To Hell and Back: The Lost Soul

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Print ISBN 978-1-09833-211-2

eBook ISBN 978-1-09833-212-9

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Chapter 1

New York City, New York

Today I dreamed about the same ocean-blue eyes looking at me in the darkness—since a month before my eighteenth birthday, I have had this dream.

I’ve never met a person with eyes this color. I’m not even sure that person exists. Nor did the dream show me anything more than, too irresistible to look, eyes.

When I look at them, I see everything: love, life, purpose, kindness…everything a teenage girl would want in a perfect prince.

Unfortunately, it’s just a dream and nothing more. Life is never simple: there’s no prince on a white horse coming to your doorstep; there’s no love that will last forever. In reality, many people will search for years for a person and only spend a year or two with them. Forever…there’s no such thing.

School starts tomorrow, and I’ll officially become a senior. I would love to think that college life will bring more excitement, but no. The truth is that I’ll go somewhere far from home, from my parents, and my best friend, Rose, will be somewhere else. Time will pass, and everyone will forget about me. And I don’t blame them—I would probably do the same. Not that I won’t miss the people who raised me or who brought a couple of good moments to my life, but it’s just the truth of life…

I’m used to that, especially after what happened in my freshman year. Jace, a boy with curly brown hair and a funny smile, was my boyfriend for almost half a year. And Elizabeth, my worst enemy, slept with him just to torture me. Since then, I haven’t dated anyone. It’s not that I’m afraid to have my heart broken all over again, but more because I haven’t found that person yet.

I never loved Jace. I only dated him to try new feelings—how it feels to be in love with someone, I guess. I thought I was falling for him and that he was falling for me, but, well… I was certainly wrong. After my lacrosse practice, I saw him naked with Elizabeth in the girls’ locker room. These images still haunt my mind. Anyway, I learned my lesson. Since then, I don’t trust people easily. I just prepare in general for them to betray me one day.

He never apologized. I never even saw him after that. I heard moved to California, but what is it to me? It was a long time ago, and I’m different now.

Rose is probably the only person who can drag me anywhere she wants. Not that I mind. With her, I can at least clear my head—leave the house, so to say.

Actually, her short name should be Rosa, but if you call her that, she gets furious. Her full name is Rosalind, but because it’s so long she agreed that friends (like me) can call her Rose (never Rosa). She says that the name Rose is like the name of a flower she likes so much: beautiful yet dangerous. Not that I have ever seen her being dangerous.

She’s the party version of me: trying to dance until her legs fall off, drinking until her liver shuts down, and dating anyone who kisses better—and, of course, who looks good. That’s the most important, as she keeps telling me.

For me? I don’t know. I was focused so much on getting into an Ivy League school that I forgot the opposite sex existed—at least, that what I keep telling myself.

Why don’t you eat anything? I can see the concern on my mom’s face. Her workload is heavy, but she is vibrant—way more than I am right now.

I almost never have breakfast with my parents—they’re usually at the hospital saving lives. I always take care of myself. That’s how it should be since I’m almost eighteen. I’m not blaming them; my mom is a neurosurgeon and my father is a cardiac surgeon—there’s almost no free time, and if they get some, they use it to sleep.

At least I have a chance to be relaxed with my mom. She is my mom, after all. But I can’t stop pondering how she bears three names: Mrs. Blake for people she doesn’t know very well or simply doesn’t want to know on a first-name basis. Allison is more informal but…not really. My mom’s friends—no clue if she even has any, with her constant bossy tone—would call her Alice. Dad does call her Alice, or Allison if he is angry about something.

Honestly, I don’t know why it’s Alice. The last time I asked Mom about it, she said it’s due to where her mother is from—France. But I have never met my grandparents from either side.

Dad is more informal and prefers that people he works with call him Will (short for William).

I’m staring at my plate of cold pasta, which my mother thinks is my favorite dish—it was, when I was ten. It’s kind of ironic to live with parents who are world-renowned doctors but who give their only child an unhealthy breakfast. I’m kidding, it’s just leftovers from yesterday’s dinner.

My mother is eating Russian grechka, which she tries to eat every day since Sophia, the middle-aged Russian woman who comes twice a week to clean our house, recommended it. Dad, on the other hand, is eating a boiled egg with black caviar—now I certainly regret taking leftovers.

I’m not hungry. I see the disappointment in my mom’s gray eyes. She hates when food goes to waste, and because I didn’t finish it yesterday at dinner, I have to eat it now—that’s a rule. I look at my father, sitting at the other end of the table, and ask, Dad, can you please pour me a coffee?

We live in Manhattan, just the three of us, and I still have no idea why we need a dining table for twelve people. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I’ve never been like the rest of my peers, who drive Lamborghinis to school just to show off. I’m not talking about the fact that neither of them has a REAL driver’s license.

My mom sits at one end of the table and my father on the other. Personally, I don’t care where I sit, so today I sit close to my dad. You know that drinking just coffee isn’t healthy for you? Dad raises his black eyebrows, but he still pours coffee in my cup and passes it to me.

I’m just thirsty after the tomato sauce. Plus, I’m sick of it. My mom isn’t a terrible cook, but when you eat it every single dinner and then eat leftovers every single morning because of the stupid rule, you start hating it. Okay, it’s not really every single morning, but it certainly feels like it.

I swallow hard and take a few sips of coffee as I try to avoid Mom’s suspicious eyes.

You know I can cook something else, right? Just ask me to. Detective could be another of Mom’s titles.

I’ve told her, ten times if not more, but eventually, she forgets about it and I start to see pasta on my dinner plate (yep, they are different from the ones for breakfast). I should probably create a new strategy or just figure out the way to bear it.

At least when they aren’t home, I can order anything I want—and mostly that’s how it is, even for dinner. I’m good. Thanks, Mom. Rose and I are going shopping, so I’ll probably get something to eat at one of the places there.

Mom rolls her eyes and rises to take my plate. With a grim look on her face, she throws leftovers in the trash, rinses the plate, and loads it into the dishwasher.

And then her phone buzzes…

I sip my coffee and sit silently in my chair. It’s better not to be in the way for what’s coming.

Mom views the message and pulls her dark brown hair into a ponytail. She hurries outside—I would say whizzes like a bullet—and even grabs a few things on her way. I feel dizzy trying to keep up with her every hectic movement.

The door closes, and I don’t even know if she has said goodbye. I hear sirens near our house and a car, her white Mercedes GLE Coupe, driving away. That’s how it always is if either of them gets an emergency message or a call.

Excuse me for a second, Dad says. He dials someone as he rises from the table and moves to another room.

I can’t hear the conversation, and I don’t try. I know it’s about his work.

A minute later, he’s back. I have one scheduled surgery for the early afternoon, and then I should be back home. He places his empty plate in the dishwasher, kisses the top of my head, and leaves the house.

I don’t hear sirens, but I know that his black BMW X6 isn’t parked by our house anymore.

A few minutes pass as I stare into an empty space in front of me. Finally, I pull myself together. I finish my coffee and take out my iPhone to check the school’s schedule.

Oberon High School is truly amazing in the sense of sending everything at the last moment. I log in to my account and see a schedule I pretty much expected: one to nine with lunch.

My phone rings. Hey Rose.

Did you get my message? She’s probably walking toward my house, as that’s where we’re supposed to meet in half an hour.

Just a second. She literally sent the message a minute ago, typical of Rose. Anyway, there’s a schedule (one to seven with lunch) and a question mark. I check mine to compare. Only Cohen. I hear groaning on the other end. I know. I sigh.

There’s a short pause before Rose moves on to another topic. What do you think of going shopping for dresses? The original plan was to buy some school supplies. Okay, maybe buy a couple of T-shirts, but that’s about it. Now, I think that was her trick to get me to agree on getting out of the house. Silly me!

Prom. She’s thinking about prom…at the beginning of the school year. I won’t go to prom, I say flatly.

Then I’ll drag you there in your pajamas. I know she can.

We’ll see, I say, and the line goes dead.

I look at the screen one more time and mentally slap myself. I nearly forgot!

I Google Animal Haven—a very good animal shelter—to donate a couple thousand dollars. I know it’s not really my money, and it’s the only allowance my parents give me. But I make it my monthly habit to donate some money to charity. I doubt my parents care much anyway, but at least I’m doing something that is right and something I can feel good about.

To waste some time, I scan Google news and the lives of other people. Sometimes, I just imagine being one of them. It’s weird, as though there are two of me who can’t come to the same conclusion.

Chapter 2

W hat do you think? Rose comes out of the fitting room in a beautiful emerald dress that completely doesn’t match her long blonde hair.

You look like a Christmas tree. I smirk, and she smiles. Let me find something else for you—just don’t go anywhere. I give her a warning look to remind her of the last time she did this—I barely found her.

My eyes stop on an incredibly beautiful sapphire dress hanging in the middle of the room. It’s a small size that should fit Rose perfectly.

That’s not your color. I turn to see a beautiful boy who looks like the Prince Charming from books: a little older than me, short black hair (quiff style), dark brown eyes, perfect built, too good to be true. Looks can be deceiving, though, and he may end up some sociopath, or worse—a psychopath.

He reaches for the dress next to the one I’m holding for Rose. This one is better.

Thank you. I take the ruby dress and head back to Rose.

I have no idea why he would speak to me at all—it’s not like I’m a model or did anything to try to attract him. I should’ve asked his name, but it’s too late now.

I knock and wait for Rose to open the door. Oh, I love that! She grabs the blue dress but peers at the ruby dress in my hand before she closes the door. Lucy, do you feel okay? She gives me a concerned look, as though I’m sick.

Just a nice dress, that’s all. I roll my eyes and walk to the adjacent fitting room.

Rose is right. I hate dresses and have no idea why I would trust the taste of a stranger—an amazing-looking one, but still a stranger.

Maybe I am sick indeed?

He was right. The dress fits perfectly, and the shade of red plays up my amber eyes. It’s also perfect for any occasion: not too long for a wedding and not so short that I’d be mistaken for a prostitute—not that I’ve ever met one, thank God.

Normally, I would only buy a dress at gunpoint, but today I’ll make an exception. I check the pocket of my jeans jacket to see if I’d grabbed my debit card. It’s there. It’s a sign!

Are you taking it? Rose points to my dress.

What’s wrong with it?

Nothing. It actually looks amazing. It’s just I would never have imagined Lucinda Blake in a sexy red dress. Rose’s smile can’t stretch any further. I just roll my eyes and head to the register.

I place my dress on the counter, but before the cashier can scan it, the same good-looking guy whispers something to the cashier and she walks away.

I should’ve introduced myself properly. My name is Sam. He folds the dress but doesn’t scan it.

I would love to have an extra pair of eyes in the back of my head to see Rose’s expression. Sadly, I don’t.

How much do I owe for the dress?

What about dinner? Certainly, I’m hearing him wrong.

I can be rude and send him in four different directions, but for some reason, I don’t want to—not as I usually do. Thank you for the offer, but I really can’t. Wow, I would never be that nice. I bet Rose in shock as well.

He takes something that looks like a business card out of the pocket of his black jeans and drops it into the bag with the dress. Just give me a call if you change your mind. He hands me the bag but stops when our fingers touch. I pull my hand back a little too late as he smiles, showing bright white teeth.

Emily? The cashier returns to the register. Don’t charge this beautiful lady and her friend for their dresses, and please don’t accept any money they try to give you. How strange. I’m in the moment of reaching to my wallet.

No problem, she says. He walks away, leaving me speechless.

I can see envy in Emily’s eyes, as if I’m getting some privilege I don’t deserve. There’s no doubt I don’t—even this cashier looks better than me and most likely is not as forked up as me.

Thank you. I take a second bag from Emily and hand it to Rose.

Rose’s face is unreadable as she distractedly shoves her dress into the bag. She doesn’t even fold it.

I look around the store for the mysterious man, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

We leave the store and don’t talk as we head toward the Starbucks on Madison Avenue.

Finally, Rose breaks the awkward silence. I’m so happy that you’ve started using your nice charm to attract boys. She pokes me with her elbow. I glare at her.

Man. He is a man. And I’m not interested. He hardly looks older than twenty-three, but it doesn’t change the fact that no matter how good looking he is, I’m NOT interested.

Rose orders us two caramel macchiatos as I scan the room for an empty place to sit, or at least to lean on the wall. Luckily, or unluckily, I find a table with two seats but near the restroom. Ugh, sucks.

Rose walks toward me in slow motion, trying to impress the opposite sex in the café. I ignore that she likes too much attention from a group of older men.

She takes the seat across me and looks at her phone. I have ten minutes, and then I need to get going. She’s still on her phone, but now she’s texting someone.

I know that she’s been too busy lately for no reason—she never tells me that reason, at least—and I know I should be thankful that at least she spares some time for me, but I can’t help wondering if she’s becoming a little distant from me, as if her secrets aren’t something you can share with you best friend.

Should I go with him? I ask, using these ten minutes she’s so nobly set aside for me.

Rose winds a strand of hair around her index finger. It’s up to you.

I don’t really want to, but the idea that I owe him for the stupid dress is eating me inside.

What about you? I ask as she checks her screen one more time. I just can’t avoid the feeling that Rose is doing me a favor by sitting here with me.

What about me? She pretends like she has no idea what I’m hinting at. Maybe it’s the wrong time to start accusing her of playing a spy as her second job—her first, of course, being a bad friend. Well, not exactly a bad friend, but if she can’t share what’s bothering her lately and keeping her busy, then I just don’t know what to think.

Forget—

No, tell me, she interrupts.

I hesitate. I’m your best friend. She nods in agreement. But you keep disappearing somewhere. She nods—this time in understanding.

My mom is very sick; I didn’t want you to worry about that, she says, the cheerfulness disappearing from her eyes.

Now, that makes sense. It’s very typical of Rose: she wants to help everyone but don’t want to be helped by anyone in return.

I swallow my sip of coffee hard. I’m sorry to hear that. But you know that if you need anything, I can always help.

I know. Thank you, Lucy. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She checks her phone again and stands abruptly. I gotta go.

I rise to give her a big hug. Take care.

She nods and leaves.

I’ve met Isabella Jones about a dozen times, except for this year—the year when Rose keeps disappearing. I don’t want to assume anything bad, but it seems pretty clear that her mother is not just sick.

I’ve spent hours reviewing for tomorrow’s classes when I hear the knock on the door to my study room. Must be Dad. Come in. Someone knocks again. Groaning, I force myself to walk toward the door.

I open it, but there’s no one there. Dad? I step outside to look around, but no, there’s no one. He should’ve come back from the hospital by now.

I close the door and walk back to the desk. Maybe I’m just hearing things.

I haven’t even reached the desk when someone bangs on the door five times, causing my heart to jump from fear. Okay, now it’s time to panic…

I grab scissors and tiptoe toward the door. The scissors are behind my back, ready to nail an intruder if needed.

Left hand shaking, I reach for the doorknob. I turn it and open the door. The brightest light blinds me as I poke the air with my scissors until I hear my father calling my name.

I blink slowly until I see Dad standing a few feet from me. He’s in attack mode. What’s happened? he asks, acute concern in his voice.

I saw something. It’s just…hard to explain. I look at his posture, fists, an expression that clearly states not to mess with him. It’s as if the person in front of me isn’t my dad anymore. But then I look at the scissors clutched in my right hand. I think I just imagined it, I add quickly, trying to ignore the fact that I could’ve used them to kill someone. Intruder or not, I could’ve taken a person’s life.

Maybe. But stay here just to make sure. He walks away, closing the door behind him.

There’s no logical explanation for what I just saw or for how the light knocked me out—my knees hurt as though someone has pushed me hard to the floor.

After a few minutes, the door opens and my father comes in. Nothing. He takes the chair and sits across from me. Lucinda, what did you see, exactly? It’s never a good sign when my parents use my full name.

I think I just need a break. Don’t worry, Dad. I see his shoulders ease a little. Do you want to watch some comedy? I want to change the topic to avoid the weirdness of what’s just happened.

I could swear I just saw him change from killing mode to regular, boring dad mode in the blink of an eye. My turn to choose, then, he says.

What do you have in mind? I give him one of my fake smiles—yeah, there are plenty of them in recent days.

"It Takes Two." Although I’ve seen this movie five times already, I can easily make it six.

I know that I should search books or Google for information about what I’ve just experienced, but I don’t want to think about it right now. I know that what I find won’t be good, and it’s not something I’m ready to face.

I’ve already had thoughts that something is wrong with me, psychologically speaking. No normal human being would’ve become so attached to dream. I see it every night, and I’m so attracted to the eyes themselves and am hoping that dream will come true. And that’s insane. Or is it not?

For today, I just want to spend this rare moment with my dad. Tomorrow, maybe tomorrow…I’ll read a psychology textbook on early signs of schizophrenia.

Chapter 3

I wake at six (that’s ideal) to a buzzing alarm. I turn it off on my phone and head to the shower.

Yesterday’s movie night was great, and I already miss it. So, Dad promised that this Saturday we’ll do something else. Maybe bowling or another movie—Dad isn’t good in long conversation (not like Mom), but he is a good companion for watching movies (not like Rose, who can’t stop talking) and for anything sports related (Rose hates sports).

Yesterday, before I went to sleep, I texted Sam that he shouldn’t wait for my call, as I won’t ever go out with him. I thought it was the best decision for me,