Page 11 of Brittle Heart

He said I have a heart of stone, but if I do, it’s a brittle one, already falling apart. Yet, there is no one around to help me pick up the pieces.

Silent tears stream down my face. It’s the closest thing to crying I can do anymore.

Maybe I’m becoming as numb as I pretend to be.

I’m not there yet. The pain is still too strong, too noticeable. But I can sense my true self slowly slipping away.

I whisper into the darkness, “Only two more years.”

The question that remains is whether or not there will be anything left of me by then.

CHAPTERSIX

Carolina

While I don’t have any fancy or formal attire, I decide it might be better to go to the internship as I am rather than give the impression of being well-dressed, only for them to see the real me the next day.

So, I opted for a black pair of jeans, my trusty black Converse shoes, and a black Henley. My hair is washed, shining, and looking good. I apply my makeup carefully, adding eyeliner and a dark lip tint.

But first, I have to endure my classes, and my anxiety keeps growing, causing me to tap my knee incessantly. The guy next to me keeps scowling at me for making the repetitive noise, but shooting him a scowl of my own makes him stop.

After class, Professor Summer waits for me at the door and offers a warm, encouraging smile. “You’re going to kick ass, Carolina,” she says with unexpected enthusiasm. My eyebrows shoot up. I’ve never heard her speak like that before. “Say hi to Sophia for me,” she adds with a wink before walking away, leaving me wondering who the fuck Sophia is.

* * *

The busy main building of the NYPD is a large square structure bustling with activity. Feeling overwhelmed and unsure where to go, I take a deep breath before I get to the reception desk, where an older woman sits.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I’m looking for the Crime Analysis Unit.”

The lady looks up at me from her seat, furrowing her brows. “It’s not open to the public or tourists,” she curtly replies and quickly looks down again.

“Actually, I am starting my internship there today. Carolina Costa.”

She gives me a once-over, scanning me from top to bottom. “Wait a moment,” she says, reaching for the phone.

I glance around, trying to look calm despite my heart pounding in my chest. Laughter erupts from a group of guys nearby, drawing my attention.

A state of shock has me almost dropping my backpack when my eyes catch those of a man in the group. It’s Martin Del Moro, the person who tormented me throughout high school, walking down the hallway with two police officers. He’s wearing an NYPD uniform too.

Martin is tall and, to be honest, quite good-looking. He has dark brown hair and brown eyes that give off a distant impression. But he caused me so much pain and treated me horribly. Even in a million years, I would never find this awful person remotely attractive.

As our eyes lock, I notice a flicker of recognition in his, followed by a sly grin and a wink directed at me. I respond with a bored expression, though deep down, my heart pounds with fear rather than excitement now.

I had no idea Del Moro had become a police officer. His dad is a detective and works for the NYPD, but I didn’t keep tabs on him after high school. I was just glad to be rid of him.

The shock of seeing him pulls me back to one of the crude encounters with the man.

The sun feels warm on my skin as I sit in the high school courtyard, alone as always. I’m lost in my thoughts, scribbling in my notebook, when a loud, obnoxious laugh breaks my concentration.

I glance up and immediately recognize Martin Del Moro strutting by with his usual entourage. They’re all laughing at some story he’s sharing.

“Yeah, man, maybe I really should get tested for STDs with all the sex I have,” Del Moro brags, and his friends howl with laughter.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. I know I should keep quiet, but the words just tumble out. “You can’t get an STD from your own hand.”

The courtyard falls eerily silent. Del Moro freezes, his face contorting with anger. His friends exchange glances, the tension palpable.

I immediately regret my outburst. My heart races, and I mentally prepare for the confrontation, letting my mask of indifference fall over my face.

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