A Shattered Heart (Fractured Lives 2)

I stopped at a convenience store and picked up a six-pack of beer before pulling into my own bleak parking lot. Devoid of any kind of plant life and filled with potholes, the parking lot was in dire need of a fresh layer of asphalt. The lot was crowded with an assortment of cars in disrepair. According to the lease I signed, cars needed to be in working order in order to be parked there, but I knew for a fact several of the ones near the back of the lot hadn't moved in the year I'd been in my apartment. The last time the parental unit had come by Dad had been adamant that I would be moving once my lease was up. They'd never trusted my apartment complex. At the time it was all I could afford, but then the trucking settlement had come in. It seemed wrong to use the blood money for a better apartment. I'd use the funds for school and basic living expenses but that was it.

"Hey, girl, how you doin'? How about we party together?" Carlos from 1B called out, spotting my six-pack as I made my way to the stairs to my apartment.

I rolled my eyes. Carlos was under the impression he was a catch to the female population. He sat on his broken-down couch that barely fit within the confines of his small patio all day, calling out to any girl who happened to be walking by. He dressed in the same attire—a thin, dingy tank top and ripped jeans that looked like they hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine—ever. A bottle of malt liquor was almost always clutched in his hand, and his two golden capped teeth sparkled up at anyone who walked by. I was no exception as he grinned at me. I returned the grin but didn't take him up on his offer. I liked him well enough, but his weasel-like looks and business dealings weren't my style.

The first time Mom met Carlos she was ready to pack my bags and whisk me away. She was convinced he was dodgy—her word, not mine. I'd been able to talk her down by claiming he was harmless. I'd yet to see him get off his couch. I knew he must leave it eventually, since he obviously slept inside, but the rest of the time he stayed on the couch waiting for people to visit him, which he got a lot of. It didn't take me long to piece together he was dealing drugs out of the old red cooler he propped his feet on. Mom would have shit a brick if she knew. Thankfully after their initial visits it was decided I would visit them instead of vice versa. I think they believed if they didn't see it, it wasn't as bad as they remembered it being. I neglected to tell them it was worse than they even thought.

The old me might have been scared by the occasional shots that sometimes rang through the night or the shouts of my neighbors fighting in Spanish or the sound of furniture crashing into the walls, but none of it affected me. Carlos did not scare me nor did any of the other elements of my complex.

Maybe Carlos sensed I wasn't afraid since he kept his advances to the verbal kind only. Tonight, I almost wished he would try. I was confident I could put him on his skinny ass, but I knew it would be unfair to take out my anger on him. I liked Carlos. He was the pola

r opposite of everyone I'd ever known.

"Come on, chica," he cajoled, patting the stained couch beside him.

"You couldn't handle me," I called back with a confidence that only held true if we were fighting. In the sack category I had no idea how I'd fare. I'd tried once in Paris six months after the accident. I'd been desperate to try anything to fill the gaping hole in my chest. The guy could barely speak English, so instead he purred words I didn't understand in my ear. It had been a disaster. I'd ended up melting down into a pool of tears and sobs that had scared him away. I cried for two solid days, holed up in my one-room flat. Eventually, I ran out of tears. After that I turned off my emotions. It was the last time I ever cried over the accident. Even when my feet hit American soil my eyes remained bone dry, not even the cemetery where the three were buried could produce a single tear. That part of me no longer existed.

Carlos kept calling out to me as I made my way up my stairs and closed my door. I flipped the lock, though its flimsy locking mechanism wouldn't hold up against a stiff kick. An industrial lock still in its bag sat on my counter. Dad had given it to me months ago. I'd lied and told him I'd get someone to install it. In all honesty, I'd planned to do it myself but I'd yet to get around to it.

The inside of my apartment was dim now that the sun was setting outside, but I didn't bother turning on the lights or the television that sat in the corner of the room. Instead, I sat on my couch and proceeded to drink all six beers. I drank until the last of my anger faded away, until I forgot the events of the day. Eventually, I passed out on my couch halfway through the sixth one.

Bright lights threatened to blind me as metal-on-metal sounds thundered in my eardrums. The vehicle was dismantled by the firefighters using the machine they'd called Jaws of Life. I pressed my hands to my ears, wanting to shriek at them to stop. I couldn't handle the sound of metal being bent out of shape a second later. I knew they were trying to help us. They needed to pull the metal away enough to free us. The entire left side of the vehicle was being peeled away like the rind of an orange, exposing the interior of the vehicle. In the bright light I saw them finally remove the section of metal where Tracey was sitting. They reached in and deftly undid her seatbelt. Her head and body flopped lifelessly forward like a puppet with no more strings. It didn't look real. Our heads and bodies weren't supposed to flop around like that. I opened my mouth to tell the EMT he was doing it wrong. He should know that her head needed to be supported. My tongue refused to work as I watched the EMT remove her from the vehicle and lower her onto a gurney before covering her face with a sheet. The mewling sound I'd been trying to curb crept back up my throat. This wasn't real. None of this was real. I squeezed my eyes closed, unable to watch the rescuers for even a moment longer.

Time began to lose all meaning as the vehicle around me was slowly and methodically dismantled. The passenger side proved to be a challenge for them since the vehicle had settled against the embankment after its fifth roll through the air. It was as if the embankment had tried to swallow the vehicle.

The doors and seats were removed and cleared away as the rest of my friends were pulled from the wreckage. I could hear more sirens blaring shortly after Zach was free of the mangled vehicle. I wanted to hope that maybe he was alive, but I was too afraid to ask.

Time was my enemy as each one of my friends was pulled from the vehicle while I waited for my turn. High-powered lights illuminated the surrounding area of the crash site. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see the very real nightmare in the harsh, revealing light. It was a selfish reaction, and I instantly felt guilty.

Hours later I woke covered in a cold sweat with sobs caught in my throat. The nightmare still clutched me in its death grip. Though my apartment was tomb silent, the sound of grinding metal and screams filled my ears. The smell of burned rubber and earth filled my nostrils, making me gag. I lurched from the sofa and made it to the bathroom in time to empty all the contents of my belly. That was the bitch of life. I could run from the past during the daylight hours but there was no escaping the nightmares that plagued me almost every single night. Carlton had prescribed sleeping pills, but they'd only muted the dreams. I woke feeling groggy and useless. So, instead, I endured the dreams, reliving the accident over and over again.

Six

I managed to avoid Brian for the rest of the week, but Darcie was like a bloodsucking tick I couldn't shake. She was there when I clocked in every single day and insisted on following me to my room each time. I'd tried everything in my arsenal to shake her off. Silence had no effect on her. Rudeness only seemed to spur her on. Having her around was as bad as I thought it would be, if not worse. She seemed to be permanently stuck in our high school days. Gossip came naturally to her, and she seemed to know what was going on with everyone from our senior class. On my third day I tried to be honest with her by telling her the memories were painful. She'd clucked her tongue sympathetically and told me she understood. I finally felt I'd gotten through to her, but on Thursday she launched into a story about seeing Zach in his wheelchair at Chili's with his parents. She proceeded to moan about what a shame it was.

"He used to be the hottest commodity around," she mused, dismissing him as if he was no longer worthy of such a title. My hand, which had been reaching for my room door, shook with rage at her words. All reason left me. Red blurred my vision, distorting everything in its haze. Without even realizing I was doing it, I had her up against the wall by her shirt collar.

Her eyes went wide as I growled at her like a rabid dog. "You shut your fucking mouth about him. Do you understand me? You're not allowed to talk about my friends." I choked on the last words. My words were a lie. They were no more my friends than they were hers.

Breathing heavy, I'd release her and headed into my room with my head still roaring. I'd closed the door behind me, trying to regain control. I wouldn't need to quit my job. Surely I would be fired after this.

As I taught my class that afternoon I kept expecting someone to barge in and escort me from the building, after all I'd assaulted the owner's daughter. No one came in though, and Darcie was nowhere to be seen when I left my room two hours later.

When I woke up today, I debated not even going in. It was a given that word of my behavior would have gotten around. I could spare myself the embarrassment by just staying home, but three hours later I was pulling into the parking lot of the Y.

Turning off my car, I took my time gathering my things in case security decided to bar the doors. When none appeared by the time I exited my car, I approached the building cautiously. Hopefully, if I was asked to leave the premises it would be done discreetly.

The lobby was crowded with women who'd just finished their afternoon Zumba class, but no one called out to me. Not wanting to press my luck, I hurried and clocked in on the computer at the front desk, smiling cautiously at the teenager manning it. She responded by smiling at me brightly before returning to her iPhone.

Darcie was nowhere around as I made it to my room. I kept expecting her to pop in as I laid out the supplies. Only when my class began to file in did I begin to believe that maybe I wasn't fired.

"What do you think, Ms. K?" called out Tricia, one of my students, as she held up the vase of fake flowers she'd spent the last two days constructing. I'd taught her how to make flowers with tissue paper and pipe cleaners once she confessed she hated drawing and painting. "My mom just wanted to get me out of the house," she said after showing me her drawing that was supposed to be a bunch of grapes but resembled something that looked closer to raisins.

Not one to force my passions on anyone else, I showed her other ways she could be artistic. Hence the dozen tissue paper flowers crammed in the vase that was once a Pringles can but was now covered in a sheet of bright red construction paper.

"Very nice," I said, sharing a smile with Chris, the artist who'd caught my attention the first day. He worked at a table by himself using supplies I'd brought for him. I'd shown his picture from the first day t

o my art professor, who proceeded to flip like I knew he would. He'd given me a list of other paintings he'd like to see from Chris. Chris had responded to the news with the same disinterest as the first day but had set out to produce each item on the list. Glancing over his shoulder, I couldn't help shaking my head in awe. This kid definitely had a future in art. His eye was uncanny.