Shattered Promises Part 1

Shattered Promises.

Jessica Sorensen.

Prologue.

Why do people laugh? What makes them cry? Smile? What allows them to love? These are the questions I've asked myself for nearly the last twenty-one years.

What makes people feel?.

I don't understand what produces emotion and I'm supposed to be writing a paper on human emotion for my Sociology cla.s.s. I've been camped out on a bench in the center of the campus quad, studying the interaction of nearly the entire student body that goes to the University of Wyoming, and I still don't understand.

What is it? Why do they hold hands? Kiss? Laugh? What the h.e.l.l is making them look like there are rainbows and suns.h.i.+ne everywhere?

It is a warm fall day and leaves are fluttering across the dry gra.s.s. The branches are bare and the air is laced with rain. My jacket is balled up on the bench beside me and ear buds are stuffed into my ears. "Wonderwall" by Oasis plays through the speakers, the lyrics trying to surface an emotion buried deep inside me, but, like usual, it's just a spark that quickly fades.

I jot some notes about a couple making out on the steps in the front entrance of the main office, which is a large brick building that has a historical look to it. Their hands are all over each other, feeling every inch of one another's skin, like they want each other more than anything. I don't get it. I never have. For as long as I can remember, I've never been able to feel any emotion. Sadness, happiness, love; they are all just words to me. They have no more meaning or importance than the shoes on my feet.

When I was younger, I never thought much about it. I moved through my life like a robot, and I was fine, but lately, at least for the last few days, questions are surfacing. Maybe it is the fact that Professor Fremont, my Sociology professor, has been on a human emotion kick lately. Most of his lectures relate to the drive behind emotion. Perhaps his words have finally stuck the pin into my thoughts.

Why have I never felt anything? Am I broken? Crazy? Or are there just some people who go through life like me-peacefully disconnected?

I scribble the thought down, shut my notebook, and get to my feet, deciding to call it quits for the day. I gather my things into my bag and head across the campus toward my parked car. I used to live in the dorm, but it's the start of my Senior year and I made the decision to move out on my own. I'm sure it was a huge favor to the person in line to share a dorm with me. I tend to frighten people with my internal impa.s.siveness. I was the same way in high school. Most of my life, I was the outcast weirdo with no friends. It made sense. I mean, how can I make friends when I can't smile, laugh, or even relate to people?

As I pull my car keys out from my pocket, a nagging feeling overcomes me, like I forgot something on the bench. I glance over my shoulder, squinting against the faint stream of sunlight flowing through the air. The bench is empty. My eyes sweep through the crowd and I get the impression that someone is watching me, but everyone seems to be engulfed in their own business.

Burying the impression, I turn back around and step off the curb. That's when the heat hits me, like a kick to the stomach. I hunch over and my keys fall to the ground. It hurts, like fire's melting my skin and scorching my hands, however my skin looks as pale and smooth as it always has. I try to straighten back up, forcing my shoulders upward, but something stabs into the back of my neck. I reach around and feel the warmth of my skin scorching against my trembling fingers. There is something else there, though-something invisible, possessing my body, as if hot liquid spills through my veins and pools inside my heart.

I can't breathe-can't stand. My knees buckle and I collapse to the ground, the rocks dig through my jeans, into my skin, and my palms split open as I press them into the ground to hold my weight up. Every bone in my body feels like it is cracking open from the emotional pressure. Every hurtful word, every sad moment, every lonely second I've ever experienced pours through me like a rampant river and submerges my body, drowning me in my own tears. My fingers shake as I touch my wet cheeks.

I'm stunned. Shocked. Terrified. Because, for the first time in my life, I'm crying.

Chapter 1.

Three months later...

I feel alive as I follow him down the slender hallway, bordered by maroon walls and lit up by antique lanterns. The way he moves with slow, confident strides is hypnotic. My heart knocks inside my chest, excited and nervous. My pulse speeds up when he glances over his shoulder at me. He is gorgeous; dark-brown tousled hair, broad shoulders, bright green eyes. I'm helpless as my legs carry me toward him. Even though I don't know who he is, it feels like I do. I just can't place from where.

Music plays from within the building and vibrates against the walls. There is heat in the air and it makes my skin damp beneath the short leather dress I'm wearing. It's strange because I never wear dresses, but I never walk down empty hallways chasing strangers, either.

He turns to face me, walking backwards, and his tongue slips out of his mouth to wet his full lips. I swear to G.o.d, I almost die as the urge to lean forward and bite his lip rushes through my body. I've never felt this way before. I've never felt much of anything, until now.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, pausing at the door at the end of the hallway.

I nod eagerly, even though I have no idea what he wants me to do. "Yes."

An unhurried smile curves across his lips and the muscles of his arms flex as he shoves open the door. Inside is a small room, with blood-red walls and floors the color of ash. There's a dresser in the corner, a room divider against the back wall, along with a metal-framed bed.

I press my lips together and cross my arms over my chest, wondering if I'm getting in over my head.

He motions for me to step in as he holds the door open. "Ladies first."

I enter, fiddling with the bottom of my dress and struggling to keep my balance in my high-heeled boots. "Are you sure they won't find us here?" I ask, turning in a circle to examine the room.

He closes the door and turns around to face me with his hands behind his back. He studies me intensely and it makes me squirm. "You know, you're not like I thought you'd be," he says, taking a step forward. "Yet, at the same time you are."

"That makes no sense." I take a step back, trying to blink away from his gaze, but I am trapped by feelings I can't control.

"It makes perfect sense." He takes another step and then another. I match his moves until my back brushes the wall. He places a hand on each side of my head, pinning me between his arms and leans forward until there is hardly any s.p.a.ce between our lips, our bodies are aligned. "You just don't know it yet."

I can smell the faint scent of his cologne and feel the heat emitting from his body. "Are you sure we shouldn't be running? They won't stop until they find me."

He shakes his head with his eyes focused on me. Up close, I can see little specks of blue inside the green and the largeness of his pupils. "We'll be fine. I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

Conflicted with whether or not I believe him, I swallow hard. "Are you sure, because..."

He places a finger across my lips. "Shh... When I promise something, I mean it."

I nod my head and my eyelids flutter from the feel of his skin on my mouth.

"I won't let anything happen to you." His finger trails down the front of my neck to my chest and I s.h.i.+ver as he inches closer, closing his eyes.

The first touch of his lips brings an uproar of heat to my skin that surges down my neck and my chest before hitting me straight in the stomach and coiling downward, causing me to let out an embarra.s.sing moan. I start to recoil, but he only seems more eager to kiss me as his tongue slips deep inside my mouth.

The taste of him is familiar and comforting, yet full of danger, want, and need. I feel the back of my neck grow hot with a fire that rips through my body as a hunger possesses me. My head races a million miles a minute with thoughts of getting closer to him. I clutch onto his arms, digging my nails into his skin, drawing a line of blood as I press my body against his. What the h.e.l.l is happening to me? I've never felt this way before. I need to breathe-I need to run... G.o.d, but I want to stay.

His hands wander down my body; across my breast to the bottom of my dress. As his fingers graze my bare thigh, he sucks on my tongue and pulls me closer. Gripping my legs, he scoops me up and urges them around his waist. The feel of him pressed up against me makes the fire burn hotter. I'm burning up. I swear I'm literally on fire.

He groans against my mouth, biting at my bottom lip as his hands roam upward beneath my dress and cup my a.s.s. My legs constrict in response and tighten around his hips. His muscles tighten, but his tongue continues to explore my mouth, entangling with my tongue, tasting me, turning me on in ways I don't understand. G.o.d, I want to understand, though. So badly.

"Gemma," he breathes as his lips kiss a path down my jawline to my neck, where he sucks on my skin, nearly driving me crazy.

"How do you know my name?" I ask as my fingers tangle through his soft hair and my head falls back.

He shakes his head, pulling away for just a second, and his eyes are glazed over. "I don't."

I don't understand what he means, but as his fingers move between my legs, I forget about everything. The spark of his touch causes me to suck in a sharp breath. My chest heaves as I shut my eyes and dig my fingernails into his shoulder blades as more intense emotions emerge. I slide my hands underneath his s.h.i.+rt, feeling the lines of his muscles and the smoothness of his skin.

He laughs against my lips and then his tongue slips back inside my mouth, but it feels different. His lips... they don't feel the same and there is something on them that feels like cold metal.

I open my eyes and my breath catches in my throat. He's changed into someone else. His brown hair is now blond with blue tips and a silver ring is looped through his bottom lip. His eyes are bright blue, like the sky, and his skin is as pale as snow.

"Who are you..." I breathe, but I think I know.

The stranger stays silent and leans forward to kiss me. I wonder if there is something wrong with me as his tongue encourages my lips apart and I only clutch onto his lean arms, instead of pulling away. His skin is like ice and he tastes different and exciting. My body feels like it's going to explode from the torridness. His hands grip my waist, his nails digging into my skin as he draws me closer, crus.h.i.+ng my body against his, and my skin beads with sweat. He mutters my name, threading his fingers through my hair and tugging at the roots until my head is tipped back. Then, his mouth moves for my neck. His teeth gently nick at my skin and it stings a little, but feels amazingly good at the same time; like some kind of euphoric venom dancing threw my veins.

As his hands search my body, the warmth of his touch gradually decreases. Instead of heat, I feel cold. His hands wander up the front of my dress, his palms gliding against the leather until he is cupping my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I let out a moan, but numbness consumes me. And the cold. Why am I so cold?

My eyes snap open. Towering behind him is a figure wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled over its head. The eyes are yellow and flash fiercely as it steps forward with its bony hand stretched outward.

I jerk away from the guy's arms and lower my feet to the ground. "Oh my G.o.d," 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 b.u.t.ton on the alarm. The cold and the heat still linger in my body, just like they do every d.a.m.n morning because I can't shake that dream. I wrap my blanket around myself with the p.r.i.c.kle 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 cla.s.ses 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 f.u.c.king 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 sungla.s.ses, 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 p.r.i.c.kle 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 gla.s.ses 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 h.e.l.lo 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 ap.r.o.n 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 relations.h.i.+p: 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 p.i.s.sed 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 ap.r.o.n. "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 sh.o.r.e of a lake. Marco has his hand in front of his face, s.h.i.+elding 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, s.h.i.+fting 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 h.e.l.l 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 p.r.i.c.kling sensation stabs at my neck.