Life Interrupted

by Yessi Smith

  LIFE INTERRUPTED

  YESSI SMITH

  Copyright © 2015 Yessi Smith

  All Rights Reserved

  Visit my website at www.yessismith.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  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.

  “A psychological thriller that will enchant you and keep you on the edge of your seat whilst reading, look no further than Life Interrupted by Yessi Smith.” – NYT & USA Today Bestselling author L.A. Casey

  “Full of suspense, heartache, and twists you won't see coming, Life Interrupted is a definite must read!” – #1 NYT Bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken

  “Yessi Smith has done it again and imprisoned me with this epic story of love, loss and the strength to overcome all obstacles. I was on the edge of my seat while reading this story.” – The Book Curmudgeon

  To my beta readers and early readers, who took the time to read and made suggestions. Who supported and encouraged me throughout yet another journey. Who soothed the fragile ego of a desperate author.

  I have no words to express my gratitude and love.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Pieces of Camden

  Pieces of Camden Chapter One

  Pieces of Camden Chapter Two

  Pieces of Camden Chapter Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with Me

  My mind yells at me to run faster as I scrape and push my body harder. A bloody trail mocks every misstep I take. My feet tangle beneath me, and with a gasp, I land awkwardly on a bed of soft leaves. I yearn to rest my head, but there’s danger close by.

  Very close.

  Fear snakes up my spine, stealing my breath.

  Somewhere in my dismantled mind, I remember the darkness. I remember the fear, the anguish, and the pain. I remember what I’m running from.

  I force myself up and begin to run again, hammering my feet into the ground. I propel myself into the light, far enough the demons will never venture to find me.

  My eyes flutter open and sharp pain shoots through all my limbs, too intense to allow any movement. My pulse pounds loud in my ears and I move to cover them but am unable to move. I try to swallow, but can’t. My tongue is swollen and dry. Shallow breaths escape me but I scream when realization dawns on me.

  I didn’t make it. I didn’t run hard enough, fast enough, long enough.

  I didn’t escape.

  I convulse in fear, screaming obscenities, as I tear at my skin, at the foreign objects in my arms.

  Within seconds, they arrive, cloaked in white, holding my body down. They bring me unwanted tranquility in a syringe, and a stinging pain plunges into my arm. Tears trickle down my face as the room becomes blurry and then eventually disappears.

  Minutes pass. Hours. Days. I have no idea, but this time I wake up slower more aware of the confines around my wrists and a rhythmic beeping sound in the background. I don’t want to open my eyes, but they open anyway, and I am met with a pair of dark brown eyes staring back at me. The eyes belong to an elderly gentleman, who slowly but eagerly gets up and sits on my bedside.

  “Holly.” He cups my hand in his and squeezes.

  I blink at him, unable to speak or make sense of the incoherent thoughts ricocheting through my mind. I shift my hand away, apologetic. The movement is slight, but he understands and pulls away. I cannot offer him the empathy he’s looking for.

  His eyes go wide, and he stares at his hand that held mine seconds ago.

  “Holly?” he asks me, edging closer again. “It’s me. You’re okay now.”

  He looks to be in his eighties, worn thin from the malnutrition elderly people in his condition encounter.

  Growing old is a bitch. But I’m undecided if dying young is a better alternative.

  I clear my throat, hoping the forced cough will also clear my head of the fogginess it’s drowning in.

  “I’m not Holly.” I keep my voice quiet, soothing, in the hopes that his obvious dementia or Alzheimer’s doesn’t make him aggressive.

  I don’t know him. I don’t know myself either.

  He shoves his body off my bed with far more agility than I thought he’d possess, and his eyes, wild and conflicted, stare at a spot above my head. Concern furrows the old man’s brows as his mouth gapes open, releasing a single, frustrated breath. Scared, my brain goes crazy, signaling alarms of fear, pain, and the same confusion I found in this man’s face.

  My hands and feet are restrained, so I do the only thing I can do. I scream and hope I haven’t gone insane. I want to ask questions that will clear things up for me, but my body is convulsing with fear. The monitors I’m hooked up to squeal in rhythm to my own shrieks, alerting the people in white coats.

  I have a vague sense of déjà vu as one sticks me with a needle that makes me groggy so quickly that I don’t have time to explain the dangers awaiting me.

  This time, when I regain consciousness, I finally comprehend where I am—a hospital. Why, I don’t know. Where is just as hidden to me. But hospitals are safe. I sigh, willing myself to believe it.

  The man I spoke to earlier is sleeping awkwardly on the chair next to me, and I start to wonder if I made him up so that I wouldn’t feel alone. I can’t explain it, but that’s how I feel—alone. I watch him sleep, my breath matching his, and inch by inch, I begin to relax, despite the pain spreading throughout my body. With each breath, my heart rate on the monitor slows down. Apparently, all forms of meditation are good for the body.

  The man must have heard me stir because, when I look back at him, he’s watching me with too much hope in his eyes.

  Still unsure if he is a figment of my imagination—hell, this all could be an elusive fabrication to escape the real terrors hidden inside me—I lift my hand, as much as the restraint allows, to greet him, but the small gesture shoots pain through my wrist to my arm. I glance down at it. My wrist is sw
ollen, only made worse by the restraint tying me to the bed.

  The man nods his head at me, his eyes wary, and I wish I could be his Holly for him. I almost agree — my name is Holly just so I can cheer him up. But I don’t want to lie to him.

  “Do you know where you are?” he asks.

  I nod my throbbing head toward the various monitors methodically scattered all over my room. “The hospital,” I respond.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  I shake my head at him, but I don’t ask him if he has the answer because I’m sure his mind is even more muddled than mine.

  “Holl, you’ve been missing for months,” he says. His words come out slow, as if he’s making sure I understand what he’s telling me.

  I don’t understand though. I don’t understand anything right now.

  “Some hunters found you in the woods by our house a few days ago. You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head at him again. “Sir,” I say, wanting to reach for his hand to bring this kind stranger some comfort, “I think you’re confused. I think I was in an accident.”

  Agitated, he shakes his head at me, letting me know he thinks I’m wrong.

  “My name’s not Holly. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s your name then?” A wobbly smile stretches across his mouth.

  “My name?” I furrow my brow in concentration but come back empty. It’s such a simple question but not one I can answer because my brain has stopped functioning correctly. Ignoring his question, I proceed with my own. “Do you know why I’m tied up?”

  “You were hysterical when they brought you in, and when you woke up, you got worse.”

  He walks toward my bed, and because I have no other choice but to trust him, I scoot over, giving him room to sit.

  “It was bad, Ho—” He stops, faking a cough, and places a trembling hand on my cheek. “I begged ’em not to put those things on you, but you kept hurting yourself and hitting them.”

  My eyes narrow at him, not sure if I believe him. None of it rings true, but here I am, shackled to the bed. Shackled. The word makes my brain tingle. Shackled. Shackled. I start to tremble, unable to stop.

  “Let me go!” I scream at him, at anyone nearby. “Let me go!” I demand, again petering out on the edges of insanity, as I try to yank my hands and feet free.

  The nurses come back in with that god-awful shot that will drag me into an abyss again, and I howl at her, begging her not to inject me again, swearing I’ll behave. The needle inches its way closer to my skin. Squeezing my eyes closed, I start to cry, knowing I have no way of fighting her off.

  But the needle never makes contact. The man, this stranger who hasn’t left me, saves me.

  “Leave her be,” he tells the nurse. While his voice is gentle, there is an air of authority that demands to be heard. Opening my eyes, I silently thank him with a watery smile.

  Between the sobs rocking me to my core, I have a difficult time catching my breath. With every inhale and exhale, my lungs burn, searing me with all the truths and untruths I can’t remember. I shut my eyes, confident that no one will poke me while they are shut, and I focus on the man’s breathing like I did before. I need to hear a slower-paced rhythm than my own erratic heartbeat in my ears, so I can match it.

  Blinking back my tears, I turn my pleading eyes toward him. Perhaps sensing I need him, he moves closer, sitting beside me again. Concentrating, I match my breath to his until my panic subsides.

  “You should rest,” he suggests, a frown painting across his face.

  I nod my head even though I disagree.

  I don’t want to sleep. I want to know why I’m here.

  Shackled, I think and little prickles skate down my spine.

  Danger is close by, is always close by. But what danger?

  I don’t think this old man is a threat, so I ignore the urge to run and find a safe place.

  “Why do you call me Holly?” I ask him, needing to make him understand that I’m not who he thinks I am.

  He stares at his lap for a long time. “That’s your name,” he says, his brown eyes clear of any confusion.

  He could be telling me the truth.

  Holly, I think. But I don’t feel a connection to the name. It’s a pretty name though, and it’s much better than not having a name at all.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ed,”

  I catch him wiping away a stray tear.

  “I’m your Poppa.”

  I feel bad that I’ve caused him pain, but I don’t know why or how to avoid it. He’s hurting for a Holly that probably doesn’t exist. So, I nod my head at him, as if what he said made perfect sense.

  What the hell kind of accident would strip me of my memories but still allow me to speak? And hopefully walk. To experiment, I wiggle my toes and am grateful when they respond.

  No, not an accident.

  Something else.

  Somewhere, my mind remembers what that something was, and it sends my blood curdling.

  Like a devoted grandfather, Ed hasn’t left my side, and I have given in to calling him Poppa. It feels weird to call a man I just met Poppa, but it makes him happy, so I do my best to remember. Poppa. I want him to be my Poppa, so I can be his Holly. At least then, I’d know a part of who I am.

  A couple of days ago, I made the mistake of wondering out loud where my parents were, and I was met with the heartbreaking grief of a father whose daughter and son-in-law were killed. Killed? How? I don’t know. I don’t have it in me to ask him. This man has already lost too much, including a granddaughter he sees every day.

  I still don’t know much of what happened to me. I disappeared six months ago and was found nine days ago, wandering the woods by my grandfather’s house. My emaciated, bruised, and battered body led the police to believe that I had been held captive somewhere. I’m not sure how the police made such a leap, but I figure, these Texan cops must be geniuses. I’m sure they’ll catch my captor any day.

  According to Poppa, I’ve always been a bit of a smart-ass, so I cling to my sarcasm since it’s the only thing I know that is truly me. He also says I cuss a lot, but swearing in front of an elderly man with such sad eyes seems disrespectful, so I keep my swearing properly contained in my brain.

  And my brain—I saw pictures of it. I’m not sure what the normal size of a brain is, but the doctors told me mine had quite a bit of swelling. The police think my alleged captor is to blame for the damage. Geniuses, I tell ya. Damn geniuses, all of them.

  There was, and still is, plenty of damage throughout my body. My ribs are separated with one break, but the pain has abated and only hurts when I breathe—note the sarcasm. My feet are raw, probably from the aimless running I did in the woods—or not aimless. Somewhere in my mind, I must have known where I was going since I was so close to Poppa’s house. I came up with that idea on my own—without the local law enforcement’s logic.

  And my face. I saw my face for the first time yesterday—not for the first time ever, I’m sure. I mean, one can’t get to twenty-four years of age without looking in a mirror periodically. But, as far as I can remember, it was a first for me. My dreams of being a dark-haired, blue-eyed goddess quickly dissipated, and I was only slightly disappointed when my grandfather’s familiar brown eyes peered back at me. My dark brown hair was long but matted and chopped rather than nicely layered. I desperately need a stylist to properly fix my hair.

  Cuts line my face, but if I have good genes, they’ll fade with time. After a nurse removed the bandage on my forehead, the underlying skin was red and raw.

  “A burn mark,” my nurse told me.

  It’s ugly, and I doubt it will heal nicely.

  I have high cheekbones, the left one sporting the yellow remnants of a bruise. I’m grateful I have no recollection of how it had happened. I’m sure it’d hurt. My arms and legs have circular dark bruises everywhere, but they are already turning into a sickening yellowish-green. They will soon be gone, leaving me with
nothing to help me remember.

  My fingers are long and slender. I have pretty hands, even with the scratches. In contrast, my nails are short with broken jagged edges. Regardless, I like to look at my hands—either because I like hands or because they’re the only parts of me I see often enough to recognize.

  I’m skinny. Poppa says it’s a natural skinny—you know, the envious kind because I can eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce. And I’m short, like four-eleven short, and very small. In other words, I’m not the athletic type.

  I’m the perfect victim.

  That will change. As soon as I leave the hospital, I’ll lift weights, run, and learn how to fight.

  I will never be a victim again.

  My psychologist, Ann, walks in for our session shortly after Poppa sets an appointment for someone to come fix my hair. My visits with Ann are part of the hospital’s agreement with Poppa before they are able to discharge me. She greets me with a formal nod of her head that I reciprocate. She’s professional to a fault, but I like her because she managed to convince the doctors to untie my hands and feet before she started our first session.

  God bless this woman.

  Poppa gets up from his chair and pats me on the shoulder before leaving to give us some privacy.

  Ann asks me, “How are you doing?”

  I shrug my shoulders, not sure how to respond.

  Still confused, I want to shout and then accuse her of not helping me. Still can’t remember shit.

  The first time we met, she suggested I should try a technique in which I recalled everything that I knew to be true, but I couldn’t do that. I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.

  “You know your name,” she told me.

  Holly Grace Fischer.

  “You know you are alive,” she continued.

  I shook my head at her.

  I didn’t know then if I was in fact alive. What if I was stuck in some sort of purgatory for sins that I couldn’t even remember that I’d committed?

  But I’ve made progress. I’m not sure why I survived what I’d gone through, but the beating of my heart declares that I’m here. Living.