Page 92 of Shattered In Darkness

He’s shaking me now, voice clawing through the fog. “Lola. Goddamn it, Lola—look at me. Stay here. Don’t you fucking pass out.”

I want to dissolve into the couch, into his hands, disappear into the black where nothing hurts and nobody owns me. I twitch, a gasp shuddering out of me.

My body is jelly, draped over him, sweat and spit and tears soaking his shirt. I stare at the ceiling, eyes barely open, just enough to see the light smear and fracture.

He curses under his breath, words blurred. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not now.”

Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to bite him. Mostly, I want to sleep.

He lifts me again, rough, desperate, cradling me against his chest like I’m something breakable he’s determined not to drop. I hear the panic scraping the edges of his voice. He’s lost, as wrecked as I am.

“Stay awake,” he growls again, hauling me up. “You don’t get to check out. You don’t get to fucking leave me.”

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a cough, wet and ragged.

Brody pulls the blanket tighter around me. His palm finds my forehead again, cold and relentless. “You hear me, Lola? You’re not allowed to die on me. You’re not allowed to make this easy.”

“Wish I could,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. Not for you. Not for me.”

The world pulses, black at the edges. I want to fall, let the ache swallow me, let the fever burn out whatever is left. But his hands are iron, locking me in place. He takes a breath, and I feel it in my own lungs. Like maybe if he breathes hard enough, I’ll remember how.

“Tell me what he did,” Brody demands. “Tell me, Lola. Don’t go back under.”

My lips barely work. “He… he took everything. He made me say I was his. Made me forget my name. Made me forget you.”

It’s not enough for him. It never is. He squeezes me tight, like he can wring the secrets out, like he can keep me from floating away. Rage and panic boil off him. He wants the truth, he wants control, but all he gets is the sick, shuddering mess in his arms.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, not sure if I mean him or myself.

He doesn’t answer, just holds on tighter. His cheek presses to my hair, breath hot and desperate.

The fever drags me under again, heavy and wet, but his arms are there, a cage and an anchor, holding me to the world. I drift, half-dead, half-breathing, aching for something I can’t name.

I hear my mother in the dark. Come to me sweetheart, I’m here.

When I wake again, it’s night. The fever’s broken, but the ache is still there. Brody is gone, or maybe just a shadow at the edge of the room.

I don’t call for him. I just lie there, shaking, empty, and alive.

The house is quiet. I realize I survived. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is forgiven. But I’m still here.

29

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 19)

I am slipping. I can feel it in my bones, a pull towards the deep. The waves are crashing over me, a darkness calling to me from the vicious trenches. Since my mother’s death, nothing is the same.

Marcus is crueler. Brody is more possessive. I am emptier. I overflow with need and nothing fills me. I spill out grief and loneliness and want. It coats everything. The kitchen table, the fake flowers at the corner of my room, the insides of my mouth. I cry and it does nothing. I sleep too much, but the tiredness is always there, gnawing at the backs of my eyes.

The world goes gray. I walk in circles through the hallway, touching the smudges on the wall where Mom’s hands used to go. I pick up her perfume bottle; there’s barely any left. I dab it under my chin anyway, even though it makes my head spin.

I am only nineteen, and I have no real parents left.

The only thing worse than losing her is watching how fast Marcus fills the empty space. He invites himself into my room. Doesn’t knock. Never did. Never will.