shirt.

  “I heard you got a ninety-seven on that Shakespeare quiz,” he says, a little redness on his cheeks. Mitch is cute, in a next-door neighbour, I used to watch you run around the block in your tighty-whities kind of way. He’s average height with a spattering of freckles across his nose and hair rivalling mine in colour. I’ve known him even longer than I’ve known Lindsay. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Mitchel Wright, which angers me far more than it should.

  The difference between Mitch and Lindsay is that Mitch turned out to be a grade-A jackass. One little breakdown and he bailed. A lifetime of friendship gone. Poof. Done. Over.

  I’ve hated him ever since. I’ve never been the forgiving type, and some things are too big to move past. Mitch knows I hate him, so he doesn’t usually bother speaking to me unless he is in the mood for a fight. It’s an arrangement I’m perfectly at ease with. In fact, I rely on it.

  “I did,” I reply, shifting my weight to my left foot and resting my hand on my hip.

  Mitch sighs, familiar with my coldness. He is typically swift, dishing out as much as he takes, but today something is different. Today he wants something. It’s written all over his freckled face.

  “I got a forty-six,” he says, looking at the floor before finding my eyes again. “My mom’s going to murder me.” Mitch’s mom is a successful general practitioner, and easily the strictest human I have ever met. I almost feel bad for him.

  Almost.

  “Maybe you should have studied a little harder.” I move up in the line, hoping he will go away.