Flawless//Broken (3 page)

“Ah, ah, back off.”

I slow, glaring daggers into him. Why is this happening? Why us? Why now, when I moved to escape all this? Disgust and fear well up in my stomach - if I lose Ellie, if I lose the one person who stood by me after everything -

“What do you want?” I seethe.

“I want you,” He says slowly. “I want the blood inside you. I want you to bleed, and I want to bathe in it, sink in it, I want it to caress my flesh and give me life -”

Over the frat boy’s shoulder, I see a figure in a dark sweater walk up. His platinum hair glints in the light, face carved in shadow and anger. It’s the man from the club. The frat boy sees how shocked I am and turns his head. The man makes a throwing motion, graceful and quick, and there’s a sickening ‘thunk’ noise. The frat-boy turns his head back to me, a silver knife embedded deep in his forehead. My blood runs cold. Ellie screams as the frat boy goes limp, collapsing on the pavement. She runs over to me, and I hug her tight.

“Mia, M-Mia I was so fucking scared -”

“It’s okay,” I murmur, my own voice nearly as shaky. “He’s…he’s dead.”

“Not really,” A deep voice resonates, svelte and smooth. The platinum-haired man bends over the body, looking up at me. “He was never really alive to begin with.”

“You killed him,” I manage. “Why didn’t you just…you didn’t have to do that. You could’ve disabled him, or -”

A sick, hot lump rises in my throat. My scar throbs. Who am I to talk? Who am I to lecture someone else on hurting people? Ellie sobs in my arms, and I set my lip, pretending to be strong. Always pretending. My eyes flicker to the frat boy’s body. There’s no blood. Not even a drop of it around the dagger wound.

“He was never alive. And you two never saw this,” The man says, and pulls the dagger out from the frat boy’s forehead. Ellie yelps as the body dissolves in bloodless fast-motion, like he’s made of sand being blown away instead of flesh and bone. It takes a second, and all that’s left is a pile of pale dust. The man looks to me. His soft gold eyes are suddenly hard and sharp, like twin sabers, daring me to judge him, daring me to say something.

“That’s quite enough, Darius,” A woman’s voice interrupts the tension, the beautiful woman from the club walking towards us. Her silver dress slithers behind her, and her smile is benevolent.

“I apologize for Darius’ rude behavior,” She sighs, her voice like crystal bells. “He’s not very good with people.”

“We shouldn’t linger, Genevieve” Darius says gruffly. “More of them will come if they smell you.”

Genevieve just rolls her eyes and smiles at me. She walks over, patting Ellie’s head. “I’m so sorry. You must have been so scared.”

Ellie shivers against me in response, and the woman looks up at me.

“And you…you are quite the brave one. Not many would face down a homunculus with only a purse and their courage.”

Behind her Darius frowns, even that expression of his beautiful, if unpleased.

“Why did they attack these two?” Darius asks her. “Neither of them have Flamel’s blood, or I would’ve smelled them.”

Genevieve stares at me and Ellie, as if expecting something to happen.

“Do you mind explaining what the hell you guys are talking about?” I snarl. “My friend and I almost got killed by that…that
thing
!”

The woman smiles. “How inconsiderate of me. Of course we’ll explain everything. But first, you two should have something warm to drink. Your friend here looks like she’s going into shock.”

I look down at Ellie, whose face is so white it practically blends into her white leather jacket. I nod, and the woman pulls out a flask from her purse, offering it to me. I hold it up to Ellie’s pale lips.

“Hey, El.” I try to make my voice as comforting as possible. “El, stay with me, okay? Drink this. It’ll help.”

Ellie’s vacant green eyes look up at me, and then at the flask. She drinks slowly, and gradually a flush returns to her cheeks. Genevieve smiles wider.

“There. Much better. You drink too. You’re as white as a ghost.”

I lock eyes with Darius, who’s watching me intently. His whole body is on point, like he’s a tiger waiting to spring on the nearest weak thing. And right now, I’m that weak thing. The trembling of my hands is from a combination of his unnerving stare and my own fears come back to life. The violence, the thought of almost losing Ellie, it all shook me down to my bones. I smell the flask - it’s the strangest mixed scent, like pine sap and warm, milky coffee.

“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t drink.”

“It’s non-alcoholic,” The woman insists. “It will help you focus, darling. Let me call you a cab, shall I? I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to walk home after all this. I’ll explain everything in the car.”

She pulls out her phone and dials a number. Ellie looks to me. A dark, nasty bruise is slowly forming on her cheek from where the frat boy punched her.

“It’s okay. It helps, and it tastes good,” She assures me. I raise it to my lips and take a sip. She’s right - it tastes better than anything I’ve had in a while. It’s strong and hot and sweet, but with a tiny tang of bitterness that goes down smooth. I feel my stomach stop fluttering, and heat return to my fingertips. I try not to look at Darius, but I can feel his eyes riveted on me. What’s his deal?

“I’m sorry, El -” I start to apologize, but when I look over she’s passed out on the sidewalk. “Ellie?” I shake her. “Ellie!”

A sudden wave of weakness washes over me and I wobble. I’ve been drugged. The drink was drugged.

“You…bastards -” I grit out. Genevieve turns to look at me, and smiles apologetically.

“I’m sorry. But this is how it has to be.”

My legs give out, and through my blurry vision I see the headlights of a car pull up. My head lolls back and I fight to stand, to crawl - something, anything to get away. I have to find someplace to hide, someplace small and dark where no one can find me, like I used to when I was a kid. Strong arms lift me beneath my knees and back, and I try to dig my nails into their skin, but my fingers go weak. I’m good at fighting back. I have years of experience fighting back - but the drug is so strong.

I hate feeling weak. My hate burns a hole in my heart. Hate for these mysterious people, hate for myself. I couldn’t save Ellie. I can’t even save myself. What good am I? The past bleeds out from between my exhaustion and rage.

What good are you, you useless slut? I’ll teach you a fucking lesson. Don’t you hide from me! I’m your father! I’m your
father
! I can do whatever I want! I’m your father, you stupid bitch!

The world goes black.

PART THREE

THREE

Chapter 3

THREE

My head throbs, and morning sunlight stabs into my eyes. I sit up, my blankets falling off me. The white, bare walls and giant window with a view of the bay tell me I’m back in my room, in the new apartment. I groggily get off the air mattress, and notice I’m wearing the sparkly black dress Mom gave me. Where did I go last night?

I rummage through my backpack for fresh, more comfortable clothes. I put on a shirt and my oldest pair of torn jean shorts. One backpack of clothes, one box of shoes. That’s all I brought with me from Idaho.

Idaho. Dad. The club.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back to me - Ellie. I jump to my feet and swing myself around the doorway, throwing the door to her room open.

“Ellie!” She’s sleeping peacefully in her hardwood bed. I run over and shake her gently, checking her face for any signs of a wound. “Ellie! Ellie, are you okay?”

Her long lashes flutter as her eyes open, emerald irises focusing blearily on me.

“Mia? W-What’s wrong?”

“The club, the frat-guy! Remember? He grabbed you, and he got stabbed by that blonde guy, and then that woman drugged us!”

Ellie sits up, a confused look on her face. She laughs a little.

“What are you talking about? Did you have a nightmare?”

“We left the club, and the guy with the blonde hair killed the frat-guy! And that gorgeous woman was with him. She drugged us! Don’t you remember?”

Ellie puts her hand over mine. “Mia, we walked home from the club and watched Netflix until we fell asleep, okay? None of that stuff happened. Nobody got killed. You’re okay.”

“But…what about your bruise?” I point at her cheek. “That’s where you got hit! Don’t you remember?”

“I tripped on the stairs on the way up to our door, Mia. Nobody hit me.”

I stare at my hands, trying to piece the puzzle together. She inhales slowly, and exhales slower.

“I know sometimes…people who go through what you did, they - they have bad nightmares. It’s okay. This is the real world. You’re in San Francisco, with me, in a new apartment, okay? You’re not back there anymore. Nobody’s going to hurt me, or you. I promise.”

I knit my eyebrows and study her face. She looks down at her dress, the same one she wore to the club, and giggles.

“Oops. Forgot to change into pajamas. I must’ve been seriously wasted. You can have the shower first. I’ll make waffles!”

She bounces out of bed and into the kitchen, leaving me to question my own sanity. It happened. I
saw
it happen. I saw Ellie crying, felt her tears on my arm, felt her shaking against me. I saw the violence in the frat-boy’s eyes, heard his voice taunting me, asking for my blood, begging for it. I saw Darius kill him. I saw the frat-guy turned into nothing more than a pile of dust in seconds. I remember Genevieve’s entrancing smile, and Darius’ intoxicating golden gaze locked onto mine like it all just happened, fresh and vivid. Did they drug us and bring us back here? No, that’s impossible. How would they know where we live? How would they get in? And that still doesn’t explain why Ellie doesn’t remember it.

I rush into my room and check my purse - my keys are still here. Everything is still here - my dinky, old school flip phone, my wallet with my painfully awkward ID and all of two dollars in it. Ellie doesn’t remember it at all. Which means it’s me. My brain. I hallucinated it?
Dreamt
all of it?

I go to the bathroom, the bright pink walls startling me for only a second. I forgot she painted those. If I forgot something as simple as that, is it possible I forgot last night entirely? Did I get stupid and buy a drink, and go too far like I used to? Blackouts aren’t new to me. I used to drink to blackout every weekend I was a Freshman in college - to try and forget what happened back home. To forget how bad it was. To punish myself. I’d wake up in some stupid guy’s bed or on a stranger’s couch. It was a miracle I didn’t end up with an STD or get murdered.

Did I do that again? Did I break my promise to never hurt myself again?

My stomach sinks. The mirror shows a girl with make-up smeared eyes, a tired frown, and scraggly black hair hanging like a frayed curtain around her shoulders. I splash water on my face to try and get rid of her, but she stays. The scar under her jaw is bright purple and as angry as ever. It’s still there. It’s still making my face uglier than ever.

“Get it together,” I murmur. “You’ve gotta be stronger than this.”

I take a hot shower. Ellie makes me warm waffles with lots of syrup and butter, just the way I like them. Breakfast is my first and only true love. Men are disappointing. Waffles, however, can never disappoint you.

I ask Ellie if drank anything last night, and she says she doesn’t think so, but I could’ve in the time before we left, when we were separated. I try to drown my confusion in more waffles and scalding coffee with tons of cream and sugar. Ellie offers to take me with her to her tour of SFU, but I turn her down as politely as I can. I need the time alone. But after thirty minutes in the empty apartment and my fragmented mind, I feel like I’m losing it. I pull out a folder and fill it with a thin stack of resumes. I throw on black jeans and a red blouse, pairing it with black flats - my only halfway decent job-interview look. I would buy a fancy work blouse or two, but I never finished college, so I’d never get the sort of jobs that required snazzy outfits, anyway. It’s a miracle if I get any job at all.

I pull my hair back into a bun, swipe on a little eyeshadow, and grab my keys.

Our neighborhood is on the poorer side - above the warehouse district and just before the projects. But still, a weird gentrification goes on in the fancy, gluten-free vegan cafes that cater to the sort of people who can afford to live far, far away from us. One cranberry-goji berry-acai berry-chia seed muffin costs twice as much as the minimum hourly wage. I hand them my resume anyway, promising to work as hard as I can. The manager smiles at me with too-white teeth and says they’ll be in touch. A dozen other practically identical coffee shops tell me the same thing, with the same cordial brusqueness. I try to be optimistic and assure them I’m young, and eager, and will always show up on time. But I get the feeling they see dozens of young people like me looking for work, with far more impressive resumes. And none of them have awful face scars.

People pass me, and I find myself scanning their faces - hoping one of them is Genevieve. Hoping beyond hope one of them is Darius. I want to confront them. Darius’ face lingers in my mind - and not just because he was handsome. It was something else, something about the fact he lit me up like a wildfire in August, and yet threw a dagger into a man’s forehead and killed him. He scares me like nothing else. He turns me on like nothing else.

I make a face in my reflection in a passing window. Like I could ever afford to think about sex again. Who would want to be intimate with a scarred-up, evil bitch like me?

Around lunch, I grab a bagel and make my way to retail shops - from clothing stores with beautiful, fancy dresses to tourist-trap shops smelling of sunscreen and cheap plastic. Some places are definitely never going to hire me, but I try anyway. I hate rejection, but I hate not trying even more. Keeping busy and forcing myself to smile and look hireable takes my mind off of last night better than any moping around the house could’ve done. This is my new home, and I’m determined to get to know it better. I get happily lost in a nearby park, and stop to watch some insane kids doing equally insane tricks on their boards at the skate park. Only when the sun starts setting in a vermilion blaze of glory on the bay do I realize I’ve been walking all day. My legs are crying to sit down for just one minute. I sit on the curb and blow my sweaty bangs out of my face. I’ve somehow managed to walk far enough to end up in a rich neighborhood. The houses are huge; beautiful windows and pristine paint jobs on top of perfectly manicured lawns. It’s mansion-level decadence, not the suburbs. It’s a far cry from the muddy trailer park I grew up in. For me, growing up meant canned beans and peanut butter sandwiches, thrift store clothes and shoplifting tampons my dad refused to give me money for. I slept in a pull-out bed in Dad’s trailer. We had one tiny toilet, a stove that rarely worked, and windows yellowed opaque from cigarette smoke. Bottles always crowded the counter, the windowsills, any place Dad could fit them. I would get sick of them, and clean as many as I could, but there’d always be more the next day to take their place. Eventually, I just gave up.