RESILIENCE (Resilient Saga Book 1) Read online

  “What are you thinking about, Sarah?”

  I shake a slight ‘no.’ “I dare you to tell her that you dream of him every single night! I double dare you.” Life’s acting like a teenager now; I glance at the doctor to check if she heard her.

  “Sarah, it’s important that you allow yourself to feel your emotions— listen to them, embrace them, don’t deny them. Emotions are there for a reason. Some appear at certain key moments of your life and are a direct answer to whatever is currently happening around you. What are you feeling right now?”

  “I feel anxious. I want them to find my mom, I want to know what to do with my life from now on. I just want to know —I sigh loudly, the very thought of never seeing my mother again makes me think about my ‘checkout’ plan— so many things. Not knowing them is eating me from the inside.”

  “What ever happened to ‘I don’t need a shrink,’ you fucking traitor?” Life’s angry. She’s right, I’m a mess, but can’t let her see that, I will ignore her for now.

  “You have to embrace that feeling. Not knowing is part of everyone’s life. The fear of not knowing is directly fed by traumatizing experiences. To prevent that or at least to mitigate its effects, you must ask yourself if you can accept that uncertainty for now.”

  “Maybe…” But how do I control that? Should I ask her this? I think not.

  “This takes time, Sarah. Step by step. You need to learn to stand before you can walk, and after walking for a while you might try running. You need to understand that you’re back to square one when it comes to living in society. That will take time, no doubt. But we have time, right? Yes, we do. Who’s rushing us?” She smiles and looks at me, waiting for an answer. Somehow, she thinks this is soothing and relaxing, when actually, I want to bury her head in the ground.

  Dr. Gonzales visits me at home almost every day. Some days I hate her and others I like her a tiny bit more. She keeps trying to convince me to accept my feelings and insists on talking about them. I, on the other hand, am trying to bury them. I fight them every single day. I’m never going to tell her about the dark ones; she’d freak out, for sure.

  She encourages me to go for walks outside the house. I always try to look lazy and tired when I’m actually scared shitless of going outside. She insists that it’s safe and points out that I have bodyguards. I’m still afraid to go out with or without my security goons. Until one morning I wake up feeling brave and, without giving it much thought, I dash outside to take a walk. The idea of it all is to feel free to make my own choices. I’m here because I want to and not because someone insisted. It feels good to walk among people who don’t know me or care about me. They keep walking and so do I. Being able to walk without thinking about anything feels like freedom.

  The Dr. doesn’t know about Bruno’s letter; I still don’t want her to see it, much less read it. Telling her about him contacting me afterwards is not something I want to do. Bruno might have been breaking the law by doing just that. Wait, am I looking out for him now? I’m definitely not telling her that I sometimes see him when I’m walking on the street, or like the other day, when I was shopping. I could swear I saw him in the same isle I was at the grocery store. I tried to follow him with caution. The adrenaline was pumping and making it impossible to remain calm. I lost track of him and searched the entire store twice, only to see him exit the building without even looking back. I never knew if that person was him or just a very similar-looking guy whom my mind used to play tricks on me. So, I won’t tell her for now.

  It’s Saturday morning. I’m in bed. This is something I’m not used to yet. The soft sheets hug me, the bed is my friend, my lover. I don’t want to leave her, I’m really comfy here. While still in bed, I like to play with my new smartphone. I only bought it because the Dr. said I should, and that I also needed to possess something that everybody else has. With it I browse the internet and look at the news. I’m obviously focused on terrorist attacks, I’ve read a lot about them. I feel like I must keep myself informed. I also see a lot of shenanigans— cat videos are still ruling the internet and people are still complaining about absurd stuff. I might have been part of the latter group in the past, now that I look at it from afar.

  I hear a knock. The first thing that comes to mind is that it must be Dr. Gonzales, arriving early… yet again. But since today is Saturday, that’s not possible— we don’t have sessions on weekends. I put my slippers on and walk towards the door. I peek through the peephole and see something that makes my stomach twist and alter my breathing. I’m now gasping for air. That something is actually someone…

  My mom…

  My mom is there…

  My mom is there on the other side…

  My mom is here?

  My mom is here!

  I open the door and stare at her face for a moment. She looks the same and smiles with a bouquet of flowers in her hands. I think I should change my shocked face for a smile.

  “M…” My throat tightens, I can’t speak. My eyes are filled with tears. I almost can’t see.

  “Cassie!” She yells while opening her arms for me to hug her. I ran towards her to do just that.

  Her touch.

  Her smell.

  Her voice… Oh, God, I missed her voice. It’s really her.

  She can’t stop crying and neither can I; my pajama sleeves and her shoulders are completely wet with my tears. The guards smile at me and one of them tries to hide a sudden tear by scurrying away from us. She comes in and asks me for a vase to put the flowers. We sit down and start chatting about regular mother and daughter stuff. She doesn’t ask about what happened to me, and I don’t tell her either. She’s going to stay with me for a while. She loves the new name; maybe now I’ll get used to it.

  Dr. Gonzales suggested a session with my mom. I didn’t like the idea at first, but my mother insisted on participating as well. It was two against one and I had to give in.

  Today is Monday. The three of us are sitting at the table.

  “In this session, we’re going to try to address the avalanche of feelings you’re probably experiencing right now, Sarah.”

  “Okay, I will admit that the idea of not finding my mom was tormenting me day and night, and now that she’s here, I can start worrying about other stuff. Hehe.” I laugh nervously.

  “I understand that, and it’s okay to be nervous, Sarah. How do you feel, Mrs. Phillips?” My mother sighs loudly before answering her question.

  “This feels different to what I’d pictured in my head. We never gave up on you, we always knew we would see you again. I fought relentlessly until your father passed away. When he did, I realized he was the one fueling and pushing the investigation forward, talking to reporters, sending letters to nonprofit organizations— he even spoke with the President! Once he was gone, I gave up. It was too much for me to handle, and I couldn’t find the strength to cope with his loss and keep searching for you. For that I’m sorry. I should have been stronger.”

  “It’s okay, mom… You’re here now, that’s what matters.” I try to calm her, while handing her some Kleenexes.

  “It must have been devastating, not being able to find her. But here she is! We must celebrate this!”

  “I know that.” My mom replies with a mournful tone. “It was very hard, seeing you in all those videos, the suffering you had to endure because of that bastard.”

  “Eh-erm… He’s not a bastard,” says Life, and I lock her away in a wardrobe.

  “That’s over now, mom.” I don’t want to talk about it right now, and she’s trying to get me to talk about it. Every time I think about that, I get emotional and can’t talk.

  “Stop lying! Say the truth! The only reason you don’t want to talk about it is because you’re afraid you’ll fuck it up and give up his identity, and they’ll know you’re protecting him!” Life yells from the imaginary wardrobe.

  My mom turns to the Dr. asking for help with the universal expression for ‘your turn.’ They have this understanding
between them that I don’t really like, it makes me feel like I’m always one step behind.

  “Sarah, you need to understand, and I’m telling you this as a mother, that it’s normal for your mom to ask about what happened. She wants to help you get through this, and you should let her in, little by little…” Yeah. Nope. Not happening.

  “Coward!” Life broke free from the wardrobe and is back on her armchair. I can hear her loud and clear.

  CHAPTER 9

  SARAH

  It’s a regular Wednesday morning and I’m spending it by lying on the grass in my beautiful garden. I’m watching the tree leaves over my head dance under the warm breeze; they sound like a lullaby. Chirping birds and squirrels jumping among the bushes complete the moment. The skies are mostly clear. Nothing seems out of place; all of this is a perfect picture. My mind, on the other hand, can’t be a part of this picture. If anybody looked at me right now, they’d be deceived to think I’m completely calm. Don’t get me wrong, I do look calm on the outside when actually I feel like I’m going a thousand miles an hour, as if I had a load of coke running through my veins. Trains of thought collide with each other, explode against imaginary walls and then reemerge stronger. Those thoughts must share the space within my mind with the countless versions of myself; some of them are screaming existential questions nonstop, while others are just running in circles. I need some quiet time, some peace of mind.

  Late last night, my mother went back to her place to collect some of her belongings. She decided to stay with me for a while. I didn’t think it was a bad idea when she proposed it, so I said yes. I guess I was so happy to have her with me, that I never thought she’d become a nuisance when I need to calm down and relax. So here I am, trying to make the most of this ‘alone time,’ trying to sail this sea of emotions. I can think about pretty much anything —my mom and dad, my new home, my new take on life, my future—, but this sea has a weird pull and I always end up washing ashore this island where there are only two things to think of— Bruno and his letter. I still don’t have an answer for a lot of questions, but there’s one that bugs me the most. Why did he write it? Being a cold-hearted man, like he says he is, it shouldn’t bother him if I forgive him or not. If you ask me, that’s confusing.

  It has been a month since I last saw him and yet his image is imprinted in my mind like a tattoo. Nothing faded, everything’s still vivid— those light green eyes, his hairstyle and how neat he always looks. He must be like 6’5” and has a very wide back. I’ve never met a man this massive. I remember the first time I saw him. I thought he was going to kill me just by looking in my direction.

  I need to read it again…

  “Oh, here we go again. How many times are you going to read that shit? You’re pathetic.” Life is not a fan of it, or him for that matter. And to be completely honest about it…

  I.

  Don’t.

  Know.

  Every time I read it, I make a connection with his handwriting. It drives me to a deep slumber where I’m the observer and I can see myself with him. He watches me with intensity, I can even smell his perfume, that unique scent, filling the air. I can see myself asking him questions, but I can’t really hear what I’m saying. He’s not answering, he just watches me… In fact, I can only see his eyes behind the forest of eyelashes, those light green eyes that…

  I wake up feeling cold and wet, again… My mind is lost. Where am I? My body reacts faster than my mind— it’s ready for another ‘work session.’ But no, my slow mind finally catches up and I realize I just fell asleep on the grass and it started to rain. I’m not back in there, I’m still home, I’m still free. I stand up and rush inside to flee the water. I’m so wet that the letter is stuck against my body.

  Stuck? No!!! That doesn’t sound good— and it’s not. The letter is ruined. I spread the sheet of paper on the table and put a heavy cookbook on top of it. I might be able to avoid its total destruction.

  Please, don’t be completely ruined.

  After staring at the book for a while, I start feeling cold. I’m still wet and right now I feel the chill in my bones. There’s only one thing I need to do right now— take a shower. While the hot water runs through my body, I can only think about the last paragraph, again and again.

  “If you need closure, here’s my address

  7011 St. Thomas Street. Alamo Hills.

  (You’re free to take my life if that will give you peace.)”

  Does that mean what I think it means? Does he want me to kill him? Does he want to die for what he did to me? Is he broken like I am? So many questions to ask, but… Am I ready for the answers?

  “Of course, you’re fucking not,” Life says, and I agree with her on this one.

  I can only wonder how his life is outside that cell, if he has friends, if he ever loved anybody. That last question triggers an emotion I can’t push away— envy. If he did love someone, then… I just want him to… feel… pain.

  I’m sure he knew I’d feel the need to take revenge, and the next step is obvious. That’s why he left his address, but… What if that’s a setup and I’m walking right into the trap? He’s clearly bigger, stronger than me. He’s also trained. All that adds up to me being overpowered, and once again under his mercy.

  Should I really try this? Is this what I need to find what I’ve lost?

  CHAPTER 10

  BRUNO

  I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour staring at the TV. The blues are playing the whites… yeah, I don’t fucking like football or any other ‘macho’ sport. The beer in my hand feels warm and tastes like piss. I should get rid of it before I keep sipping, but I’d have to move from my seat and I really don’t fucking feel like it.

  The entire house is completely dark, no surprises there. That’s how we monsters like it. I feel comfortable in the shadows. The TV lights up my face and makes my pupils go crazy, but I don’t fucking care. My mind is elsewhere, thinking about her; the rain taps on the window and makes one of my favorite sounds ever. You may wonder, Why my favorite? Well, that’s an easy one. It’s just a plain sound, without variations. It doesn’t make you feel joy or sadness, it just is.

  Thank God, my house is one of the few places I really like, where I can be myself and more importantly let my mind go wild without having to worry about how anybody else sees me. This house is pretty quiet, away from everything and everybody who bothers me. I’m always by myself, except when ‘Pain-in-the-fucking-ass’ Carter decides to invite himself here to bust my balls, which has been happening more and more frequently lately. Apart from that, this is the only place where I can find some sort of peace. Well, to be completely honest, ever since I resigned and started with my ‘retirement plan,’ something’s been itching in the back of my head. It’s also in the middle of my fucking chest; it feels like a hole. Sometimes it just hurts badly and others it itches. After all that happened lately, I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter if you’re rich, have an expensive house or car; if you feel like shit, you’ll feel like shit no matter where you are or how much you fucking have.

  Someone knocks on the front door and distracts my depressing thoughts.

  Who the hell could that be?

  It’s pouring outside; it’s not normal for Carter to show up in this weather. He’s probably between a woman’s legs right now, in a cheap motel. Besides, he never knocks, he tends to barge in like the fucking Kool-Aid guy.

  I turn off the TV and walk towards the front door.

  The storm rages, the rain batters the house even harder. As a precaution, I grab my side arm— you never know who knocks at your door nowadays, plus I’ve made a lot of enemies in the past years. I stand by the door against the wall. “Who is it?” I ask, but nobody replies. I train the gun on the door and glance through the peephole. A shadowy figure stands outside. I don’t see a gun. It doesn’t look like an enemy either, more like a ghost, if you ask me. I hide my weapon behind my right thigh and open the door a few inches.

/>   I see a woman, dripping from top to bottom, looking down at the ground. Her skinny arms are crossed on her chest. She looks like a spoiled child.

  The storm and the darkness, combined with the fog, make her look like a sinister specter silently waiting for something. She looks up, her blue eyes are framed by long eyelashes bearing little raindrops. The darkness of this night pales in contrast to the color of her long black hair.

  Shit.

  My stomach twists. An adrenaline rush follows. A big knot inside my throat makes it difficult to swallow.

  There’s no doubt about it, it’s her…

  It is fucking her.

  Not a word escapes my mouth, for two reasons— one, I don’t know what to say; two, I don’t fucking know that to say. I think I’ve lost my ability to speak the minute I laid eyes on her.

  More saliva goes down my throat.

  She’s here to kill you, Bruno. And I’m ready.

  “Do you wanna come in, or would you rather stand under the rain?” Finally, I say something. It sounds condescending, but I really mean it.

  “I’d like to come in, if that’s okay.” Her sweet and respectful tone seals off the hole in my chest in a second.

  “Please, come in.” I open the door fully to let her through before she changes her mind. “If you’re here, that means you have made a decision.” As always, my prisoner, my captive, my hostage does as she’s told and enters my house. I close the door and put the hand gun on my waist, behind my back.

  “Can I ask for a towel? I’m drenched, and I don’t want to mess up your furniture…” I did not see that coming. Is she for real? After all I’ve done to her —I mean, I really fucked her life up—, she’s worried about my furniture? Fuck that.

  “Sure, I’ll be back in a minute.” I rush to the bathroom, I literally run like an asshole to get a towel. While I’m there, I look at my reflection in the mirror. This might be the last time I see it. I made a promise to her: that I wouldn’t fight back, that it would be my last gift for her.