I’m next.
Music blares as fifteen violins ring out a melody akin to my funeral toll. I tighten my dampening grip around the flower stems, elbows clenched at my sides.
Soft footsteps patter behind me.
Perfectly framed in the doorway of my dressing room is him, my Piren Allston, my best friend. The man I love. The man who protects me. Who loves me. Who should have been the one waiting for me at the end of this aisle. The man I just banished from my life forever.
We stand eight feet apart in silence. I take a deep breath.
This is for you.
My legs move like wooden stilts. I pass through the doorway, step by step, down the aisle. Music grows louder, echoing through the rotunda as I progress through the Ceremony Hall.
Hundreds of people rise around me, surrounding me with blank, empty faces. Cameras flash from every angle, capturing every minute of the show. Everyone I’ve ever known is here, and they’re all strangers, standing to watch me process down the aisle, the audience at my big performance.
I pass my parents and sister in the front row. Sam puffs his tuxedo-clad chest by the altar, dark hair slicked back in a shiny wave.
Sam takes my hands. Everybody sits.
My thudding heart drowns the preacher’s words in my ears. He indicates to my Partner.
“I love you, Tracy Macey,” Sam says, beaming.
Four hundred hot stares bear down on me. My fingers constrict around the quivering bouquet in my hands. I blink back a threatening veil of tears and inhale a shaky breath.
“I love you…Sam Macey.”
We are married. Too soon, we are married.
Piren Allston
My swollen eyes sting as I slam my apartment door. Tears flow like a river down my face, and I don’t even care.
She did it. She actually did it.
I throw my body against the bathroom sink, heaving for air. The mirror taunts me, hovering on the wall as a clear reminder of who I am: the Partner of Lara Goodren, and nothing to Tracy Bailey.
Look at you, you piece of shit. You fucked everything up.
Lara’s inspiration stones mock me from her ugly purple basket. The Love rock gloats, boasting manufactured romance, inscribed into the stone by a faceless factory.
Fuck you.
I swipe the rock from the basket and hurl it at the mirror, shattering the glass into a million pieces.
I collapse in a quivering heap on the couch, head in my hands.
The front door swings open. Lara stomps into the room in a pink evening dress.
“You didn’t come.” Her shrill voice grates into my ears. “You left me alone like an idiot. Your parents asked where the hell you were, and I didn’t have an answer for them.”
She walks into the hall and gasps.
“Holy shit, what is all this glass on the floor? What the hell happened to our mirror?” She rushes back to the living room, hands on her hips, glowering. “Were you crying?”
I don’t respond.
She huffs and storms off to her bedroom. Several minutes later, she emerges, flopping onto the armchair beside the couch. She drops something on the coffee table with a clatter.
It’s the fang keychain I bought as a teenager. I snort and pick up the trinket, rolling my eyes.
“You kept it.”
“It was the first gift you ever bought me yourself.”
I slump back on the couch, stretching my legs under the coffee table.
“But it wasn’t meant for me,” she says, “was it?”
I stare straight ahead.
“Was it, Piren?”
Pause.
“No.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Boy, was I an idiot back then. Clean up the glass.”
She rises from the chair, collects her coat, and walks out the door without another word.
I understand the purpose of Assigning now. It isn’t to be happy; it’s to be compatible. To reproduce, to raise children…to get Assigned, and reproduce. It’s all a cycle of going through the motions. It is a life, without living.
Part Seven: Twenty-Four Years Old
Tracy Bailey
Sam and I had sex on our wedding night. And three times a week since the wedding, six weeks ago. Just like we’re supposed to. I lie still, and he does what he needs to do. He grunts and thrusts, and I stay there until he’s done. I lie back and take it, because that’s what you do with your Partner. You deal with it. You suck it up and let them.
Nausea swells inside me, through my stomach and up my esophagus.
I jump out of bed and sprint to the bathroom. Collapsing on the linoleum, I fall to my knees at the toilet. Gags rip through my body in waves as chunks spew into the bowl. I pull away and wipe my mouth, shaking.
Sam stumbles into the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. “Third time this week. That’s it. You’re going to the doctor.”
“No! I—”
Another load rockets up from my stomach, spilling into the toilet in a retching mess.
Sam raises his eyebrows.
“Fine.” I shudder on the floor. “You drive; I’ll go.”
I shiver on a cold bench, wrapped in a medical robe at Dr. Patel’s office. Sam hovers over me, pacing, as we wait for the doctor to return. Doc took several vials of my blood, and probably enough urine to fill a gas tank. I run my thumb over the white bandage in the crook of my elbow.
The door squeaks open, and Dr. Patel steps inside.
“Well?” Sam leans closer.
The doctor flips through pages on his clipboard.
“Well,” he says, “I’ve got some great news. Tracy, you’re pregnant.”
Sam slaps his hand to his mouth.
“Congratulations, Macey family.” The doctors shakes my husband’s hand. “You’re going to have a new member.”
A weak smile spreads across my face. I rub my hand over my stomach, and my heart swells.
My sweet, little baby swims inside me.
Warmth spreads all the way down to my toes.
Dr. Patel hands me some vitamins and breaks into a spiel about nutrition. Sam nods, stroking his chin with one hand, embracing me with the other.
Love. My entire being engorges with love for this little bean in my belly.
I cradle my stomach in my hands. He or she dwells inside, waiting to meet me.
Little Rafael or Dominique.
I slide my arm around Sam’s waist, cuddling into his side. He kisses the top of my head.
“How far along is she, Doc?” Sam asks, patting my belly.
“Well, judging by her urine test,” Dr. Patel scans his notes, “I would say definitely eight weeks along.”
My heart stops.
No. It can’t be. That doesn’t add up.
Sam’s smile fades.
I gulp.
This is it. I’ll be Banished forever, alone, with my bastard child.
Sam’s eye twitches. “Are you…Are you sure?”
“Clear as day, right here in the tests, Mr. Macey.”
My Partner’s grip tightens around my arms. “Thank you, doctor. We can’t wait to start planning.”
We climb into Sam’s car, but he doesn’t speak. The engine roars to life.
Is he going to drive me straight to the Mayor’s office?
I tap my fingers on my thighs, watching him from the corner of my eye. His knuckles grow white around the steering wheel.
“Sam—”
“Who did you fuck, you filthy whore?”
I stare at the ground.
“I said, who did you fuck?”
“No one. Just you.”
I rest my hands over my stomach.
It’s okay. I’ll keep you safe.
We zip down the highway, obliterating the speed limit.
“Sam…please slow down…”
The speedometer reads ninety.
“Sam!”
Ninety-five.
“You think I’m an idiot?” he mutters.
I keep my he
ad down.
“You disgust me. You don’t deserve to breathe.”
“Sam—”
“Shut your trap, or I’ll shut it for you.”
I pat my stomach.
Go to sleep, little one. I’ll protect you.
He speeds into our driveway and slams on the brakes with a ghostly screech. I grip the bottom of my seat as the car thrusts me forward.
Sam grabs me by the hair and yanks me out of the car. I stumble over my feet as he drags me up the driveway.
“Ow! Sam! Stop!” I flail out my leg to kick him, but it doesn’t reach.
Someone, come outside. See us. Help me. Anyone.
“Stop! Help!”
My screams echo, but no faces appear. He tightens his grip, ripping clots of hair from my skull. I wince, water welling in my eyes.
He shoves me through the door and throws me to the ground. I spring my arms out, shielding my stomach from the fall. The rug slices my hands, and shiny burns streak across my palms.
Sam rips open the liquor cabinet and shoves a bottle of scotch under my nose.
“Drink it.”
“No. I’m pregnant.”
“It’s a bastard.” He showers me with spit. “Drink it now and kill that piece of shit inside.”
I spread my hands over my belly. “No.”
“Shut up!” He swings his arm back and slaps me across the face. “Or I’ll pour it down your slut throat.”
He grabs my chin, but I yank my face away.
“I’m going to fuck you tonight.” He slugs from the bottle. “And you’re gonna give me a real child.”
My heart hammers in my chest.
“But that’s what you like, isn’t it?” he says. “I bet you begged some guy to fuck you. Ran to the first one you saw, hiked your skirt up, made him ravage you like the whore you are.”
“Just Banish me. I’ll go. I’ll take the blame my—”
“Shut it!” He tilts the bottle, spilling liquor down my face. “You think I’ll let them Banish you so some guy in Lornstown can fuck you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Stupid bitch. If I can’t have you, nobody can.”
I rip the bottle from his hands and hurl it against the wall where it shatters, raining shards and scotch over our heads. I roll to the side, shielding my belly from the glass.
“You’re gonna protect that thing?”
I shove him with all my strength and bolt from the room. With heavy footsteps plodding behind me, I sprint to the bathroom and slam the door, ramming the lock.
Chest heaving, I fumble the buttons on my cell phone, back against the door, and dial 9-1-1.
I hear ringing through the phone as the doorknob jiggles. “Tracy…I know you’re there…”
Come on. Why won’t someone answer the phone?
The knob shakes under my Partner’s grip. “Tracy, open the fucking door!”
The ringing continues.
Come on!
“Hello, nine-one-one dispatcher, this is Susan—”
“My name is Tracy Bailey Macey. I live at four-fifty-one Elm. My husband—”
With an explosive bam! Sam’s fist plunges through the wood. I shriek into the receiver.
“Help! Please!”
He bursts inside, rips the phone from my hands, and flings it into the toilet.
“You called the cops, you fucking whore?”
I shove past him into the kitchen, but he grabs my shirt and throws me to the floor.
Before I can move, he’s straddling me, slamming my head into the cabinet by the stove. His fingers wrap around my throat, throttling me into the edge of the sharp wood, slicing the back of my neck. I flail out my arm and punch his cheek.
“Stupid bitch.” He springs to his feet and flings his booted foot into my side. I curl into a ball with a yelp, pain searing through my flank. “Look what you made me do.” He spits on the floor.
Warm blood trickles down my neck. I brush the cut, and my fingers stain red. He glares down at me, sickly fire raging in his eyes.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, “and come into the bedroom.”
Shallow breaths rip through my lungs.
Plan. I need a plan.
“I said, get up. I’m gonna fuck you. Right now.”
I splay my fingers over my stomach.
Something. Anything.
“Get up!” His fists quake at his sides. “I love you, Tracy Macey.”
My pulse speeds through my body like a freight train.
“I said, I love you, Tracy Macey!” His brows lower. “Tell me you love me, you bitch!” He slaps me across the face. “Say it!”
Zapped of energy, I lie motionless on the cold tiles. An upturned chair lies beside us, my husband’s latest unfinished project. A hammer and assorted nails scatter across the floor around it, waiting for a repair that will never come.
Sam’s sweat-beaded face hovers inches from mine, menacing and threatening, ready to strike.
My father bears down on me, hurling insults and fists at my meek child’s body. Laughing at me. Calling me weak. I cower in the corner and take it.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins.
No. He won’t hurt me anymore. Won’t hurt us.
I prop myself on my elbows, wincing. “My name…” I say in a barely audible whisper, “…is not Tracy Macey. It never was. It never will be.”
“Fuck you!” He slaps me again. “Tell me you love me!”
“Oh, Sam. You’re an idiot.”
He leans closer, eyes wild and brimming with insanity. “What did you call me?”
Keep him talking.
I force a smirk. “Love is such a strong word, isn’t it?”
He glowers, narrowing his eyes into slits.
“But in this town,” I continue, “we pass it around like dinner rolls.” Strength builds behind my words. “You know what, Partner? I’ve only ever really truly loved three people in my entire life: Veronica. Piren. And my baby in my belly.”
“You little slut, you’re my Partner. You belong to me.”
“No.” I shake my throbbing head. “I’m not a slut. And I’m definitely not yours.”
His reddening face tremors with rage, but I don’t care. I stare straight into his eyes.
“I don’t love you, Sam Macey. I’ve never loved you, Sam Macey. And I. Never. Fucking. Will.”
A pulsing vein in his forehead bulges, threatening to pop out of his skin. “You love that thing in your stomach more than you love me.” His lips curl into a sick, demented grin. “If I have to cut it out of you, I will.” He draws a switchblade from his pocket.
No.
My heart pounds in my ears. I scoot back, all strength draining from my body.
“Don’t do this.” I quaver. “You’re not a killer.”
He inches closer, and I scramble backward on my raw hands.
“Sam…please…” My voice cracks. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“You’re scared, huh?” He twirls the blade in his fingers. “You should be.”
He lunges, but my fingers wrap around the hammer—his hammer—which I send flying top speed toward his face, through his temple. It smashes into his skull with an earsplitting crack.
He drops to the floor.
And just like that, I am a widow.
Piren Allston
Two hours ago, a police officer rang my doorbell. My heart lurched, as if my body knew why he was there. Lara peeked over my shoulder.
“Are you Piren Allston?” he asked, flashing his badge.
I nodded.
“My name is Officer Edwards, and I’m here to ask you a few questions about the death of Samuel Ryan Macey.”
Lara gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth. My jaw dropped.
What the fuck? Sam is dead?
Lara’s frightened eyes fell on me. I focused on a button on the officer’s uniform. My stomach churned in a sickly stew.
Trace.
I swallowed hard. “What…happened?”
&nb
sp; “May I come in?”
We stepped back from the door to let him pass. Lara led the officer to our living room, where he sat down on the edge of our couch. I sat in the armchair across the room. Lara leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“What happened?” I asked again.
“Where were you this evenin’?” the officer asked.
“Here.” I trembled. “What hap—”
“Can you verify that?”
“He was.” Lara rubbed her forehead. “He was here all night.”
The officer jotted in his notepad. Elbows on my knees, head in my hands, I sat at his mercy. My throat burned as I choked out answers to his questions.
“A source tells me you’re close to Mrs. Macey?”
“No.” My insides clenched. “Not anymore.”
Brows furrowed, he scribbled more notes. After an hour interrogation, he stood to leave.
“Officer.” I jumped up. “Wait.”
He halted mid-step.
“Please.” I furiously blinked my swollen eyes. “What happened?”
He took a deep breath. “We think there was a domestic scuffle. Got the call, swarmed the home, but it was too late. Chief found his body on the kitchen floor, blood everywhere. Our CSI team thinks it was a mix of his blood…and hers.”
No.
I inhaled, but breath wouldn’t fill my lungs. He reached for the door, but I grabbed his arm.
“Tracy Bailey,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Mrs. Macey? She’s gone. Nowhere to be found. Called the station, screamed some incoherent garble, then the line went dead.” He scrubbed his hand down his face. “We have…theories. We suspect a murder-suicide combo. Classic case. Probably went somewhere to off herself after killing the poor guy.”
Murder-suicide. The words shot me in the chest.
“Murderin’ whore. Who in their right mind kills their own Partner?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand some people. We’ve got people out now, searchin’ for her. Personally, I’m hopin’ she already did herself in. Better than if they catch her alive. I hate hostin’ executions. Bad for morale on the force.”
Execution.
“G’night.” He tipped his cap and strutted outside, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
Trace.
Missing Pieces Page 30