Embers of Starlight

by Sonia de Leon

  Text copyright © 2014 Sonia De Leon

  All rights reserved. This book (except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations) may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Jennifer Clark Sell

  Cover design by Natalie Ward

  This novel is dedicated to women; those who have made the right decisions or the wrong ones; for those who have survived abuse and for those who are living a nightmare. Either way, if you find yourself in a situation of abuse or exploitation, my greatest wish is that you get out. I hope this book sheds accurate light on a difficult topic that many prefer to either glamorize, ignore, or penalize.

  Prologue

  COOL WATER POURS OVER my face, rousing me from what feels like a deep sleep. My head aches, and the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

  They aren’t done with me yet. Raping a dead woman isn't all that fun, but necrophilia wasn't unheard of in this godforsaken place. I have taken my share of beatings in the past months, however, in the pit of my stomach, I know this will be my last one. It is a blessing, really, to be finally released from this hellhole. I have thought about ending my own life countless times, but could never bring myself to do it. A small part of me feels satisfied, because I have survived this cruelty as long as I possibly could.

  Bright lights shine in my face. This won’t do. The most sacred things in life require darkness: birth, lovemaking, and death. I groan and lift my hand to shadow my eyes.

  “She's coming awake,” says a male voice directly to my right. “Tula, can you hear me?”

  That voice. It's familiar. But no, he couldn't be here. His cowardice is the reason I'm here. And if he's here, on this boat, then my fears are true, and he has become the most worthless piece of scum to walk the earth. Maybe he's dead and I am meeting him in the afterlife. I cheer up a little at the thought, but then rage immediately floods my body.

  My hands tighten into fists. I have a little strength left in me. Once they know I am fully conscious, their debased idea of fun will begin. Their pleasure will come at the price of my life, bled out on the cold concrete beneath my body. I'm going to die anyway, might as well take someone out with me.

  Without opening my eyes, I turn toward the voice, feigning weakness. Warm hands engulf my shoulders, pulling me upright. Once upon a time, I loved those hands. I had craved their touch as much as my lungs craved oxygen.

  I channel the wolf, the tigress, and most of all, the angry, desolate woman who refuses to be raped one more time. My eyes fly open, my pupils dilate, and I lunge, wrapping my hands around his throat.

  1

  Fall 2008, six years earlier

  THE MOST EXCITING THING about the first day of senior year, is that I am one day closer to being forever done with school.

  “Talula!” My mother’s voice shrieks from downstairs.

  “Coming, mother!” I call back, as I poke long feather earrings through my earlobes.

  I pull my backpack on both shoulders, and leave my room, then begrudgingly walk down the dark, narrow stairs. My mother stands in the foyer, waiting. She drops her eyes to my feet, then runs them up my form. Her dissatisfied expression tells me everything I need to know about her mental state today. Some days she is the wonderful, loving mother who filled my childhood with light and happiness. Other days, she morphs into a bitter, angry woman, lashing her discontent with life out at the nearest person—usually me.

  “High-waisted, bell bottoms, Tula? Really? Those do you no justice, you know. And I think you may have actually gained weight over the summer,” she scoffs and turns away.

  Wonderful. I feel absolutely ready to walk into my senior year now. Thanks, mom. I shake my head, and pluck my favorite worn tank top away from where the vintage cotton has molded to my stomach. This shirt is all I have left of my dad. He took me and my sister to one of the last Ramones concerts when I was seven years old. At the time, the adult size extra-small shirt was oversized on me, but now, it fits almost like a crop top. Thus the need for high-waist jeans. What my mom considers unflattering, I consider genius.

  After slipping my feet into my sheepskin-lined Minnetonka moccasins, I walk out the front door.

  For most of my school years, I've stayed well under the radar. And while I have never been in with the popular kids, everyone has treated me with the same casual indifference I treat them with.

  I slide into my desk five minutes before the bell for first period, and study my schedule. Students slowly trickle in. I don't need to look up to know what I would see. Girls will be dressed in their first day finest, either short skirts or bootcut jeans, paired with flowy or floral babydoll tops. Boys will be wearing either a sports jersey, or some shade of checkered shirt. Giggles and shouts float around me, as the girls compliment one another on their choice of outfit, and the boys high five and shoulder bump their greetings.

  Behind me, someone's palm taps out a staccato beat on the top of the desk. “Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go oh-oh, I wanna be sedated,” a voice sings, low enough for no one else to notice, but loud enough for me to hear.

  I'm intrigued. I lean my chin on my fist and casually peek over my shoulder, my auburn hair curtaining my face. At a glance, I see that the boy is wearing jeans, and a worn, fitted t-shirt.

  “Hey,” he says in casual greeting.

  “Hey,” I respond nonchalantly, and turn forward in my chair, feigning disinterest.

  “So the Ramones, huh?”

  “Yep.” I have become monosyllabic.

  “Look at this.”

  I turn and face him. He reminds me of James Dean, with his wildly tousled, dark brown hair, heavy, dark brows, and full, brooding lips. His eyes are deep set and soulful, and their color is bluish-grey, like pewter. He leans back, spreads his arms, and points both index fingers toward his chest.

  “Nice,” I say, breaking into a genuine smile. “Joey Ramone silhouette, huh?”

  “The one and only,” he responds with a lopsided grin. “That’s the Adios Amigos tour shirt, right? Were you there?”

  “Uh huh.” I nod.

  Awkward silence ensues. The bell rings, so I face forward once more. Mr. Edwards strolls into class, distracted and hurried.

  “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.” He begins the usual first day lecture. “Welcome to World History. I call you by both names, because by the end of this year, we will determine the girls from the ladies, and the boys from the men. Claim responsibility. Be respectful to your teachers and fellow students, and you will succeed.”

  He continues to drone on, and I busily scratch down notes. Fifty-five minutes later, the bell rings, and everyone jumps out of their seats, collecting their books in their arms.

  “Dang you're short!”

  I roll my eyes as I spin to face the guy who had been sitting behind me. He's tall, lanky, and well over six feet. His handsome face causes my breath to catch for a second, disarming me.

  I recover and tighten my arms around my books. “I'm like those things that come in small packages,” I say defensively.

  “Pop rocks?” He grins.

  “No!” I laugh despite myself. “I'm like dynamite, man. You know, ka-boom.”

  “Nice to meet you, Pop Rocks.” He smiles as he strolls out of the room, giving me one more backward glance as he turns down the hall.

  Well now. I smile softly to myself as I smooth down my hair and continue on, wondering if the new boy will be in any more of my classes.

  * * *

>   IN GYM, THE TEACHER calls him Samson Wright, and he immediately corrects her, requesting to be called Sam. I see him again at lunch. After he grabs a wrapped sandwich, chips, and a Coke, he leaves the lunchroom to eat elsewhere. The slight disappointment in my chest can’t be ignored. There is something about this Ramone-singing, James-Dean-looking boy that captures my attention.

  When the final bell of the day rings, students file haphazardly through the hallway, slamming lockers and shouting their goodbyes. I quickly find my friend Solei. We've been best friends since fourth grade. Both of us are in the median of high school social infrastructure; neither pretty or fashionable enough to be popular, but not smart enough to be nerds. We're both quirky, and each of us has our own style. I wear what I call gypsy chic, and she calls her style extraterrestrial couture. Her light-blond ponytail, streaked with pink, is pulled up high on her head, and she wears shiny black parachute pants paired with a metallic silver tank top. Her fingernails are also painted in metallic silver.

  She greets me with a nod. “Let's blow this Popsicle stand, home fry,” she says, slamming her locker shut.

  As we walk, we fill each other in on our schedules, bemoaning the fact that the only class we share is Art. Up ahead, I see a tall, dark form leaned against a black vintage Dodge Challenger, and I immediately zoom in. It's Samson, his T-shirt sleeves rolled up, and his hands cupped near his mouth as he lights a cigarette. Disgusting. I roll my eyes, thinking how he had so much promise to be considered my crush for the year, but now it's squashed by that gross habit. There is still something I find captivating about him, though.

  His eyes squint slightly as Solei and I near him, and he sucks a drag from his cancer stick. He tilts his head back and blows the smoke upward, and I silently thank him for his regard by not blowing the fumes in our direction.

  “Hey, Pop Rocks.” He grins as he brings the cigarette to his mouth again.

  “Hi Samson,” I reply.

  “It's Sam.”

  “I know. See you tomorrow, Samson,” I casually call over my shoulder as we pass him.

  He shakes his head and laughs silently, blowing the smoke from his lungs.

  Solei waits until we're out of earshot. “Who is that?”

  “Not sure. I've never seen him before today, so he must be new to the town. We have a couple classes together.”

  “He's hot.”

  “I know,” I mumble. “He likes the Ramones, too. He sang ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ to me in first period.”

  “Holy crap. Did you get a lady boner?”

  “Oh my God, yes! But now I'm suffering erectile dysfunction after seeing him with that cigarette.”

  “Oh come on, there are worse things than cigarettes.”

  “I know, it's just a big turn off for me. You have weird turn offs, too! Remember that sexy guy you met over the summer? Mohawk, and tattoos, and muscles, oh my! And then you saw his long fingernails!”

  “Ewwwww!” Solei screeches and shudders, dry heaving for extra effect. “Don't remind me!”

  I laugh and run my fingernail down her arm, lowering my voice to my manliest tone. “Can I nail you sometime, baby?”

  “Stop it!” She covers her ears and runs away from me, then turns back, her hazel eyes blazing with intensity. “You wanna talk about gross guys, Tula? Let's talk about your first kiss.”

  “Um, please don't.” My request falls on deaf ears, but I know I deserve it.

  “Oh Solei,” she says, mimicking my thirteen-year-old voice, “ask that boy if he'll go on the Ferris wheel with me.”

  I groan in remembrance. He looked really cute, but I was too shy to ask him. Solei had enough confidence and charisma for the both of us. The boy came over, strutting like a proud peacock, then took my hand and led the way to the ride. My heart fluttered in excitement as I followed behind him. Everyone knew what happened on the Ferris Wheel, and I was more than ready for my first kiss . . . or so I thought.

  We sat in the little cars, and my stomach flipped when his thigh touched mine. He turned to me, unleashing his smile. Dear monkey on a tricycle, it looked like his teeth were fighting to get out of his mouth, all jumbled and tripping over one another. But the crooked teeth were the least of my concern. The staining and yellowing caking his cuspids caused my eyes to widen, as I wondered if he had ever seen a toothbrush in his life.

  The ride lurched to life, and began rotating. Toothy didn't waste any time, and with the stealth of a giraffe, he turned, spritzing his mouth with breath spray. He'd need more than cinnamon flavor to make him appear kissable, and I willed a sledgehammer to fly out of the spray hole. I giggled as I imagined his shocked face with crooked teeth falling out one by one like they would in the cartoons. He mistook my giggles for nervous excitement, and immediately began mauling my mouth with his. I was assaulted by an over-zealous forehead, wormy lips, and wayward teeth. His tongue snaked into my mouth, and I gagged at the taste of cinnamon breath spray, pulling away to gasp for air like a drowned cat. The longest five minutes of my life began and ended on the Ferris Wheel. I swore I'd never kiss another guy after that.

  I grimace and shake my head. “Thanks for reminding me, Solei. Not like I'd ever forget. It's his fault I've avoided guys since then.”

  “Well, at least Samson has nice lips and teeth,” she says in a sing-song voice.

  “And he probably tastes like nicotine. Nope.”

  Upon returning home, I am greeted by the scent of pumpkin filling the house. I smile. Mom must be making empanadas, which means she's in a better mood.

  “Hey sweetie.” She greets me with a smile and dough-caked hands.

  I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  “Put your bag down and come help me. How was school?”

  I fill her in on my day as we roll out and fill the dough. She laughs in all the right places, and I bask in this moment of having her feel herself again.

  Mom pulls open the silverware drawer and hands me a fork. “Your favorite part.”

  I roll my eyes and take the fork. “I'm not a little kid mom,” I grumble.

  With subdued enthusiasm, I set to the task of sealing the empanadas with the same focused diligence I've used every year since the age of five.

  As I work, I glance up at my mother. She is beautiful, or at least I think so. I've been told that I'm a clone of her, but I can only wish it's close to the truth. Her nose is small and straight, and she always wears red lipstick on her full, slightly-pouty lips. I've been blessed with the same straight, white teeth. Our huge smiles are identical in the way that our top and bottom teeth show, and how the soft Cupid's bow on our top lip disappears into an almost straight line. I think I have her high cheekbones, but my face is still too girlish to see much definition.

  Fifteen minutes later, the warm, golden, pumpkin-filled crescents emerge from the oven, and mom and I waste no time digging in. I burn my tongue on the first bite, but forge ahead undeterred.

  “You don't like them,” my mother states with conviction.

  “What? Do you not see me inhaling this mom? It's amazing!” I try reassure to her, but I see her starting to deteriorate before my eyes. She wrings her hands and turns away, then begins to clean up, frantically scrubbing the countertop and throwing utensils and bowls into the sink.

  “You can't even make a simple empanada correctly,” I hear her muttering to herself. “She doesn't like it. She hates it. You can't ever make her remember what it was like before.”

  Tears prickle behind my eyes as the familiar scene unfolds. I want to rush over to her, I want to reassure her, but she is being sucked into a black hole I have no power to pull her away from. I simply don't know what to do, so I sit in silence and finish the once-incredible empanada, which now tastes like sand. I wash my plate and turn to my mother. She is folding and unfolding a dirty kitchen towel. I fill a cup of water, open the cabinet, and bring down her pill box. After removing her evening dose, I place the pills in her hand and hand her the glass of water.

  “Thanks, mom. It
was delicious. I have to do some homework now,” I lie.

  I walk away, feeling both relief and total cowardice in my escape.

  2

  “Oh, come on. You don't really believe that,” Samson scoffs as we walk down the lunch line.

  “There have been sightings everywhere, of the same creature, different eyewitness accounts describing the same thing. There's even video on YouTube!” I grab a bag of pretzels and an apple, then turn to face him. “Bigfoot is real.”

  “You're losing it,” he mutters.

  Several weeks into school, and we've become easy friends. We share a similar taste in music, and understand one another's self-deprecating humor. Apart from that, we're as different as fire and ice. I think that we should have more in common to get along so well, but we never lack conversation.

  We leave the lunch line and head for the exit doors of the cafeteria.

  “Ah crap!” I spin around, suddenly remembering that I didn't get a drink.

  “Your apple juice.” Samson tosses a bottle at me. Everything in my hands goes flying, as I attempt to both protect my face and catch the juice. I accomplish neither and the bottle hits me square in the forehead. I stand there empty-handed and seething, as he dissolves into hysterical laughter. “Every. Single. Time, Tula!”

  “You're a bastard,” I hiss. This is the third time he's done this to me. “Now retrieve my lunch, Farm Boy.”

  “As you wish,” he whispers.

  I laugh. “You know The Princess Bride?”

  “I have three older sisters; I could recite that movie by heart.” He bends down to pick up my scattered lunch.

  “Favorite line?”

  He lets out a short laugh, then recites, “I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake. But for now, rest well and—“

  “—dream of large women!” we say in unison.

  I giggle uncontrollably, then go quiet. “Don't you miss them?”

  “My sisters? Yeah, but I got you to annoy me now.” He grins and ruffles the top of my head. “And anyway, they're all married and have their own families. They were so pissed when I left.”