Shattered Promises - Page 2/44

I jerk away from the guy’s arms and lower my feet to the ground. “Oh my God,” I stutter with my eyes locked on the monster.

His brows knit. “What’s wrong?”

Before I can respond, the monster unhitches its jaw and opens its mouth. My scream echoes through the room as its ice-cold breath suffocates both of us and we fall to the floor—

The lyrics of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails fill my head. I rub my eyes and blink the tiredness away as I hit the off button on the alarm. The cold and the heat still linger in my body, just like they do every damn morning because I can’t shake that dream. I wrap my blanket around myself with the prickle gnawing at the back of my neck, pumping fear through my body that I can’t shake. My emotions are still so new and I have a hard time controlling them; especially, when my dreams get me so riled up. I have no idea how to cope.

Ever since the crying incident a few of months ago, my life has altered in more ways than one. Everyday there’s a new experience, whether it’s as simple as finding something amusing or crying for hours over the loss of my childhood and adolescence—the regret of endless lonely days.

It is early in the morning and the pink afterglow of the sunrise paints the mountains. I climb out of bed, get dressed in a pair of black jeans and a red tee, and fasten my long brown hair into a ponytail. I take a good look in the mirror at my violet eyes, pale skin, and long legs. Whenever I look at my reflection, I can spot something hidden in my eyes; like a secret, but it could just be the alarming shade of violet just throwing me off.

After I lace up my black boots, I grab my keys and head for the front door. I have to pick up a few things from my grandparent’s house. I moved in with them when I was one, after my parents died in a car accident. After I graduated, I moved out without saying a word. I’m not even sure why I did it, only that at the time it seemed like it was something I was supposed to do.

I’ve barely spoke to them over the last few years, but yesterday they called me up threatening to throw some of my things away, so I figure I’ll head over and get them before my classes start. Besides, the sooner I get it done, the sooner I’ll never have to talk to my grandparents again, which will make us all happy.

***

It’s ridiculously cold in Laramie. The roads are frozen with salt sprinkled across them and icicles hang from the trees. There are snowmen decorating the yards, ice glazing the rain gutters and branches, and the roofs of the houses are piled with snow.

When I arrive at my grandparents’ two-story, redbrick house my insides wind into knots as every memory attached to the place surfaces. My grandparents are the coldest people I know and have always been dead-set on ignoring me as much as possible. It didn’t really bother me when I was younger, since I couldn’t experience things like pain and anguish, but now, I fucking despise them. It’s an overpowering feeling, which is why I hate coming here. The feeling owns me, makes me say things I normally wouldn’t, and turns me into a different person—a bitter person.

I climb out of the car, zipping my coat up as I walk toward the side door. Right as I reach the bottom of the porch, the door swings open and a guy steps out. He is tall, solidly built and has his hood pulled over his head with the front of his jacket zipped up to his chin. He also wears sunglasses, so he’s nearly covered up. At first, I think robber, but he seems too serene and confident. He stares at me for a moment with his feet planted on the top step. He seems stunned that I’m here—at my own house─ when it should be the other way around.

“Hi,” I say with a small wave as I step up onto the bottom stair. “Can I help you?”

He shakes his head, and with one swift spring of his toes, he grabs onto the railing and launches himself over it. He lands gracefully on the ice and then hikes down the driveway, kicking up snow from the ground.

I scratch at the back of my neck as the prickle starts to manifest, but it wilts before an emotion can develop. I glance at my hands as a tingling sensation fizzles across my skin and then my gaze lifts back to the guy who is rounding the fence line. As he nears the end of the yard he turns his head and looks at me. A magnetic current courses through me and I almost run to him. As soon as the feeling hits me, he looks away and vanishes around the corner. The sensation dissolves and I’m left both confused and kind of empty.

Shaking my head, I tug open the door and step into the kitchen. Sophia, my grandmother, is standing over the stove tending to the hissing pans as the smell of bacon fills the air. My grandfather, Marco, is reading a newspaper at the table. They both seem uncomfortable, fidgety, but that’s nothing new. They’ve been that way for as long as I can remember.

Marco peers over the newspaper at me and his black, oval glasses slide down the brim of his slightly crooked nose. He is a reserved man who likes to avoid confrontation at all cost. “Good morning, Gemma,” he mumbles with a subtle nod.

It’s the same conversation we’ve had since I was eight: a polite hello and an eager good-bye; as if we were nothing more than acquaintances. It takes a lot, but I manage to strain a smile. “Good morning, Marco.” I point over my shoulder. “Who was that person that just walked out of here?”

“No one,” Sophia replies and at the same time Marco responds, “The paper boy.”

I skim back and forth between them as I question their honesty. “The paper boy? Wasn’t he about my age?”

“Your stuff’s boxed up in the room upstairs,” Sophia says, ignoring me. The bacon sizzles as she taps her high heels on the tile floor. She is wearing a floral dress with a white apron tied over it and her auburn hair is twisted in a bun. She is a very proper person; always neatly dressed and the house is always clean.

“Okay.” Shaking my head, I walk across the kitchen toward the doorway. “I guess I’ll go get it and be out of your hair then.”

“Sounds good to me,” she says curtly and resumes cooking.

Rolling my eyes, I disappear into the foyer and hurry up the stairs to my old room. This has always been the extent of our relationship: she says how much she dislikes me being around and I try my best to ignore her. It was easier to deal with when I couldn’t get pissed off, but now it takes a lot of control not to scream at her.

The once tan walls of my room have been painted a bright red, the shelf in the corner is stripped of my music collection, and the dresser drawers are open and empty. I walk over to the stack of boxes near the foot of the bed and I run my finger along the label. Memories stab at my brain like sharp nails.

Empty.

Lonely.

Hopeless.

I’m broken inside.

“Gemma’s junk,” I read the label out loud. “I guess it’s probably true… none of this stuff ever really meant anything to me.” I wish it did, though. I wish I had a connection to something—anything.

Sighing, I backtrack to the door and peer out into the hallway, making sure no one is there, before shutting the door. Kneeling down beside my bed, I reach underneath it and run my fingers along the bottom of the mattress until I find the papers. Fumbling with the tape, I peel off the photo. It’s ripped in half, faded, and frayed, but from what I can tell, it’s a picture of a woman with flowing, long, brown hair, blue irises, and a snow-white complexion. I once found it while cleaning under the stairway and kept it because I believe it’s my mother. I’ve hidden it under my bed because if Sophia found it, she would have taken it away. She hates it when I bring up my parents. The only thing I know about them is that my mother’s name was Jocelyn and I only know that because it’s on my birth certificate, which doesn’t list my father’s name and Sophia refuses to give me an explanation as to why.

I haven’t looked at the photo since I’ve been able to feel. It’s strange, the idea that it could be her. It makes my chest compress and I forget how to breathe. As tears threaten to spill out, I quickly get to my feet and tuck the picture into my back pocket. Sucking in a deep breath and forcing back the tears, I pick up a box and carry it down the stairs.

Marco is no longer in the kitchen and Sophia is taking off her apron. “Are you all right carrying those out by yourself? Marco’s back has been bothering him again.”

I nod as I observe a silver-framed photo of Marco and Sophia hanging on the wall next to the kitchen table. They are standing on the shore of a lake. Marco has his hand in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the sunlight and Sophia is to the side of him, smiling. On her collarbone I can see a hint of tattoo. The picture always confuses me because Sophia doesn’t seem like someone who would have a tattoo. She also doesn’t seem like someone who would have children of her own, either. Yet, she my mother’s mother.

“I was wondering if we could talk about that thing I mentioned last week,” I ask, shifting the box onto my hip, hoping she doesn’t notice that I’m lying. “It’s for a history paper I’m working on. I kind of need to know a thing or two about my parents.”

Sophia turns away from the stove. “I thought I told you not to bring them up—that I didn’t want to talk about them.”

“Well, I kind of need you to.” I set the box down on the table. Actually, I don’t. I just want to know for myself. “Otherwise, I might fail and I’m so close to being finished, the last thing I want to do is fall behind schedule for graduation.”

She turns off the stove and narrows her eyes at me. “It doesn’t matter. We are not going to talk about your parents. Ever.”

“Why not?” I ask, battling my anger. “What scares you so much about the idea?”

With her hands on her hips, Sophia storms toward me, her high heels clicking forcefully against the tile. “Do you think it’s easy for me to talk about my daughter’s death? Do you like to make me hurt?”

I hold my chin high, refusing to cower back. “No, but it feels like I should know something about her. About both my parents. In fact, you should have told me about them a long time ago.”

Her skin turns a ghostly white and lines form around her eyes as she gives me a harsh look. “We will not talk about this ever again. Do you understand?” She hurries out of the kitchen and, seconds later, I hear her bedroom door shut.

Tears sting at my eyes, but I force them back. I won’t let the sadness win. I’m tougher than that. I’ve lived without the knowledge of my parents for twenty-one years for hell sakes.

Opening the back door, I step outside. Even though a blizzard has blown in, it feels warmer than in the house.

***

By the time I pull up to the campus, I’m late for Calculus and there’s a test today. My grade is already nearing the seventy percent mark, so I can’t miss it. Swinging the car door open, I hop out into the snowfall. Deciding to leave the boxes in the trunk, I rush across the campus yard, the snow crunching under my sneakers. I keep my eyes on my watch, watching the minutes tick down. I speed up to a run, but then pause when I approach the salted sidewalk as the prickling sensation stabs at my neck.

Dammit.

I wait for an emotion to rise and take me over, wondering how complex it will be, but a few seconds go by and I feel nothing, so I force my feet to move and step up onto the curb. As my shoe touches the ground, my skin heats and my gaze zeroes in on a guy walking toward me from across the parking lot.