Fracture (5 page)

     What the hell am I going to do with Declan? I can’t take him to my new flat, though it’s certainly safer and more secure than the one we’re in now. From the state of his own place, he won’t want to go there. The neighbors I’m friendly with — Murat and Ismael, Mrs. Vucik, Mila, Dr. Gudelj — are stressed enough as it is.

     “I need to get home,” I mumble, mind racing, trying to piece together a plan.

     A burst of gunfire has Cristian pressing me farther into the doorway, shielding me with his body. In the ensuing silence, he leans back and sticks his head out, turning this way and that as he checks the street. “It’s not near—”

     More shots. An explosion. Heartrending screams, shouts. The ear–shattering crack of bullets. Over and over, until the world is made of noise and nothing else. I’m surprised my ears aren’t bleeding.

     If this street is clear, I can head away from the noise, wind my way back to the flat. I visualize a possible route, strain to gauge the direction the fighting’s coming from. Cristian’s fingers tip my chin up, and I shake myself. “What?”

     “I have to go. My unit is in the area, that’s probably them. Stay here until it clears.” He pushes me back into the corner and ducks out.

     I can’t stay here. What a stupid,
stupid
idea. There’s no way to tell if the fighting will move, if I’ll end up trapped. First rule of living in a war zone: don’t get caught out in the open. A doorway counts as open. The door’s probably locked but I try it anyway, cursing uselessly when I find it’s true. My lockpicks are in the jeans I wore yesterday. I’m screwed.

     The fighting sounds like it’s coming from all directions, so I pick one and pray I won’t walk into a bullet. I jog to the corner and peek around it. The street’s clear. For now. Now is my window. The soundtrack of war crashes over me as I dash from one block to the next.

     I’ve done it before, raced through the streets as guns blaze hot one block over. It’s not my favorite. But I’ve heard too many stories of people waiting in doorways, huddling in alleys, hoping for the best and getting caught in the crossfire because there weren’t four walls and a roof over their heads. Shelter doesn’t always equal safety, but it’s better than none at all.

     I’m so relieved to make it back to the flat in one piece I don’t bother trying to be quiet as I climb the stairs to the second floor. Outside, the fighting’s just as loud and fierce as it was when I made a break for it. The door swings open as my hand touches the doorknob.

     The scowl gracing Declan’s face is all the more imposing for the bruising on it. Add in his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light and his imposing height, and if I hadn’t already seen his naked backside I’d be intimidated. “Where have you been?”

     An explosion rocks the street outside, the windows rattling with the impact. I hold up the plastic bag I somehow managed to hang on to, my hands shaking along with the rest of me. “Nectarine?”

     His mouth shuts with a click of teeth. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Could you try not to get yourself killed? I can’t exactly run out after you.”

     “I don’t need you to.” Another
boom
, and a crack snakes its way up a living room window. A tremor shrills through my body. Breathing is difficult. I hate these moments. Hate how easily broken I am. “Bedroom. Please. Now. It’s safer.”

     The flat’s laid out so the bedroom faces an inner courtyard and the living room and kitchen face the street. Sliding an arm around Declan’s waist, we make our limping way to the bedroom just as another explosion rocks the building.

     He hops over to the bed while I shut the door behind us. “What were you thinking, going out alone?”

     I was thinking I had to get away from him. I wrap my arms around my middle. “I’ve been doing it for the last two years. Haven’t gotten so much as a scratch. And I had no way of knowing a firefight would start up after I’d left, or that it would be right outside.”

     “After the one earlier this morning, I could have told you it was a possibility.” He flinches at the sound of glass breaking, the tinkling strangely musical over the harsh crack of guns firing. “Think you can help me out?”

     That’s when I notice that, while he managed to pull on a sweater, he’s only wearing boxers. And one sock. He’d removed the plastic bag from his cast. “You’re going to have to cut up a pair of pants. Or two.”

     “Fine.”

     I retrieve the scissors from the bedside table and go to work on a pair of jeans. “You could have done this yourself, you know. You got the boxers on.”

     “More fun to have you do it.” The smile he flashes is wicked and charming and turns my stomach into one giant knot.

     “Right.” The forced intimacy of the situation is wreaking havoc on my brain. Too long avoiding extended,
meaningful
contact with people. Light catches the scissor blades, my hand jerking with each blast of gunfire. The cut in his jeans is jagged and uneven as a result. He tugs them on without further help from me and reaches for the bandage to rewrap his wrist.

     The explosion happens right next to my ears. I’m airborne. There are shadows in front of my eyes, smoke in my nose, a ringing in my ears. A heavy weight presses me to the floor, warm, solid, and immobile. No amount of wriggling and shoving gives me room to move.

     “
Stop it
.” Declan, his breath whispering against my skin.
He's
what’s on top of me. We’re on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Pain glazes his eyes as his arms curve around my head.

     
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My heart’s been replaced by a subwoofer. Fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, I breathe in the scent of dish soap. It strikes me as hysterical, that we’ve been showering with dish soap, and the giggles bubble up and over. Tears leak out and become sobs, soaking his sweater.

     The absolute certainty we’re going to die isn’t the balm I’d expected it to be.

     The floor shakes under me, and Declan shifts, trying to keep me covered. Keep me safe. No one’s held me safe in a while. It’s always been me cowering in the corner farthest from the street, curled into a ball, arms aching with the effort to stop the trembles.

     Each rapid patter of gunfire jolts me, hands curled around the wool so my fingers go numb. Fear skitters like bugs under my skin. My face burrows further and further into the crook of his neck. His arms eventually come around to cradle me, one hand at the back of my head, the other arm under my shoulders, and I want to sink into him, let him absorb me, let him hide me from the mayhem outside.

     Another explosion, the floor shaking with the impact and it sounds like the door to the bedroom has come off its hinges and fallen on the floor.

     The ensuing silence is entirely absent of sound. I’ve always wondered about deafening silence. Never thought I’d get to experience it. When Declan speaks, it’s like being underwater, the words indistinguishable. His hold loosens, slow and careful, the hand at the back of my head falling away.

     Then the weight of him is gone.

     The rush of air has me scrambling for him again, clinging to his side, whimpering, the whole works.
Don't. Don't let go. Not yet.

      There’s a new hesitation as I try to fuse myself to him, try to bring back the sliver of security I felt with his weight pinning me to the floor. This one was so much worse, this fight, longer and dirtier than the others I’ve been through. They sent me scurrying for cover but I'd find there was no structural damage. This time, I’m certain the living room of the flat’s in shambles.

     I’ve spent a lot of the last two years contemplating my own death. It seemed a fitting thing to do, given I couldn’t re–enter the United States. I couldn’t imagine staying in this hellhole, not after everything I’d gone through. But with my expired visa and my name on a watch list, I’ve effectively been immobilized. I don’t exactly go out looking to get myself killed. I’m just not afraid of dying.

     Seems today, at least, I’ve had a change of heart.

     “We can’t stay here.”

     I nod, clutching at Declan’s sweater like a child. “Don’t let go yet.”

     On a soft sigh, his arms tighten around me, the steady thump of his heart calming my racing one. “Is your flat in this neighborhood?” My head shoots up, and he levels his gaze at me. “Don’t lie,” he warns. “This place is something to you, but you don’t live here anymore. Haven’t for a while, I’m guessing?” I swallow hard instead of responding. “You’ve seen my flat. If you’ve got another place and it’s not in the middle of a hot zone, we need to go there. At least for the time being.”

     The fact this completely logical argument is being delivered in a lilting accent muddles my brain for a minute. I’m about to agree before I bite the tip of my tongue. I’ve guarded my privacy like a wolf guards its den, but it’s already been invaded. Murat following me was only the beginning.

     I don’t respond right away. “It’s on the other side of the neighborhood. We’ll probably be okay for a few days, but if the damage outside is bad, we should assume they’ll keep pressing forward.” Maršala tita isn’t exactly a small neighborhood; the walk to my flat takes around twenty minutes if I’m not circling around willy-nilly like I do.

     I sit up, surprised to find I’m reluctant to let him go. What would it be like to lay next to him, sprawled out all lazy? He hisses as he shifts to a sitting position himself. Needing something to do, I grope around until I locate the bandage for his wrist. “Hold out your arm.” Pushing up the sleeve of his sweater, I focus on winding it around his wrist. “It’s going to take a while to get there, since you don’t have crutches. How’s your shoulder feel?”

     “Hurts like a bastard.”

     I tuck the end of the bandage in. “I’m going to check out the living room. If it doesn’t look too bad, we can stay in here for a little longer. There’s probably still some intermittent gunfire going on outside.”

     He grunts his assent, and I help him to his feet, making sure he’s settled on the bed before I turn toward the door.

     It
has
come off its hinges, but the thunking was it coming to rest at a slant on the wall. If the door’s not where it’s supposed to be, the living room must be worse.

     Worse. Much, much worse. A huge hole in the wall, where a trio of windows once were. Crumbled plaster and bricks everywhere, a faint groan before a section of floor near the hole collapses. Screams and faint cries drift up from the first floor. Dust hits my nose, and I start sneezing and coughing, attempting to dislodge it.

     The picture of Ryan and I, happy and laughing, days after we arrived in the city, perches on the desk Ryan would cover in papers and books and his laptop. Right at the edge of the hole.

     I’ve always meant to go back for that picture. Eventually. If I ever reached a point where the fractures in my soul healed enough I could look at Ryan’s pictures or his books or his favorite shirt without tumbling head over feet into darkness.

     The floor creaks and groans as I creep toward the desk. More shouts from the street, the dust growing thicker. I see why the hole opened up — a huge chunk of the front wall in the unit below is missing. There’s nothing to hold up the wall above it.

     Almost … there …

     Another round of shouts, feet pounding over pavement. The floor is unstable under my feet, no matter how lightly I tread. Stopping at the edge of the desk, I stretch across it, fingers brushing the frame.

     Fists pound on the door. Startled, I sprawl across the desk. The floor buckles, jolting me as I snatch up the picture. A long moan, and the far end of the floor gives way.

     The desk jerks and tilts. Scrambling for purchase isn’t easy when you’re holding something in your hands, but I can’t let go. This is the last thing of our life together I
want
. Everything else can burn, split apart, disintegrate. I
need
this photo.

     My feet touch the floor as the front door bangs open, frame splintering from the force. The desk tips down, Ryan’s papers sliding along the surface and landing in the unit below.

     “Nora!”

     Legs weak and shaky, I ignore Murat and back away from the desk, stepping carefully, hoping the rest of the floor doesn’t collapse without notice. It doesn’t take long for the weight of the desk to launch it completely over the edge, and it lands with a splintering crash below. God, I hope no one was home.

     Or maybe they’re dead.

     My stomach tightens at the thought, nausea slopping around. It’s too much, imagining all those staring, sightless eyes, limbs bent in places they shouldn’t be, dirt mixing with blood to create a mud no one wants to see. Bile rises, and still clutching the picture, I race back into the bedroom and straight into the bathroom.

     It burns. I can’t stop retching, long after my stomach is empty. I’ve been ridiculously lucky these last two years, the fighting on the outskirts, the carnage out of my line of vision. Sarajevo’s a not huge city, but it’s a slow–moving war. Almost boring at times. Weeks will go by without a peep out of either side, each waiting with tense shoulders for the other to let their guard down. Then the cycle begins again, and it drags its citizens back into the chaos. Just when we think things might be going back to normal, when we start to see the stores open again and the lines at the fuel pumps, someone goes and blows something up.

     Never, until today, have I been in the line of fire. I’d rather not be in it again, thank you very much.

     Empty, weak, and mortified at how quickly I broke, I get off my knees and slap on the tap. A trickle of water appears. Oh. Right. Plumbing’s probably shot to shit. Cupping my hands, I throw a couple of handfuls on my face and rinse my mouth. I dry my face, straighten my clothes, and step out into the bedroom.

     Murat’s standing next to the bed, adjusting the sling trapping Declan’s arm against his body. Both their heads snap toward me. I lift a hand to hold off their questions. “I take it we’re leaving now?”