Somewhere Between Water and Sky (Shattered Things #2) (19 page)

“
Hey
—
you know what? I
’
m beat. I think I
’
m going to go back to the hotel.
”

Jessa stops.
“
What? Are you sure? We can move your stuff over if you want. It
’
s not too late.
”

“
I
’
m sure. I
’
m fine. We can move everything over later
.
”
I smile and shift my steps to the bench at a nearby bus stop.
“
Promise. I just need some quiet tonight. It
’
s been a long day.
”

She
’
s not convinced but there
’
s nothing I can do. I realize it
’
s too late
—
I
’
m already falling. My vision blurs and I stumble on a crack in the cement.

“
Shit, Steph.
”
Jessa grabs at my wrists and misses when I jerk away.

“
I
’
m fine! I
’
m fine.
”

My dad
’
s voice thrums with a ferocity between my ears.

You
’
re not worth it. You
’
ll always be mine. She won
’
t ever believe you. I
’
ll make you pay, stupid bitch.

I suck in a breath and scratch my forehead to keep from banging my palms against my ears. What is happening? Kevin
’
s voice joins the chorus and I fight a moan.

I won
’
t ever leave you. Why did you run from me? You know I love you. Let me help you find that piece of sky you lost.

My heart races and I lick my lips. Desperation is calling. I don
’
t even look back when I turn and walk the other way.

I have to get away. I have to run. I have to leave.

I leave Jessa behind, confused and looking around to see what could have possibly set me off. That
’
s her mistake. It
’
s never my surroundings.

It
’
s always the inside.

That
’
s where I
’
m most broken.

“
What the hell? Stephanie. Come back. Don
’
t do this. Not at night. It
’
s not safe.
”
I laugh under my breath.

She doesn
’
t know what the fuck she
’
s talking about.

Jessa hollers after me but I refuse to answer. I keep my eyes straight ahead, my heart bent on one thing: walking until the voices stop.

Until my eyes find focus.

Until the roar in my bones lessens to a dull whimper.

I walk down streets and get on buses and turn corners without thinking. The tears fall down my cheeks and no one even stops to ask if I
’
m okay because it
’
s painfully obvious I
’
m losing my mind.

I
’
m too messy. Too fucked up. My past will always be my future.

And when I turn a corner and see my hotel in the distance, I only let the relief of finding my way back last for a second before falling back into the shadows.

I don
’
t look when the man at the desk calls out good evening.

I say nothing to the couple in the elevator trying to make conversation.

And when I get to my room and there
’
s a piece of paper taped to the paneling of my door, I simply rip it off, crumble it in my hands and pull out the card to let me inside.

It
’
s not until I
’
m safe in the comfort of the hottest bath water I can muster that I grab for the crumpled paper on the floor beside me. Opening it up, I begin to read, my blood reaching fever pitch before I finish the first stanza.

Betrayal

the kind that reaches in and rips

the necessary bits to shreds
—

this is what you did to me.

Revenge

the kind that fills your blood

with determination and hatred
—

this is what I
’
m after.

Lollipop, I will not stop until your

breath reaches mine and

falters with regret and doubt.

I will not be satisfied

until that faltered breath

dies out

I can
’
t even keep the paper straight my hands are shaking so bad. I notice the small indentations of certain letters and know without a doubt this poem was written with the same typewriter as the one used by Fitz earlier today. Whoever paid for this poem was there watching us.

I imagine my father, watching us from a distance, that smirk of celebration on his face. He knew he had us
—
had me
—
and chose to show it with a fucking poem. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again, my gaze falling on the nickname of my childhood.

Lollipop.

I moan as memories of my father whispering that name in my ear resurface.

“
It
’
s because you taste so sweet, Lollipop.
”

I breathe in and out and in and out and it
’
s not working and I pitch forward for one of the candles and without even thinking set the paper on fire and watch it burn until the flames singe toward my fingers. When the ashes have floated down into the water I sit there and push my hands into my eyes as deep as they will go. I see red and it
’
s perfect because I
feel
red. I feel red and hot and the fear overtakes me. I let myself sink into the water and the tears mix with the ashes around me. My hair floats above and behind me and everything makes sense in this moment where I
’
m both suspended and numb. The water closes in on me and I breathe in one last time through my nose and sink even deeper.

How easy would it be to just end it here? To take one last breath and then never another, allowing the water to have its way? Would I even be missed?

I close my eyes and wait until my lungs burn for air. I smile.

Sometimes the golden burning is what feels good. And this? It feels sublime.

I feel the strength leave me. I
’
m floating. I open my eyes under water and the redness around my vision turns yellow and blue and brown
—
the oxygen dying out slowly. My lids flicker shut and I know the choice is mine.

I think of escaping
—
really
escaping. I think of living a life without my father. I think of ridding myself of him for good.

Is it even possible this side of existence?

I startle awake.

In that last moment
—
the breath between here and there
—
I gasp and suck in the air above me. I let my head fall into my hands and I rub the tension still pulsing in my temples.

Sometimes the burning is what feels good, but giving up? That wouldn
’
t be escaping. I know that now. Giving up would just give my father the glint in his eyes to move forward and find another victim. Giving up would let him get the best of me. I punch the water and let out a silent scream.

Fuck no.

I lean forward and blow out the candles and flip open the drain, watching as the ashes swirl and disappear with the water. The anger and fear and brokenness merge together and morph into a dangerous resolution brimming underneath my veins. I step out of the tub and shake off some of the water. Grabbing a towel, I pat myself dry and run the towel through my hair still dripping with crystal beads.

I make my way to the mirror, staring at my reflection.

I look different.

I raise my chin and push back my shoulders, the hatred taking root. I think of my father, laughing and reveling in the way his evil heart pounces for the kill. It
’
s not going to happen anymore. I look myself in the eyes and see a life lived in turmoil and fear and desperation.

Not anymore. Tonight? I
’
m taking back my life for good. The rage lights my face and gives me purpose. I can hear whispers of Emma and Jude, talking about forgiveness and the way anger turns into a bitterness that echoes those who wound us, and I smirk. Fuck forgiveness. Eighteen years of fearing for my life. Eighteen years of learning how to bend to the will of others.

Forgiveness has no place here.

Let him follow me. I
’
ll set traps and watch him fall.

There is no way in hell I
’
m going to let him win.

Chapter Ten

I get to work the next morning when the sky is still the color of freshly poured tar. After last night, I
’
m barely functioning.

I had so much pent up energy after finding dad
’
s poem that I went running.

Running. At like, midnight.

I never run.

Walking through the door, I see Jessa pouring herself a large glass of iced toddy. I yawn and stretch my arms over my head. I know I will have to explain myself about yesterday
—
but I don
’
t want to, so I choose ignoring the situation.

“
Want to pour me one of those? Or five?
”

She looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.

“
Did you get my text last night?
”

I sigh.

“
Which one?
”

You sent about a million of them.

“
Any one of them.
”
She sets her glass on the counter.
“
What the hell, Steph? I was worried about you. I mean
…”
her eyes dart back and forth and she throws her hand up in the air.
“
How was I supposed to know you weren
’
t dead in a ditch somewhere?
”
She picks up the towel near her and begins wiping down everything in sight behind the bar.
“
It
’
s the second time you
’
ve just up and left with no reason. You can
’
t just leave like that
…”

“
I
’
m not dead. I
’
m here.
”

She throws the towel at me and I dodge in just enough time for it to hit the door behind me. I pick it up and walk over to a stool across from her.

“
I told you I do weird shit. That
’
s the weird shit I
’
m talking about
—
I get nervous, I run away. I
’
m always okay. Promise.
”
I shrug.
“
I just don
’
t like people sometimes.
”

“
Whatever, Stephanie. That
’
s more than just not liking people. You
’
ve told me, remember? We know you
’
re fucked up. We know you come from some troubled past. But guess what? We all do. I
’
ve told you about me and yet you
’
ve said nothing outside of your dad being in prison. If that
’
s it, and there
’
s nothing tying you down to what happened before, it
’
s time to move on. Start over.
”