The Shatterproof Heart Read online

  Copyright 2017 Loretta Lost

  Cover art by Damonza

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  Chapter One

  Sophie Shields, 2016

  I wake up to find metal shackles around my wrists.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised.

  Moving my hands slowly, I pull at my restraints. My senses are dulled and there is a thick fog on my brain. When I open my eyes, the world spins. I try to look around, but a groggy sensation causes my head to roll from side to side uselessly.

  There is something soft and pillowy beneath me. I feel like I am floating on a fluffy cloud. Where am I? My body might be out of commission, but I still need to think clearly. Using a great effort to look at my surroundings, I see that I am sprawled out across a bed with metal rails.

  My legs are spread wide apart, and my ankles are shackled to the bedposts.

  Groaning at this, I try to bend my knees and slide my feet out of the restraints. I find that my ankles are already raw and sore, as though I have struggled quite a lot—although I do not remember any of this. The skin has been rubbed clean off the protruding bones of my ankle joints, and the metal shackles sit painfully against my exposed flesh.

  Just another day, I tell myself as I look up at the ceiling in exasperation. Just another wonderful day to be alive. I will get through this, somehow. If I can only focus and stay calm...

  I am not sure why my vision is so blurry and my body feels so buzzed. I feel as though I have been drinking, smoking pot, and doing heroin, all at the same time. I only did heroin once or twice, when I was around twelve years old, so that I could steal an addict’s identity. I tried to remain unaffected so I could focus on my purpose, but the blissful sensation was hard to forget. Glancing at my arm, which is extending up above my head, I search for needle marks on the inside of my elbow.

  Sure enough, there is a red and inflamed puncture hole there.

  Frowning, I try to lift my head again to see more of my body. As awareness begins to wash over me, I start to feel various types of pain. My skin is chilled in the cold air, and my limbs are stiff. It is hard to see any of this, because my eyelids are swollen and puffy—like I’ve been crying for hours.

  That seems like a reasonable reaction.

  Grunting and writhing, I find that the worst pain is in my hands. Turning my wrists in the shackles, I stretch backward to search for the source of the pain. I am alarmed to see that my fingernails are all bloody and broken. I’ve been clawing at something. Or someone.

  My heart sinks into my stomach.

  What did he do to me? And what does he still plan to do?

  Clamping my eyes closed, I wonder what I might find if I search for more injuries. I fully expect to see my thighs covered in blood. I take a moment to brace myself, swallowing a lump of acidic fear.

  When I lift my head to look down at my lower body, I see no visible signs of intrusion. There is no blood, but this is not reassuring. I feel no significant pain, but in my hazy state, I am not sure if I would. I am still numb and tingly throughout most of my body, except for a painful throbbing under my splintered fingernails. There are bluish bruises in certain places on my arms, legs, and stomach, as though I have been roughly grabbed and dragged. My pasty white skin always bruised so easily.

  Who’s the fairest of them all? Little Snow White. The girl who turns bright red if she steps out into the sun, and black and blue if she bumps into a piece of furniture.

  I ignore the sarcastic singsong voice in my head. But she is right.

  I feel black and blue all over.

  I feel black and blue on the inside.

  Completely battered and violated.

  Slumping in defeat, I look around and try to think of a way to escape this. I need to get back to Cole, before anything worse can happen to me. I need to get back to him in one piece. Or as close to being in one piece as someone like me can possibly be. My eyes dart around in search of weapons, air vents I might be able to crawl through, or pieces of furniture I could lift and smash through drywall.

  Something odd and yellow moving beside my face causes me to jump, as if there might be a bumblebee crawling toward me. But when I turn to view my attacker, I am startled and confused by the sight.

  It’s a curl of my own hair.

  Pins and needles prickle all along my spinal cord. A shiver of disgust makes my shoulders tremble.

  I haven’t been blonde in over fifteen years.

  Not since the last time I saw Benjamin.

  I remember shoplifting a box of dark hair dye and some cheap cosmetics from a drug store as soon as I was able to get away from him. I read the instructions and dyed my hair for the first time in a gas station bathroom, and used an eye pencil to darken my brows. Since then, I have been touching up my roots regularly, determined to never again look like the weak, worthless girl I used to be.

  I never wanted to be the type of person Benjamin could keep trapped in a room again. When I became Scarlett, I stole more than her birth certificate—I stole her look. It was my way of keeping her alive. She had beautiful, shiny, jet black hair. She also wore red lipstick and red heels. It was a trashy kind of heroin chic, that looked odd on her emaciated body. But I remember being hypnotized by her boldness and wildness.

  I remember touching her face when she overdosed, drowning in her own vomit. I remember the glassy look in her dead eyes, and her slightly parted red lips. I remember wanting to look half as beautiful as she looked dead, while I was still alive. If possible.

  Most of the time, I avoided the lipstick and shoes to go incognito and blend in—but on rare occasions, I would bring out the red. I wore Scarlett’s corpse better than a supermodel wears Versace. I wore her like my life depended on it.

  Sometimes, I would even put on a red dress.

  Like the first time Cole and I were together.

  Staring at my limp, blonde hair angrily, I clamp my lips together. I feel like I have been robbed of my favorite identity—robbed of her skin, her hair, and her name. How did Benjamin even get the color out? There were layers and layers of permanent black dye—it would have taken serious products to remove all of that. Maybe even help from a professional hair stylist.

  I grind my teeth together.

  It’s not just Scarlett.

  It’s worse than that.

  She was the first line of defense, but I had built more fortifications since then. Now, all the carefully constructed layers of both Scarlett and Sophie have been stripped away. All my shields are down. All my walls, and firewalls. These identities were just artificial constructs for me to hide behind. They were enjoyable fiction. Names and faces that were harder, stronger than my own.

  And now, I’m just Serena.

  I’m just me.

  The soft, tender soul at the core of my being.

  The pushover.

  The onion has been peeled, and I am naked.

  I didn’t care so much about being literally naked, but with my black hair gone, I feel truly naked on a whole different level.

  A deeper level.

  I feel like a stranger in my own skin. Not that I was ever really comfortable in this broke
n body, but I could make little changes to ease the discomfort. Now, I’m powerless.

  I mean, drugging and raping a woman is one thing. A classic thing. It’s in all the books and movies, and in the darkest recess of my memories, like a bad dream I barely recall. I have developed coping mechanisms, so I can deal with what is happening. But messing with a girl’s hair color? That’s straight up psychological warfare.

  Physical abuse is simple. I’m used to it. No matter how many years you can escape it, or pretend to feel safe, it’s always clawing at the back of your mind. You’re always prepared to experience it again.

  But no one has ever dared to try and change the fabric of my being.

  If Benjamin wanted to completely unsettle me, he’s succeeded.

  This is also only physical, I try to tell myself. It’s just hair. If he shaved it all off and you woke up bald as a bowling ball, you’d still be you. Don’t let it get to you.

  But it does.

  Tilting my head back, I let out a hoarse, guttural scream of rage. It’s not very loud, but it’s all I can manage for the moment. I must have screamed a good deal already, for my voice feels sore and reluctant to leave my throat. I’m grateful for not being able to remember the reasons that I screamed, but I am terrified that there is more to come.

  I need to get the hell out of this situation. Before something worse can happen.

  What could be worse than this? I ask myself bitterly.

  You could be dead, I immediately answer. As long as you’re alive, there is still a chance. There’s always a chance for things to get better. So, focus, Sophie. Focus on finding a way to escape. As soon as you can.

  I look around the room helplessly, and tug on my chains.

  But how? I don’t know how.

  Please tell me how.

  Show me how.

  Chapter Two

  Cole Hunter, 2016

  Massaging the creases out of my forehead, I frown as I stare down at a newspaper article about the fire that killed my parents. There was something sinister about Benjamin’s words, when he crashed Miranda’s party—it has left me feeling on edge and unable to sleep. After dropping Scarlett off at the airport, I headed to the library to dig through old archives for information about my past. I tried searching online first, but had little success without Scar’s skills. This gnawing curiosity is like an insect in the back of my brain, wriggling, prickling, and torturing me with questions that I thought had been answered long ago.

  I mean, I never really felt right about the fire. I never really accepted that something like that could happen so easily, accidentally. But I just had to close the door on that tragedy in order to move on, grow up, and survive. Now, I feel like the wound has been reopened.

  My parents were so intelligent and careful—always patient and encouraging me to be vigilant. They always double checked to make sure the stove was off, or any curling irons, before leaving home. My father was meticulous when planning for a road trip, and packed extra blankets, food, a battery pack for jumpstarting the car, and a tool for breaking the windows in case the car went underwater. My mother used to make fun of him, but you could tell she did it with utmost admiration.

  How could they possibly die in a fire?

  My memories are fuzzy, so half the time I’m doing research, I find myself staring into space. I’m trying to leaf through my past like pages of an old and yellowed book that crumbles a little more every time it is touched. And when I reach back into my history, there is so much darkness and pain. I can’t help thinking about Scarlett. She was the first good thing to happen to me after my parents died. She was the first person to give me hope that I could be whole again.

  Thoughts of her distract me from my task.

  I realize that I have been sitting here in the library and twisting the golden ring around my pinky finger. When Scarlett first gave it to me, in that prison all those years ago, it used to fit around the appropriate digit. But I’ve grown a great deal since I was fifteen—in fact, I had a significant growth spurt shortly after receiving the ring, and I think it had stopped fitting my ring finger by the time I was seventeen. We were in college at the time, and it was a little weird to be wearing a wedding ring anyway, so I just switched it to the smaller finger.

  This way, it just sort of looks like I’m an engineer. I wore it like this for years, until Scarlett walked out of my life. And to be honest, even after that, for a while. I just couldn’t accept the fact that she was really gone.

  After all, she wasn’t. She will never be gone. Not for real.

  Swallowing back a lump of anxiety, I try to reassure myself of this. I continue to twist the ring as I think about all we’ve been through, and how long it took to get back here. To a good place.

  Because that’s where we are, now, right? A good place.

  It’s not easy to think of Scarlett, but it’s easier than thinking of my parents.

  At least she isn’t dead. At least we have a chance to mend everything that’s been broken.

  The ring is a small piece of metal, but it weighs down my whole arm with sentimental value. It’s a shame that we never got it resized. We never deemed it necessary. It wasn’t a real marriage, after all.

  I always hoped I would add another one to my ring finger, to sit comfortably beside it, someday. One for each of our marriages. One for each of the women I’m married to. Her younger self, and her older self. Her inner self, and her outer self.

  Scarlett and Snow.

  Back then, I wasn’t able to afford much of a ring for her. Scarlett was with me when we picked out a simple band at Walmart. Yes, I actually bought the love of my life a ring at Walmart. Don’t judge me.

  She said she only cared for precious metals if they were on a motherboard. She insisted I save my money for college.

  But that was then.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the impressive diamond engagement ring that has been sitting there heavily for the past few hours. I doubt Scarlett knows that I was intending to propose to her before she left for Michigan. I considered doing it at the airport, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Did she know? She is great at reading people, so it was always difficult to hide surprises from her, but I’ve learned to develop the ultimate poker face.

  Why didn’t I go through with it? Frowning slightly, I tilt the ring back and forth until it catches a glimmer of California sun filtering through the library window. I guess it just didn’t seem like the right moment. She had so much going on with meeting her brother for the first time, and all the chaotic recent events. I am still weak from my injuries, and I didn’t want it to be a pity proposal. I didn’t want her to accept just because she felt sorry for me being in pain, or something like that.

  Plus, I know she’s received another proposal lately. Even though she didn’t accept, I can’t let Zack steal my thunder. When I propose, this time, it will be for real. It will be the last time. Scarlett is a special girl, and she deserves a special proposal.

  She sure as hell gave me one.

  I don’t want it to feel boring or redundant for her. I’ve tried a few times, in the past, of course. When I got my first big contract, when she stole that car for me, and on numerous other occasions. It would just burst out of me, in my youthful enthusiasm.

  She always just laughed it off and said, “But we’re already married!”

  Her way of avoiding the topic. Avoiding real emotions. Avoiding real commitment. It always has been just another shield. A way of delaying any serious discussion of the subject.

  But I’ve discussed it at length with Snow. It’s somehow easier to communicate with Snow—probably because she is a sociopath with no filter. I smile fondly at this apt description. I try to remember the words she told me, so long ago. At the Bishops’ home, before we headed down to the courthouse to get married. The scene returns to me, clear as day, unlike the fuzzy memories of my parents.

  “I hope you know, Cole, this doesn’t count.”

  In the middle
of buttoning up my shirt, I pause. The change in her voice is sudden. When she turns to look at me, her clear blue eyes flashing like daggers, I swallow. It isn’t Scarlett anymore.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her. “It’s a legal marriage certificate. It counts.”

  She shrugs. “It counts to the government. But does it count for us? It’s a joke, Cole. It’s a sham. We’re not really getting married. It’s a strategy.”

  My heart sinks a little. “What are you saying? I thought it was real. Semi-real, at least.”

  “For god’s sake, Cole!” She gestures down at her body. “The girl is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Does it look like she’s taking this seriously?”

  It’s always a little odd when she speaks about herself in such a distanced way, as though she does not share the same body. But I’m getting used to her ways. “Do you want me to take this wedding more seriously? Do you want me to ask her to dress up? I can tell her that it’s not just to get my inheritance. That I really wouldn’t rather marry anyone else.”

  “I don’t know,” Snow says, and I’ve never seen her so hesitant. “That’s what I would want to hear. But is she me? I don’t know. That might scare the shit out of her, and she might not go through with it at all.”

  “You’re supposed to know these things!” I accuse her. “If you don’t know what she wants, how can anyone?”

  She glares at me and steps forward, helping me to finish buttoning my shirt. “All I know is what I want, Cole. And someday, when we’re ready, when we’re older, I want you to propose to me. And I want a real wedding. I want a cake. I want a dress. I want dancing. I want a reception room with chandeliers. I want to live happily ever after, with you.”

  I pause, grasping her fingers as they wrestle with my last button. Her angry eyes look up at me defiantly as she tries to jerk her hand away, but I hold her steady. I bring her fingers up to my lips, and press a kiss against her knuckles. “So, what is this?” I ask. “This wedding? Isn’t it meaningful? Can’t this be our happily ever after? If we just make some changes…”