Shards of Us

by Caverly, KR

  I glance over at him, in his fancy suit, his beautiful dark hair spilling over his forehead, and I just don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I can ask that, especially if I'm wrong.

  My toes curl. How come whenever I get even a shred of happiness in my life, someone is always there to rip it right back? How come everything ends badly for me? How come I never get the happy endings I read about in books?

  "Angel, tell me what's wrong," Sebastian says a little harshly, his eyes narrowing. "Have you seen Marco before? Has he tried to hurt you?"

  "No!" I say quickly. "No, nothing like that! It's just…" I open and close my eyes, handing Sebastian back the picture and working hard to keep my hands from trembling. Flashes of Sebastian holding a gun on my parents start racing through my mind, and it's all feeling more and more plausible by the second. "It's just that this is all so much, you know?" I say at last. "I don't know what's going on anymore." Or who to trust, I add silently.

  "Let me make the pain better," Sebastian says, reaching over and wrapping his arms around mine. But tonight, it's uncomfortable for some reason. He doesn't hold me any differently than he used to, but now it feels so wrong, like something is very, very off about feeling him beside me. Touching Sebastian just makes me feel sick, and images of my parents dying, of my dad jumping to save my mom and Sebastian pulling the trigger on them fill my mind.

  The police said it was a robbery, but Sebastian is a professional. If he really did kill them, he could have easily made it seem like a robbery, right? But why would he want them dead? Did Marco call the hit, or did Sebastian do it on his own? I shake my head. I don't even know anymore. So many questions race through my mind, but I don't know the answers to any of them. All I know is that I may very well be in love with my parents' murderer.

  Sebastian brings me closer into his arms, holding me gently, loving, like he always does. He starts kissing the top of my head again, but it doesn't feel as comforting as before. Instead, it just makes me want to push him off and leave this place. All I can think about is my parents' bodies. All I can think is that he may have done it.

  Sebastian moves his kiss down from my head to my neck, holding me by my arms, dragging his tongue along my pale skin. It feels wrong, though. It feels so wrong. And I want him off of me so badly that I can't help but shove him away, perhaps too roughly. "Not tonight," I whisper, my hands shaking.

  He frowns, cupping my chin and looking right into my eyes. "What's wrong?" he says, urgently this time.

  "Nothing." I roll over. "I'm just tired. Please leave me alone."

  "No." Sebastian stands up, his eyes flaring. "No. I'm done leaving you alone. I'm done seeing you get hurt. I just want you to feel better, angel, and you were better until I gave you some freedom today."

  I squeeze my eyes shut. "Stop it, Sebastian. Just fucking lock me up here or whatever you're going to do to me, okay? I need to go to bed."

  Sebastian stops. Steps forward. Anger radiates from him, and I can hear it in his breath, can feel his eyes burning into mine, even though mine are closed. "Why do you think that?" he says, raising his voice. "Why do you think I'm locking you up here?"

  I shake my head, annoyed. "You said yourself I'm your prisoner, remember, Sebastian?" I say too harshly. "I'm just the idiot who you lock up and fuck and move on with after a few weeks. You're probably going to kill me and dump me like you do to everyone else after you're done with me."

  "Don't you dare say that." The hurt in Sebastian's voice is palpable. "Don't you fucking dare! I love you, angel. Don't you get that? I love you. I would never, ever hurt you. And yes, you were my prisoner. But that was before. Things have changed. You aren't my prisoner anymore. You're my lover. We're meant for each other, don't you see? You love me even for my flaws. You're my hero, my savior, and I'm just returning the favor."

  My eyes shoot open, and I stand up to face him, nostrils flaring. "How is this returning the favor? How is locking me up doing me any good? Because it isn't, Sebastian. It's doing nothing. You're--you're running me." My voice cracks. "You're ruining me, your own lover."

  Sebastian face is totally red now, and he's in my face, making my blood boil. My heart keeps pounding and pounding but I'm not in the mood to back down. I'm never backing down, not to him. "I am done taking risks with you, angel!" he shouts. "The one time I let you out of my sight for just a few minutes today, you start acting like this. This is what I mean! This is why I keep you so close! I don’t want to fucking lose you, don't you get that? I want you to be mine. I'm not letting Marco or anyone get to you. So I'm done. I'm done giving you freedom. I'm done trusting you. You're getting your wish, angel. You are my prisoner now. You are mine. Now go the fuck to bed so I can lock you up here."

  I start to argue, to scream back at him, but I don't have the energy. My throat is too hoarse, and I feel so achingly tired, so much that I can only slump back in bed. So I just nod, biting back tears, and I lie down on the bed. I don't meet Sebastian's gaze as he handcuffs me to either part of the frame, the cool metal brushing against my skin. Then, just like that, he storms off into another room. "Goodnight, angel," he hisses behind him, and his voice sounds so broken it makes me want to scream.

  Tears start pouring down my face, and the pain of losing Sebastian too is everywhere. My heart aches and my stomach hurts, and I am so confused, so freaking confused. I don't know who to trust anymore. I don't know what to do. All I know is that I'm miserable, and it’s all because of Sebastian and Marco.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking back to the night I first discovered my parents' bodies, to the cop cars and the sirens and the shock I felt. It's kind of like this shock: the shock of something ending.

  It's interesting how that happens. How everything can be so good one moment, and then the next, all of the good is gone, whisked away, just like that.

  And as I lie there, thinking back to the night my parents died, to the raw and empty pain I felt that night, to the two years of sorrow and loneliness it triggered, only one thought remains:

  If Sebastian really is the killer, then I'm going to make him pay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I never really liked Christmas. Something about it was always so depressing to me, because every Christmas morning I'd wake up and run to my parents' bedroom to pounce on them and open the presents Santa left me, but every morning, they wouldn't be there. My parents would be gone, with an apology note about how some work crap came up and they were sorry, but if Santa came, I could open the presents without them, as always.

  I always knew the whole Santa thing was bullshit, but my parents didn't realize that. They never really realized that I didn't have a real childhood, and they especially never realized it was all thanks to them. When your parents leave you on your own for days at a time all the time, even when you're a kid, it's hard to remain innocent and naïve. It's hard not to learn things you weren't so supposed to know, do things you weren't supposed to do.

  And so, I guess you could call me rebellious. But I wasn't really. I just knew about things my parents wouldn't have wanted me to know. Like sex. I knew all about sex. I had it several times throughout high school--it wasn't like anyone else was around to keep me company. So I screwed a lot of boys, went to lots of parties, and did a lot of dancing. That was my life really. Dance, then parties, then sex. Dance was the major theme, the one thing that really kept me company, but random hookups were a strong second. It felt good, I guess, for a time, before my parents died. It felt good to be intimate with someone else. It made me feel like I wasn't so alone after all.

  But as much as I disliked Christmas, this Christmas, this Christmas now I'm thirteen--a few years before all of the rebellion began--was supposed to be different. My parents were going to be home for once. They promised me, made sure to clear all of their work plans, and I begged them to please be sure, telling them I needed them, telling them I needed their company just this once. And Mom knelt down beside me, stroking my hair and said of course they'd be here, said that th
ey were sorry they've always been so busy but this time, this year, things would be different.

  This Christmas, they would be here.

  And I believed them. Or at least, I kind of did. I kept checking on them, though. Throughout the night on Christmas Eve, I kept making sure they were still here, because I didn't want them to leave again. And through the night, each time I checked, I found them in their bed: sound asleep, waiting until morning. I started to feel giddy, going to bed with a spring in my step because for once, I realized, they would be here on Christmas. They would dedicate a whole morning just to me, and I'd feel happy again. I'd feel like I had a real family.

  And I couldn't wait. I couldn't wait for that oh-so-distant warmth of knowing I'm loved, knowing there are still people out there who care deeply about me, to replace the growing pit in my stomach.

  So come Christmas morning, when my eyes snapped open for the first time and morning sunlight peeked in through the windows, I leapt out of bed and raced toward my parents' bedroom, so thrilled to be able to see them again, just imagining the kinds of things we'd do this morning. I tried to picture what presents they'd give me, what things they'd say, whether they'd make me hot chocolate and rub my back and tell me they loved me like people did in movies. I tried to imagine everything that would happen that morning--everything with them.

  I raced into their bedroom and pounced on their bed, waiting for them to pop up and bring me into a warm embrace, waiting for them to make my Christmas amazing.

  But the bed was empty.

  My heart threatened to plummet at that, but I tried to keep calm. Okay, I thought. Maybe they're surprising me. Yeah. That's got to be it. They're surprising me.

  So, giddiness returning, I raced around the house and checked every room, eyes darting about to find them, heart pounding in anticipation.

  But no one was there.

  Bathroom? Nothing.

  Family room? Nothing.

  Kitchen? Nothing.

  My heart kept sinking and sinking with each room I checked as I realized that, as it turned out, they'd left me again. But it wasn't until I checked my own room that my heart totally plummeted. Because left on my pillow was a note in Mom's rushed handwriting, reading:

  Sorry honey. Work got in the way. I know you must be disappointed. But I saw Santa left you some presents. Maybe next year?

  And I didn't know what was wrong with me, but as soon as I read the note, I closed my eyes and started crying. I just crumpled against my wall, crying and crying, crying because it felt good to cry, because I didn't know what else to do but let the tears pour out of me. I missed my parents. I missed having them close. I missed spending time with them. And for Christmas, I'd only asked for one thing. Not a toy or a game system or whatever. No. All I'd ask for was for my parents to spend a morning with me, and they couldn't even do that.

  They couldn't even stay with me for that long.

  They couldn't even be bothered to make sure I was okay.

  But I loved my parents, I told myself. I loved them because the occasions they were here, they made everything better. I always told myself they were the one bright spot in my life. I always told myself I needed them.

  I can't help but wonder if I always knew I was lying.

  I think I did, honestly. And I think I always knew that I hated them with every goddamn part of me, and was only pretending to like them so I wouldn't feel so alone.

  I think I always knew that sometimes, when things felt especially dark inside of me and I remembered how manipulative and neglectful they truly were, I was… well, I was glad they're dead.

  ***

  When I wake up, both of my arms are chained to each bedpost. I shoot up in bed, everything from the night before flooding back to me, but the chains restrain me. I struggle and struggle, trying to break free, but it is no use. I'm trapped here. Locked up. Just as Sebastian told me I would be.

  I try to scream, jerking my head desperately around, trying to find someone to hear me and let me free. But there is no one. We're isolated here, up on this long hill. There is no one around to save me.

  As if on cue, Sebastian walks into the room, watching me with a kind of defeat. He sips his coffee, looking at me sadly, and the sight of him just makes me want to scream some more. The chains don't hurt at least, and they're loose enough to let me sit up, but I can't move beyond that. I glance down in front of me and notice a plate full of eggs Sebastian must have made me. I knock them over with my foot, then glare up at him. My appetite is totally gone.

  "Angel," he says quietly. "Are you okay?"

  I don't answer him. Just stare into his eyes, into the eyes of the man I thought I could trust, and I just keep shaking my head. The tears sting at my eyes again, hurting like a million papercuts, rising up just like that. I spit at him. "Get away from me," I hiss. "Just get the fuck away from me."

  "I don't want this," Sebastian whispers. His voice is so genuine, so hurt and heartfelt, that I find myself believing him despite myself. And it hurts. It hurts to know I still love him, even after all of this. "You know I don't want this. But you aren't giving me a choice. I'm saving you, don't forget that. I'm saving you by letting Marco get to you."

  My voice keeps trembling. "So this is how it's going to be?" I whisper, rage slipping into my voice. I spit on his shoe. "You're going to lock me up like… like some kind of goddamn animal?"

  He sits down at the edge of the bed. "No, "he says softly. "Of course not. I told you, I'm done. I was going to keep you here, but then I had a… change of heart." He says the words as if it wasn't entirely voluntary, which makes no sense because there is no one else here. "If you want to leave, then leave," he continues. "I'll let you go. I'll always love you, angel. You know that, right? But if you choose to leave, then I'll let you, but I can't protect you if you do. And if you get hurt, I won't be able to live with myself, but I decided it's better me being miserable than you. I told you. I'm a bad man. But I'm not one without morals."

  My stomach churns. What is going on? Why is he letting me leave all of a sudden? And can I even trust him? I tell myself I can't. There's still a good chance he killed my parents. "So if I want to leave," I say slowly, "you'll unchain me? Just like that?"

  "Yes," Sebastian says, but there is a sad, almost bitter edge to his voice. Yes. Something is definitely going on. "You'll be free to go, but with the risks... in case Marco finds you. It's up to you, angel. You know much I love you. But it's wrong of me to hold you here against your will any longer. It's been more than three weeks. I've had plenty of chances to show you how I feel for you. I'm trying to save you, but I can't do that if you don't want to be saved. So I'm giving you the choice." His eyes lock with mine, all fiery and tortured and broken. "Stay with me, or go it alone."

  I open my mouth to say something, to tell him to let me free, but then I stop myself. Do I really want to leave Sebastian? After all he's done for me? I love him, I really do, and leaving him behind will hurt. But then I think about what he could have done to my parents. And I know, I know with all of my heart, that if he killed them, then I will have my revenge.

  My voice trembles. I try to figure out what to do, who to trust--the hitman or his boss? The one who locked me up or the one who is after me? But then, all of a sudden, it hits me. Everything makes sense again. So I look up from my hands, locking eyes with Sebastian, and I say, "I need you to do something for me, before I choose," hard and determined.

  Sebastian watches me carefully. "Yes?"

  I look right into his eyes and say, "Take me upstairs."

  "No," he says immediately. "This is a bad idea. There are some things you just don't want to see."

  My heart starts pounding. I was right. So something is up there, and something important, by the look of it. "You told me you didn't want to lose me, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So if you take me up there, then maybe you won't lose me," I say, sitting up.

  Sebastian shakes his head. "Angel, please--"

 
"Show me," I repeat, not backing down. I know I need to see upstairs. I'm not sure why, but I know it'll have answers, answers I've been so desperately seeking. "Take me there."

  Sebastian keeps his eyes locked on mine, as if challenging me to see if I'll hold my own, and I do. I don't look away. I keep my gaze as strong as possible, my eyes burning into his.

  Finally, he relents. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a key, then slowly unlocks the cuffs. I spring out immediately, relieved to be free. Sebastian leads me across the marble floor toward the winding steps that lead to another floor above. I take a tentative step after step, checking to make sure this isn't a trap, to make sure I'm safe with him.

  My heart begins pounding, and I try to think what I'd do if seeing whatever I'll see is proof that he killed my parents. Would I kill him? Or would I just run away? Would I have the guts to fight back? I don't even know.

  Every part of me hopes I'm wrong about Sebastian killing my parents, hopes this is all a big mistake and Marco is just trying to set me up. And those same parts of me hope Sebastian and I can find a way to go back to normal. But still, I can't help but wonder. If Marco is really after me and Sebastian, it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't kill us on the spot, considering he knew right where we were in that supermarket.

  Something else is going on. Something else has to be.

  I run my hand along the cool rail as we make our way up the stairs. The top floor is a huge thing, filled with decorative paintings and sculpture against the walls, with several giant chandeliers hanging overhead. A large patterned carpet stretches the expanse of the floor, soft beneath my feet.

  When I reach the upstairs, I find myself looking around. There is nothing here. Nothing but a few closed doors leading into other rooms. I look at each of them closely, as if it will tell me which leads to whatever it is Sebastian is hiding up here. But they're all identical, brown-lacquered wood and seemingly untouched.