Not that I’ve told Pigtails that.
She was so excited to give it to me—even blew me off for a whole afternoon just to make it.
If I lost it, I’m not sure how I’d react. Or how she’d react—probably cry. So the simple solution is never to take it off, even when I shower. But now the thinning fabric has me on edge.
Bella has what she claims is a matching one, even though the pattern is different, and hers is a mixture of teals and reds, while mine is simply red and black. She claimed it was so I didn’t need to worry about getting blood on it.
Well, she didn’t use the word blood; she used dirty, but we both know what she really wanted to say.
Time ticks by at an agonizingly slow pace until it’s time for her to come out. Then five minutes pass. Then ten. Then twenty. She never walks through the front doors.
Uneasiness wedges itself into the space beneath my ribs. This isn’t like her. This isn’t like Bella. She is never late. If she is, she’ll stick her head out of the window and wake the neighborhood just to tell me how much longer she needs.
I mutter, “Fuck it,” under my breath as I storm to the house.
Mitchell never lets me inside, so I only get to see its interior if he isn’t home or if I sneak in. When I go for the lock, the handle doesn’t turn. Not caring if Mitchell rips me a new one, I pound my still-healing fists against the door, peeking through the window as I wait.
Five seconds.
Ten.
No sound.
No movement.
The rational part of my brain tells me that her trip has just been extended. She’ll be back later tonight, and when I wake up tomorrow, it’ll be like she never left. And then everything will be fine. I’ll be fine.
But the other part of me has eyes. It knows what I’m seeing. I know what is on the other side of the window, and every inch of me is saying that the rational part is fucking delusional.
White-hot rage crawls beneath my skin as I stare at the empty dining room. Empty. No chairs, no table, no fake fucking plant. Empty.
No.
No.
Bella would never leave me. Never. She said she would see me today, and she wouldn’t lie about that, would she?
No.
No, she never lets me down in any way that counts.
She’s always been there for me—the light at the top of the basement, the first bite after days of starvation, the one who doesn’t make me feel like running.
Bella wouldn’t leave. She just wouldn’t.
I sprint around the outside of the house, checking one window after the other. Empty. Every one of them. But the final nail in the coffin is her room. Empty. My drawings aren’t on the walls, the bed is gone, and Mickey Mouse is nowhere to be seen.
No.
No, no, no.
They can’t just take her away from me. They can’t.
My feet take me to the back porch, the last place I saw her, and try the ranch slider, but it doesn’t budge. I need to get inside. I have to get inside. I have to check. I don’t know; maybe she’s in there somewhere. Maybe she managed to get away and hide in a closet.
I have to.
I have to. I have to. I have to.
She—
No, she can’t be gone. I refuse to believe it. I can’t—No. She has to come back.
I don’t feel the glass shattering beneath my knuckles. With each pummel, another shard pierces my skin, and another drop of blood drops onto the floor. It isn’t until I feel it. Not the pain or the ache. The absence of it. The disappearance of the itch.
Then I see it. The one thing I refuse to take off laying on the floor amongst the drops of crimson. The last thing I got from her.
The bracelet.
I broke it.
Bella’s bracelet.
Chapter 5
ROMAN
8 Years Ago
Roman: 14 years old – Isabella: 12 years old.
“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop,” I hiss, hitting my head against the concrete.
Maybe if I keep throwing myself against the wall, someone will let me out.
I know they can hear me screaming. I know they hear me banging on the door at night. Or is it morning? I can’t tell.
I don’t know anything anymore.
You don’t know anything anymore. You don’t know anything anymore. You don’t know anything anymore.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I scream. The skin of my knuckles tears against the wall, ripping more and more each time I swing. I can’t see the blood through the darkness. Can’t see the bone. I need something other than the voices. I need sound or light or taste. I need pain.
My muscles strain. Sweat gathers between my shoulder blades. It’s not enough.