Page 18 of Broken Hearts

Exiting the car, heart racing, our eyes lock as he turns. For a fleeting moment, warmth seems to flicker in his gaze before it hardens into something cruel and mocking.

“You really believed I was taking you?” Cole laughs, the sound echoing through the night, chilling me to the bone. “You’re so gullible, Eva.”

Frozen in place, I watch as he turns, walking back up the stairs. Jenny, waiting at the top, loops her arm through his. She glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with a sinister glee. “She’s all yours,” she calls out to the darkness.

An icy shiver runs down my spine as Derek emerges from the shadows, a broken beer bottle in his hand. His eyes are wild, predatory. “Run,” he snarls, and I feel pure terror.

Sprinting into the woods, I can hear Derek right behind me. Suddenly, my foot catches on a tree root, sending me tumbling to the ground. Before I can fully turn around, he is on top of me, his hand snaking under my dress and the sharp edge of the bottle pressing menacingly against my neck. “Stop, please,” I beg, my voice a desperate whisper.

“Come on, babe, you like it rough, so let’s play,” he growls, his breath hot on my ear.

Nausea overwhelms me, but I refuse to be a victim. In a surge of adrenaline, I grab the bottle, ignoring the pain as it cuts into my palm. I swing it at him, managing to break free.

My heart races as I run, my vision blurred by tears. I don’t stop, not even when I reach Memory Bridge. The pain in my hand is unbearable, my fingers numb and useless. The despair crashes over me like a tidal wave, the realization that my dreams, my hopes, everything is shattered.

Climbing over the railing, the churning waters below draw a sob from my lips. Teetering on the edge, the world falls silent, and I let go, my body plummeting into the cold, dark depths.

The moment my body breaks the surface of the freezing water, I wake with a loud gasp, shirt drenched in sweat, hair plastered to my forehead, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to me.

It’s been ages since such vivid, suffocating dreams have tormented me. I know it’s because of his presence in my room last night.

A long shower follows, so prolonged I worry about leaving no hot water for the others. Yet, a persistent cold clings to me, reminiscent of hitting a freezing river, refusing to be shaken off.

Fifteen minutes later, I give up, the chill seeping into my bones. Dressing more warmly than usual seems like the only recourse.

Settling into my room, I try to lose myself in my studies. I’m ahead in all my subjects, the side effect of being a borderline recluse with anxiety issues. I reach for Christine de Pizan’s poetry; her words are usually a comfort. Today, even her “Ballad XIX” feels hollow.

“Lover I feel such sorrow now you go,

That I do not know if I can bear it.

My sweet secret love without you, oh,

How can I live?”

I can’t help but snort, closing the book abruptly. “You’ll live just fine, Christine,” I mutter to myself, a bitter edge to my words. We all do, one way or another.

The sound of life from the kitchen beckons me, and I find Poppy there, her smile a welcome sight. “Come, I’m making breakfast,” she says, her voice light and inviting.

Nessa joins us soon after, and we fall into easy conversation, a brief respite from my internal turmoil.

Our chatter is interrupted by an envelope being slipped under the door.

Poppy opens it and reads it aloud with a hint of surprise in her voice. “It’s for a rage room, booked for lunchtime. Can you believe it?”

I look at the voucher in her hand, feeling a mix of apprehension and curiosity. “A rage room?” I ask, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.

“Yeah,” Poppy says, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “It’s a place where you can smash stuff to let out your frustrations. No consequences, no judgments. Just pure cathartic destruction.”

Nessa chimes in with a grin, “Smashing stuff for free? Count me in! It would be nice to do that without being arrested for once.”

I looked at her with an arched eyebrow. I really need to know more about our beautiful criminal.

Hesitation marks my response to the idea of releasing bottled-up emotions in such a raw, physical way. “I’m not sure…” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.

Poppy turns to me, her expression softening. “It could be good for you. A way to let out everything you’ve been holding back. You don’t have to, but I think it might help.”

Biting my lip, I consider her words. The thought of going to a rage room feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking into the abyss of my own anger and pain.

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