by Nicole Snow
“Oh, give me a goddamned break, Cordelia.” He rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair. “I've heard it all. I know what these Navy guys are like, especially the elites. They'll tell a woman anything she wants to hear. It's not about love. Even if I thought he was Prince-fucking-Charming, he's still your stepbrother, and I'm not going to have my colleagues staring at me like I'm some kind of fruitcake who thinks anything goes with his daughter.”
“I'm not a little girl anymore,” I shoot back, digging my nails into my thighs so hard it hurts. “You can't control me. I'll be out of school soon, on my own, making whatever way I want.”
“That's where you're wrong.” He folds his hands, leans forward, staring coldly into my eyes. “I'm giving you an ultimatum – if you want that fancy college degree, you'll go to therapy and forget all about your SEAL stepbrother. And no, talking to a doctor isn't an option anymore, not after you threw an alcoholic beverage in my wife's face.”
I'm too stunned to fire back. My heart feels overloaded, like it's been paved over in stone. All I want to do is run upstairs, stuff my face into a pillow, and scream and scream and scream until I pass out.
“I'm proud of you, and I've been glad to pay your tuition all along to move you in the right direction. However, you'd better believe I'll leave you out in the cold if you insist on losing your mind. There's no shame in getting help, honey, and we all need it sometimes. Lord knows I did after your mother walked out. I'll support you the same way I'm supporting Evie. But I'm not going to sit back and watch while you're lashing out, thinking I'll ever endorse this sick, twisted tryst you've had with that man. I swear, sometimes I think he's turned you into a crazy –“
He stops just short of saying bitch. It's not like it matters.
Dad has never, ever been so harsh with me, so hurtful, so threatening. It's all I can take.
I'm blotting at my eyes and tearing out of his office before he can say anything else.
“Think about it!” he yells after me. “You'll come to me tomorrow with the right answer. I know you will, Cordelia, I spent my whole life raising you better than –“
I cover my ears and rush upstairs. The queen bitch is sitting in the nook near their bedroom, letting the pale moonlight spill over, a fresh drink in her hand that's almost drained. I know by the amber color she's hitting the bottle again, and the evil smile she gives me confirms it.
I won't look at her. I get inside my room and slam the door, knowing it's my only safe haven from this prison my house has become.
I can't give up, can't let them win, can't let them destroy the love of my life. I need to talk to Chris. I pull him up on my phone and send him another text.
It's completely futile until he responds to the last five I've sent him, sure, but I can't help it. Where the hell is he?
I'm sick. Worried to death. I really shouldn't be scanning the news right now, but it's all I can do to soothe myself. I'd kill to hear something, find out he's okay, anything that tells me he'll get in touch soon.
There's nothing for the next hour. Then my news app sends an alert after I've started screwing around on social media:
BREAKING: Three American Special Forces Held in North Korea!
My stomach churns before I even open the link. And when I do, I have to cover my mouth, all I can do not to vomit.
Chris' face is front and center. Bruised, beaten up, bloodied. He'd sitting at a table underneath a huge North Korean flag, two grim faced guards next to him and two other SEALs at his side. They're parading them like special prizes for their own sick propaganda.
“No...no, no, no.” I say it over and over again, and then I completely lose my voice.
The phone slips from my hand. A few minutes ago, I could've kept it together. I was ready to fight my parents tooth and nail to stay with him, even if I had to skip the next semester.
I'd show dad that I'm not losing my mind – I'm doing the only sane thing in the world by embracing the man I love.
But now, something is falling, breaking apart deep inside me like a huge ice shelf coming down.
I'm numb. I'm scared. And for the first time in my life, I think I'm going truly crazy.
“Truly, I wish it didn't have to come down this way, Cordelia. We'll do everything we can to make sure he comes home safe.” Dad's eyes flick nervously back toward mine in the rear view mirror.
I barely shrug.
I haven't sat in the backseat while he's driving since I was a kid. Today, I feel like one, broken and completely helpless.
When the bitch pushed for checking me into the same psych ward she'd went to this morning over breakfast, I didn't say no.
I keep thinking I'll go through the motions, get out of the house, and try to come back for fall semester fresh. You know, not sick to death over wondering if Chris will come home alive, or what kind of brutal torture he's suffering.
I'm kidding myself. I'm the one who's sick and screwed up. Losing him hurts.
I'm so alone. Lost. Loveless.
“We're almost there. You're going to feel much better soon, honey. Honest. Just listen to what the doctors tell you. I'll be here on Friday to see how you're doing.”
“Oh, back off the girl, Bruce. She's just sick in the head. She hasn't reverted back to a baby.” Evie looks up at him from the passenger seat, filing her nails.
There's a steady rain coming down across the hills, spattering the entire metropolitan area It's cold for summer, and I stare out the window, wondering if it's a fraction as dismal and hopeless feeling as the place where Chris is being held prisoner.
The raindrops blend with the sound of Evie scratching her nails to perfection. It's a rough, edgy sound, like my whole world is ripping in two, plunging me into a gray, empty pit I don't know how to climb up from.
I see the clinic looming large in the distance. It's one of those spacious places with incredible gardens and sleek, white wards. Celebrities and rich people go there to detox or unwind from their myriad emotional traumas.
I can't say dad hasn't always offered me the best in everything. I stare at it through the window, wondering how I'll actually feel once I'm locked in, institutionalized, a small team of quacks hovering over me everyday.
My stomach starts knotting up. Then I think about Chris, the only thing I truly want to think about, even when he's causing me the greatest anguish of my life.
This is going to be torture, no doubt about it. But I know it's less than a shred of the brutality he's suffering.
What those monsters did to his face...Jesus Christ.
I'm worried they're going to ruin him. Not that it matters to me – he's handsome, even when he's wearing deep purple bruises on his face and his jaw looks like it's been broken and crudely reset.
I won't give up on him. I can't. I'll never stop loving him.
“Why are you slowing down?” Evie snarls, giving my dad a sharp look. I open my eyes, and realize we're moving at a crawl. “Jesus Christ, Bruce, man up and let's get this over with. We're never going to get our daughter back if we dilly-dally all day. She's all we've got now. I don't have a son anymore.”
“We don't need to talk about that now,” dad snaps, sighing. “Sorry. I just need a moment.”
He's not looking at her as he pulls up to the curb, more distance than he really needs from the door. His eyes are glued to mine in the mirror.
For a second, we share our hurt.
I finally understand why he's doing this. And I wonder if he's beginning to understand Chris and me, our love shining through the dense, twisted wreckage of all our baggage.
I won't blame you, dad, I think, trying to send him the message without wasting any words. Go ahead. Walk me in.
I start to fiddle with my seat belt. The sound annoys Evie, who starts thumping her overdone fingernails on the car's interior, tapping loud and hard in time to the rain.
“Cut it out,” dad growls. “This is stressful enough.”
“Oh?” I see her face turn and she smirks. “Poor b
aby. I'll fix you a drink or two as soon as we get home. We're doing what we should've done months ago, and she isn't even kicking and screaming. It's a miracle, really.”
I don't have the energy to be mad at this bitch anymore. I just want to get this over with, so I tear off my seat belt and pop the door, heading out into the rain. Dad turns off the car and runs after me, yelling.
“Honey – wait!” he runs up and takes me by the hand. “I can't let you do this alone.”
I stop, feeling the hot tears come as dad hugs me close. The wet splash I feel on my forehead isn't just the rain. There's a drop of something hotter, just like my tears, and I completely lose it when I look up and see him crying too.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Evie's sharp voice rings out behind us, slamming the car door ass he gets out. “Move! You're both making this harder than you need to. The girl's way past hugs and kisses, Bruce. She needs drugs, doctors, shock therapy.”
Okay, now I'm pissed. I look up, beaming all my hatred at her, but it's nothing compared to dad's.
“Evie...shut the fuck up.” He's storming, and I recognize the same rough thunder in his tone I've heard in Chris' a dozen times before.
“Oh, so now you finally channel the tough guy.” She pauses and laughs, an irritating sound that makes me want to slap her across the face. “Where the hell were you while your family was falling apart, Bruce? Where are you now? You're a few steps away from getting her the help she needs to get off her sick, cancerous crush on my idiot son, and you're standing here blubbering like a baby.”
Dad slowly releases me. The rain picks up, like something out of a bad movie, and Evie makes a face. She just won't let up.
“Ten seconds. That's all I'm giving you before I check her in myself. I'm not going to stand here all day watching this ridiculous heartbreak in the rain.” She reaches up and brushes her hand through her hair, wrinkling her face in disgust.
She's way too done up for dropping me off with shrinks. It's almost like she's...celebrating or something. Which, I guess, isn't completely out of the question. She's taller than both of us on her heels.
They look like they're ready to flatten us any second, walk over our bones, solidifying her triumph. I can't believe she doesn't see it.
She's still blaming Chris for screwing our family? The only one doing the sabotage here is standing right in front of me, counting down on her fingers, a vicious smirk plastered on her face.
“Okay, ten!” she yells, tapping at the clock on her phone. “Come on, Cordelia, it's time for mama to do the job daddy won't.”
She starts toward me and I step back. There's no fucking way I'm going to take her hand. I'll push her down into the gutter and watch her roll around in the cool, wet drainage before I do that.
She's fast, determined, and I'm really screwed up. Before she can grab me, dad throws his arm around my shoulder and spins me around. We're walking, quick stepping back to the car. He pops the passenger door and shoves me inside.
I blink, not understanding what the hell just happened. Dad pops his door and slides into the driver's seat. He's about to shift the car in gear before Evie runs up, raking her long, green fingernails on his window until he puts it down.
“Asshole! Have you lost your fucking mind? What the hell is wrong with you? Both of you!”
“Check yourself in, Evie. You're going to need a reset before I send in the divorce paperwork next week.”
My heart stops, and for the first time since I saw Chris in the media, I crack a smile.
“You're making a huge mistake, little man,” she snarls, fear and rage souring her face. “Do it. I fucking dare you to. I'll take you to court and squeeze every penny out of your miserable, selfish accounts. I'll go to your finance bloggers and tell them all about your whore of a daughter, your spineless little tantrums, how bad you are in bed. I swear to god, if you cut me out, Bruce, I'll –“
He floors it. Dad and I are laughing like angry, emotional lunatics as the car rockets away, doing a hard loop around the clinic before heading back to the road.
The last glimpse I ever catch of Evie is the car's tires kicking water in her face, ruining her outfit. She stands there the whole time in full meltdown, soaking wet and stamping her feet, cursing us for ruining her life.
When the sheer adrenaline wears off, we're back in the city, tooling along the streets. We're stopped at a long light when I finally grab his hand and ask.
“Dad? Is that really you? What set you off?”
He smiles softly. “I knew I was going to drop one of my girls off for some serious help the whole way here. Evie made the choice very, very easy. I couldn't have gone through with you, honey, however angry I am about Chris. I'm just sorry it took me this long to see it.”
I nod and swallow, pushing down the bitter lump in my throat so I don't start blubbering all over again.
“You made the right choice, in case you wondered.”
“Damn right I did,” he says, punching the gas hard when the light goes green. “I'll take the woman who's in love with an asshole, my own flesh and blood, any day over the asshole pretending to be in love with me.”
It's going to be a long road home, an enormous journey to fix everything else in my life. But for the first time in forever, there's finally hope, and I realize there's more than one person left on earth who loves me.
14
Hearts That Bleed Together (Chris)
Delia, Delia, Delia!
I'm running toward her on the warm California beach, and I'm going to push her completely into the sand. It's been too long. I need to grab her, savor her, taste her, fuck her.
I want to kiss this woman with my entire body, the full force of my soul, all I can do to stay sane while the fire in my blood hits crescendo.
Our lips are so damned close. I've got my fist in her hair and I jerk her head back as she moans, opening her lips, ready for me to claim everything I've been missing all these.
Her nipples are so fucking hard my dick throbs in my pants. I need to rip our clothes off now, throw her in the sand, and dig into her, even if it causes us to sink into the earth.
I'm about to bring my mouth down on hers when we lock eyes. She gazes into my eyes, opening her soft, perfect lips.
Fuck me, Chris. I love you so much.
That's what I'm ready to hear.
Nothing prepares me for the harsh, cold, foreign gibberish that comes out.
My eyes snap open. The door to my cell slides open, and three skinny Korean People's Army soldiers step inside, an overseer in a suit with a flag and a shiny Dear Leader pin fixed to his lapel.
I tense up. My hand twitches from the last week, when the fucks took a hammer to it, threatening to smash every damned bone in my body if I didn't tell them everything I knew about the specs on the stealth chopper wreckage they've got stowed in some hanger.
It's been weeks, maybe months. I lost track of time long ago, shortly after my hell began. The beard growing on my face is the only thing that tells me I've been here for a long fucking time.
“What the hell do you want?” I look up and spit on the floor after I say it, showing my disgust like a good SEAL should. “You come to fry me with those jumper cables like you did with the commander last week? Or are you going to play chiropractor on my joints again?”
The man in the suit gives me an icy stare and starts speaking in that slow, jerky English he always uses. Everything is way underfunded in this hellhole, including whatever they spend on training their interpreters.
“It is a good day for you, Cleveland. We have a deal. Maybe the sun will feel you shine on her face again.”
I clench my jaw, feeling the pain from months ago, when they cracked my goddamned bone. I'm not getting my hopes up. These bastards are awfully crafty at their psy-ops, and chances are this is one more of them, communicated in broken English.
“I don't buy it, Kim.”
It doesn't help that his English sucks. The way he talks about the sun makes me
think of Delia, but then everything does these days.
It's her on my mind when they're holding my head under water, making me suck cold, acrid water into my lungs. I remember our kisses when they've got me on the table underneath a blinding, hot lamp, punching me in the face over and over and over.
It's her I feel when they give me the shock treatment, when my heart's racing a thousand miles per hour, ready to explode because the fuckers shoot me up with too much of that truth serum that never works.
She's my sanctuary. My love. My life.
She's the reason I'm going to survive this. I'll come home alive and breathing, instead of ground up ash in a tiny metal canister Uncle Sam will get in fifty years, after this sick regime collapses.
Delia, Delia, sweet fucking Delia. Forgive me.
I'm the one getting brutalized, but I can't stop thinking about her. Knowing she's in pain, worrying about me, is a thousand times worse than anything these motherfuckers can do to me.
The Korean smiles – it's the same faceless, plaster smile he always gives me. The same thing I've seen before he tells his goons to take pliers to my toenails, before he has them push me into that rotten pit full of rats and lice, before I spit in his miserable face when he's leering over me, wondering if I'm finally broken and ready to talk.
The man I call Kim paces the small cell while the stone-faced guards look on. He spins around when he's behind me, putting his face next to mine, so fast and sudden any other man would flinch.
I never do. He doesn't scare me, and it pisses him off. Our dealings are about more than about pulling information from an 'imperialist enemy of the state.'
It's become a war of egos, a war between men. He can't stand the fact that I'll never let him dominate.
“A dog until the end,” he snaps, motioning to the guards. “Get him on the plane.”