LOST3 - Layla Hagen

by LaylaHagen3

  LOST

  Copyright © 2014 Layla Hagen

  Published by Layla Hagen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Layla Hagen

  Publishing assisted by Black Firefly: http://www.blackfirefly.com/

  (Shedding light on your self-publishing journey)

  Cover Design: Cover it! Designs: https://www.facebook.com/CoverItDesigns

  and

  Proofreading: Allyson

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  Author’s note: the timeline for each character is separate, not running in parallel until after chapter six.

  Autumn 2005 – College Freshman

  “We cannot rule out suicide.”

  I can’t seem to forget these damn words no matter how much booze I drink to try to poison myself. But I sure as hell will keep trying.

  “Bartender,” I say. “Another whiskey. Make it a double.”

  The bartender scowls as he removes the empty glass in front of me. He doesn’t give me a new one.

  “I asked—”

  “First pay me for the three whiskeys you already had,” he snarls, cutting me off. “I’m not giving you another one until you pay me what you owe.”

  “You think I don’t have money to pay for drinks?” I snort, leaning over the counter. “I’ve got enough money to buy this entire bar. No, the whole goddamn building.”

  The man smirks, but the smirk turns into a grimace as his eyes slide to my wrist and he takes in the Rolex.

  “A worthless party boy who has it all, living off Daddy’s money, are you?” he asks through gritted teeth, not taking his eyes off my wrist. “I’m sick of people like you.”

  He’s dead right; I’m worthless. The part about living off my dad’s money is debatable. Technically, it’s my money. My grandfather set up a trust fund for me. I got access to it last month, just before starting college.

  He’s also dead wrong. I don’t have it all. I have nothing. It’s been three months since I had something. Three months since that cursed high school graduation day. Lara—my classmate, my girlfriend, my everything—never showed up at the graduation ceremony. The police showed up instead, telling us she’d crashed her car into a tree and was dead.

  Because of me.

  No one said it, but the accusation hung in the air. Everyone had seen the horrid fight between us before she took off, speeding at one hundred miles per hour in her haste to get away from me. And then the bomb came: the police said they weren’t sure if she’d just lost control of her car or crashed on purpose. They haven’t been able to find out in the months since either, so they closed her case. All I know is she’s dead. Gone.

  And it’s my fault.

  The bartender takes the bills I throw on the counter and a few seconds later plunks a glass of whiskey in front of me. His eyes dart at the Rolex on my wrist again. He stinks of envy.

  Lucky bastard. Those who get to envy others for money are the luckiest. I envy those who have happiness and peace. And since I buried my happiness and peace six feet under the earth, all I have left is trying hard to forget those two concepts even exist. Drinking doesn’t seem to do it.

  “Care to buy me a cocktail?” a woman’s voice calls from my right. I spin on my bar stool to face her. A blonde with large, blue eyes gazes at me. She’s pretty hot. And much better off without me, she just doesn’t know it. Fuck-ups like me should come with a warning sign, so those around us would get it and stay the hell away. The way she bites her lip, I can tell she’s looking for much more than a cocktail. She watches me in the same lustful way women have watched me since I turned fourteen. I can tell she’s looking for some fun. But I am no fun. Least of all, I’m not up for that kind of fun. I haven’t touched another woman before Lara. And haven’t touched any after her.

  “Another time,” I say.

  She jerks her head back, her eyes widening. Her mouth opens but I walk away before she gets one word out, taking my whiskey with me. I look around the pub, trying to find my group. I spot them gathered at a table in the corner and drag myself there. I slump in a seat next to Natalie, the only person in the group I know. I wish she would’ve gone to college somewhere else, though we’ve been friends for years. That’s actually the reason I wish she would’ve gone elsewhere. She went to boarding school with Lara and me. Her presence keeps the horror fresh. She tucks her dark brown hair behind her ears, glancing at me every other minute, like I’m a bomb ready to detonate.

  I pretend not to notice her, and instead focus on what’s going on at the table. A poker game between Natalie and the rest of the group. I don’t know anything about the other four except they go at Stanford with us. As far as I am concerned, the only thing we seem to have in common is obscene trust funds backing us up. Judging by the amounts they are betting, they either have less money than me or more sense. Probably the latter.

  “I raise the bet to fifty thousand,” I say.

  Natalie raises her eyebrows. “You’re not playing, James.”

  “I am starting now. I raise the bet to fifty thousand,” I repeat.

  “That’s a lot of money for a poker bet,” Natalie whispers.

  “Challenge accepted,” the guy sitting opposite me says, grinning. He rubs his hands. I think his name is Ralph. “Finally, someone with balls in this group.” The others shake their heads.

  I straighten up, struggling to focus on the chips Ralph shoves in front of me. Given the amount of whiskey I drank, that’s no easy task. It fucked up my vision and pretty much everything else. Except the guilt. Nothing ever seems to fuck up the guilt. So the guilt just fucks me up.

  Yet, as I stare at the columns of chips, something besides guilt roars inside me.

  Adrenaline.

  “Come on,” I say to the girl dealing the cards. She blushes, dishing out the cards faster.

  Just as I pick up my cards, something hits my left shoulder. “Watch it,” I call, massaging my shoulder, without looking to see what or who collided with it.

  “You watch it.”

  I look sideways. A guy about a head taller and almost twice as wide as me stands there with his arms folded over his chest, glaring down at me.

  I stand up, waddling. “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “Damn right you can,” he growls. “I don’t appreciate people being rude to my sister.”

  I frown. “Who was rude to your sister?” I’m about to point out I have no idea who he or his sister are, but I have a hunch I’m missing something.

  “You think you’re being smart, don’t you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know who your sister is.”

  “Oh, now you pretend you don’t remember.” He cracks his knuckles, glancing over his shoulder. I narrow my eyes and spot the blonde who asked me to buy her a cocktail.

  I snort. “Man, I don’t know what she told you, bu
t I was most definitely not rude to her. I actually did her a favor.”

  What happens next goes so quickly I almost don’t see it. But I feel it. The punch in my stomach sears through me, cutting my breath short. I buckle forward, gasping for air. The blinding pain turns my mind blank.

  For a few seconds I just hang there in nothingness. And it feels damn good.

  But then reality starts to creep back in as the pain fades and a foul breath fills my nostrils. “Are you calling my sister a liar?”

  I form my palms into fists. Finally, something to take my mind off my shit. Something far better than booze or a reckless poker bet.

  Pain.

  I smile. “Not at all. Merely a bad loser. If she wants to get laid so badly, I’m sure there’s someone around here willing to fuck her.”

  I don’t even blink when his fist hits my jaw.

  2006 – High School Freshman

  “Don’t be like this. Come with us, it’ll be fun,” Jess says, twirling a strand of her long, blonde hair around the curling iron. Holding my knees against my chest on her bed, I see Jess’s reflection in the mirror on the door—she’s frowning in concentration, trying not to burn herself with the hot iron.

  “I’m really not in the mood to go out.”

  “You’ve been here for five months and you’ve never been in the mood. Come on, that’s what high school is for.” Her eyes light up. “Fun.”

  “Next time, I promise,” I say, forcing a smile on my lips.

  Jess slumps her shoulders, shaking her head, and then curses as she accidentally touches her forehead with the hot iron. “Fine. Stay home if you want, Serena. But I want your opinion on what to wear to the party.”

  That brings a real smile to my lips. “But you hate the way I dress.”

  “I don’t hate it. It’s just that you British girls dress a bit too old-fashioned for my taste. And for everyone else’s taste in California.” She grins.

  It’s not all British girls who dress like this, just me. But I don’t tell Jess that. It would break her heart. She still hopes that if I live in California long enough, my British taste in clothing might evaporate.

  “Anyway,” she says, “that doesn’t mean I don’t want your opinion. I always wanted to have a sister and do girly stuff together. Now that I have one, I intend to do just that.”

  I wince at the word sister, but I know Jess meant to be sweet by saying it. She’s oblivious to anything, as usual, bless her. Sometimes I wish the others were, too. But they aren’t, most of the time.

  Time.

  They said the pain of losing my sister will fade with time. Mum, Dad, Jess’s parents. They all said that. But, seven months after burying Kate, the knot in my chest hasn’t loosened one bit.

  I’m starting to think it never will.

  Leaving England was a welcome change, though. After Kate died, Mum and Dad did something for me that probably saved my life. Mum’s best friend, Jess’s mum, had moved from London to San Francisco years ago. Mum proposed I move in with them, and do high school in the U.S. I didn’t think twice before accepting. Jess’s parents welcomed me with open arms.

  All in all, moving did make things better, but not by much. It doesn’t help that Jess reminds me so much of Kate, either. They both have long, blonde hair that has a kind of sparkle to it, as if the sun permanently shines on it, the complete opposite of my dull, black hair. And they both love parties. Since she was four years older than me, Kate didn’t take me with her to parties. Not that I ever wanted to go. The people she surrounded herself with scared the living daylights out of me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Jess asks, now holding up two strapless dresses, one blue, one black. Both incredibly short. I point to the blue one, shaking my head to let her know I don’t really approve of either dress. She smiles.

  “No,” I say. “I’m so tired, really.”

  “No shit. You do way too many extracurricular activities. I don’t know how you can think straight.”

  I can’t. Which is why I do it.

  Keeping myself busy with twice as many extracurricular activities as anyone else tires me enough to give me some peace during my sleep. An existence without exhaustion doesn’t seem possible. I know what it means: thrashing around in my sleep, calling for Kate in endless nightmares.

  After Jess is done dressing and putting on makeup, we both go down to the house’s foyer. It’s just the two of us at home tonight. Her parents are both working night shifts, because it pays more. Jess’s parents are just as poor as my own parents, and Jess helps them as best as she can by babysitting a neighbor’s three-year-old on weekends. I’ve been looking constantly for some kind of after-school job, but so far, no luck.

  When Jess opens the door, her crush, Luke, and his best friend, Derek, are already there, leaning on the wall.

  Smoking.

  “I really don’t think you should smoke here,” I say. Jess shoots me a warning look, but I don’t care. Hormones might slow down her neurons, but mine are just fine. “Jess’s parents will recognize the smell when they come home.”

  “No they won’t.” Jess giggles and pulls me outside with the boys.

  I purse my lips, but don’t say anything else.

  Luke snickers. I don’t know what Jess sees in him. Well, I do. With his green eyes and toned abs, he doesn’t look half bad. But he’s got a permanent smug look on his face that makes me want to slap him. Derek is his carbon copy, down to the smug look, except he’s got blond, rather than brown, hair.

  “You do know it’s not a pajama party, don’t you?” Derek asks, looking at my Disney-themed pajamas with disdain. Jess said I should put a robe on, in case the boys were here already, but I couldn’t care less what they think.

  “I’m not coming, genius,” I say.

  I don’t think either of them would even know who I am if they didn’t hang around with Jess. They’re both freshmen, like Jess and me, but I keep mostly to myself at school. Jess takes the cigarette out of Luke’s mouth and takes a deep drag.

  “You should try smoking, too,” Derek says, and stretches his arm toward me, holding his cigarette between his fingers.

  “No, I shouldn’t,” I snap, taking a step back.

  “Easy,” he says. “God, you British people are stiff.”

  He grabs my arm, pushing the cigarette between my lips.

  “Don’t touch me.” I choke on my breath, jerking my arm away from his grip.

  Luke starts laughing, but Jess pushes Derek away, saying, “Leave her alone.”

  “I think I’ll go inside,” I say, my voice trembling.

  “You do that, British girl,” Derek says. “Go be stiff somewhere else.”

  “Shut your mouth, Derek,” Jess spits. “You want me to come up with you?” she asks me in a softer voice.

  “No, no. I’ll go by myself,” I say. The fact that Jess is concerned for me instead of being pissed that I just put up a pathetic show in front of her crush and his best friend makes me think that maybe Jess isn’t as oblivious as I thought.

  I enter the house and close the door behind me, but instead of going upstairs, back to my room, I lean on the door, eavesdropping on what they say; all I can hear are their footsteps as they walk away.

  A spasm of panic rips through me at the thought that Jess is going alone to the party. I should have gone with her. As my breath quickens, I tell myself there’s no reason to worry. There will be other people from our class at the party. Decent people, not dangerous, like the ones Kate hung out with. Stupid and immature, maybe. But not dangerous.

  Jess doesn’t need me.

  Kate did. And I wasn’t there.

  Kate might not have taken me with her to parties, but sometime after I turned thirteen, about one year before she died, she seemed to forget to return home from said parties, and that’s when I started to go looking for her. I learned the places where she hung out pretty quickly. I’d find her sprawled on some couch or floor, or crouched in a corner, too high on
drugs to recognize me.

  The last time I went searching for her to bring her home, one of her so-called friends very nearly stuck a syringe in me. I can still remember his hand grabbing me, his nails scratching at my skin as he pinned me against a wall. “You look like you need some of what we’re having, love. You don’t look very happy.” I taste vomit at the back of my throat as I remember his putrid breath, and then his tongue on my neck. I shudder.

  One drunken, drugged asshole. That was all it took to turn me into a coward. It didn’t take longer than two days for Kate to leave the house again, when my parents left for work. My beautiful Kate. So rotten and wasted by drugs that nothing else mattered when the need for her poison overtook her.

  I was still scared out of my wits, terrified that someone might actually stick a needle in me this time, or force himself on me if I went after her. So I didn’t.

  I told myself—lied to myself—that maybe she’d end up coming home on her own this time.

  Dead, that’s how she ended up.

  Because I let her die just to keep myself safe.

  I press my palms over my eyes. I can’t let any tears come out. Last time I did, I couldn’t stop them for days. I rub my arms, suddenly chilled, and head to the kitchen. Jess’s mum always says chocolate makes things seem sweeter. But as I enter the kitchen, tears start running down my cheeks. And they’re anything but sweet.

  I grab a hot chocolate packet and scissors and quickly cut it open.

  I wish my skin could come off as easily. I wish I could break out of my skin. Peel it, scratch it off layer by layer, and then be someone else. Someone better.

  If that fails, at least be free.

  I stare at the scissors for a few seconds, my heart beating so fast I think it might explode. I wish it would. Maybe then, the constant ache in my chest would disappear.

  I press the tip of the scissors on the back of my hand, wincing. It leaves a fine, white line on my skin. A scratch. This could set me free. I could turn my arm with my wrist up and use the blade of the scissors to cut the green-blue lines open. Blood would spill out, and I’d watch it dribble, drop by drop. That would make the ache in my chest disappear. I bet the guilt, too.