Page 4 of Fractured Heart

With a whimper, I stuff the pendant in my front jeans pocket and my fingers graze a few bills. I move closer to the streetlight so I can count them. Twenty-three dollars—enough for food but not much else. Even if I sleep on the street, which is completely out of the question, I wouldn’t survive for more than a few days. Then what?

I stuff the bills in my pocket and start walking. Every house on this street is home to a happy family. Warmth. Light. Safety. A shuddering sigh catches in my throat and threatens to turn into a raw sob. I push onward.

It’s only once I’ve reached the small, wrought iron gate that I realize where I’m going.

I’ve taken this path before, dozens of times, but only in the light of day. It cuts through the forest that inspired my song about Red Riding Hood and her pack of wolves.

I hum it as I look out into the trees. It’s always so beautiful here during the day. In the late afternoon, the sun reflects off the top of the clock tower, which just barely peeks out over the canopy of trees. I love looking at it and the other buildings that make up Lawrence Underwood Valley Academy for the Performing Arts, the local arts college.

Whenever I’ve done my chores—or enough of them not to anger Father—I like to sit up in my favorite tree next to the campus. It’s far enough that the students gracing LUV Academy’s paths can’t hear me and I work on my songs as they go about their day.

The gate feels cold against my fingertips. When I pull it open, it squeaks loudly, echoing through the silent night.

I enter the forest and it only takes a few steps to realize that a nighttime hike is completely different from a daytime one. It’s too dark to see the rocks and branches on the uneven path and my sweater keeps catching on brambles and twigs.

Even though this morning had been sweltering hot, it rained all afternoon, making the temperatures plummet. The biting wind stings my bare skin. I shiver as it grazes my fingers and nips at the tips of my ears. It rides up through the holes in my jeans and swirls around my face, sending my hair flying.

I shiver again, but this time it’s not entirely from the cold. The forest is kind of creepy at night. I really should have planned this better, found a friend to stay with and saved up for the bus. I should have packed a bag, too, even if it was just my old laptop, phone, and a change of clothes. I just hope my shoes don’t get soaked; I hate the feeling of wet socks.

The wind picks up, caressing the spot where Mom’s pendant used to sit. I touch the bare skin below my collar bone and fight back tears. I wish she was here.

Splash. My foot lands in a big puddle and my lower lip trembles.

I try not to think of it as some kind of sign. I keep walking down the muddy forest path, but my wet shoe is a constant reminder, squishing and squelching with each step.

Focus, Roonie. I need to come up with some sort of plan.

I can’t live in my favorite tree, singing about fairy-tales while I wait for one of my imaginary princes to rescue me. It’s too cold out and I ate so little of my dinner that I’m getting lightheaded. I need food and a warm place to stay. I had both living with Father. Maybe I should turn around, go home, and beg for his forgiveness. Tell him I screwed up—I mean, really screwed up—and that he was right…about everything.

I didn’t get into college because I’m not smart enough, or special enough, or talented enough. I sent in a portfolio of songs to every art college I could find—including the one I’m heading toward now—and all I got were rejection letters. It didn’t help that I’ve always been terrible at tests. My grades were barely above average, and I didn’t do well on the SATs.

And I’m terrible at interviews. I never heard back from the office jobs, or fast food chains, or even the job at the local bar. Father’s right. Why would anyone hire me when I can’t even take care of a few simple chores?

Splash. My other shoe gets soaked. Something inside me snaps and I shout into the night, “Who put all these stupid puddles in this stupid forest?”

I glare up at the vast sky. The stars look cold and stern, infinite and uncaring. What if Mom’s up there, watching me? Is she disappointed? Does she think I’m a failure, just like Father does?

Tears cloud my vision and the ground suddenly gives way beneath my feet. I don’t even have time to scream.

Panic floods my veins and my heart slams into my throat at the sheer drop. It’s the same rush of fear I always get an instant before Father’s fist makes contact, only this time the moment’s over almost as soon as it’s begun.

My back, already sore from its earlier collision with the fridge, hits the sticky, wet mud with a thud. My head follows, the impact rattling the insides of my brain. It hurts—a lot—but at least I didn’t hit my head on a rock or a boulder. I should be grateful for the cold, wet mud.

I start to thank the stars above for watching over me when I realize I’m lying on an incline. I scream as I start to slip and slide downward, picking up speed with each passing second. I try to gain purchase, pushing the heels of my sneakered feet into the mud. My hands fly out in search of something to grab onto, anything to stop my fall. Only there’s nothing there—nothing but cold, slick mud. I keep going, faster and faster. Then, just before I reach the bottom, the cruel forest tosses me down toward my doom.

Chapter 3

I fly forward and slam onto my hands and knees. The impact jars my injured ribs and I cry out in pain. Then, my arms give out and I land face-first in the mud. As if my day couldn’t get any worse.

I lie there for what seems like ages. I manage to turn my head and catch my breath but can’t summon the energy to move. Maybe I pass out, maybe not. There’s no way to tell. Time stands still as seconds pass, or minutes, or even hours. For all I know, I’ve been unconscious for days.

“Are you alright?” a guy shouts from the distance, startling me. His voice is strong, yet sweet; piercing yet smooth. It envelops me the way a song does, and I play his words in my head, over and over again. I wish I had a recording, so I could add it to my playlist.

His footsteps squish and squelch toward me and I long to see his face. With a soft groan, I manage to sit up, and when I spot him, I gasp.

He cuts a tall, lean figure in his tight trousers and loose tunic. He’s holding something in his hand, too: a glass slipper. I must be hallucinating, or maybe I’m dreaming. It would explain why he’s the spitting image of Prince Charming.

The light of the moon caresses his soft, blond hair and casts his strong, sculpted cheekbones in shadow. I try to make out the exact shade of his eyes. Are they a soulful blue? Or an enchanting forest green?