Serena
Time is passing in a strange and distorted way.
Half the time, I am not even completely sure that I am still alive. I feel like I am locked away in a basement, and I can only see a bit of light streaming through the cracks. I can hear echoes of people shouting upstairs, and the floorboards creak and shudder with their heavy steps. Sometimes, when they are violent, it causes dust to rain down into the basement, coating my hair and clothes, and making me cough. The basement is where I sit, quietly in a corner, hugging my legs to my chest. I am waiting. Always waiting, and hoping that nothing too awful is happening upstairs.
Hoping that I survive.
I can’t stay down here forever, hiding. I have to come up for air, eventually.
Sometimes I worry, when the floors and walls shake too much. I worry that I will be locked inside this basement forever, and never be able to return to my body. As long as I am downstairs, my body does not belong to me.
It belongs to her.
This is both a blessing and a curse. For one thing, she is tough. She is always willing to take a beating, so I don’t have to. But she is also too impulsive, aggressive. Although I trust her unconditionally—more than I could ever trust another human being, I do wonder if she does extra harm to my body, beyond what is necessary. She pushes me to my limit, to my breaking point. Sometimes, even from down here in the basement, I can sense what is happening in my bones. I can almost see what is happening through the cracks in the ceiling and the walls.
It’s only snippets of violence—little slivers of dreadful moments that I cannot bear to watch.
But she is always smiling. She is always prepared.
She terrifies me.
And yet I love her.
I wait for what feels like years, until it’s safe. When it’s finally over, I hear the little click of the basement door unlocking. I walk up the staircase—a winding, terribly long staircase that is somehow difficult to climb. I must grasp the rails and use my upper body as well, to pull myself up and keep from tumbling back down. The staircase is so steep that it is nearly vertical—it is almost a ladder, hanging off the side of a cliff. She always meets me at the top, with her arms outstretched, and tells me it’s going to be okay. It’s time for us to trade places now, and for her to return downstairs until she is needed. She puts her arms around me, embraces me, and tells me who I can trust. Who I should stay away from. She tells me where it’s safe to go. Where I should never go.
And as she retreats, and I step over the threshold and back into the world, I always forget everything. I forget all of the wisdom she’s shared with me—I forget all of the knowledge I gained while sitting in the basement and thinking deeply about things.
It’s like the basement exists in another realm—another plane of consciousness.
The basement is so deep under the house, so far away from the upstairs, that every moment spent there feels like a dream.
And every time I wake up, I forget that I was ever trapped downstairs.
The only way I can really tell is through time. Sometimes I look at the clock or the calendar, and I see that there is a huge portion of time missing from my memory. Usually, when I notice these time gaps, I also discover that my body is covered in new bruises and cuts, along with sore muscles that I don’t remember overexerting.
I wake up feeling hung over, as though my entire existence amounts to drunken nights of partying, with so much alcohol that the days are a blur of nothingness. I sometimes feel like I have been date raped, or perhaps I willingly slept with someone—but I will never know. Except for the odd occasion, when someone tells me what I did. The stories are so outlandish and bizarre that it is usually difficult to believe them.
And sometimes, I get sudden moments of memory. They hit me in flashes that freeze me to the core. However, the memories are so dreamlike and fuzzy that I am not sure if they are real. It could just be my imagination, trying to fill in the gaps.
The problem with these violent flashes is not the harm that is being done to me, but the harm that I am doing to others. Am I really capable of such dreadful acts? I suppose I will never find out. These memory gaps have just become something I have learned to accept.
But they are becoming clearer.
And for the first time, as I step over the threshold and leave the basement, I think I can hold on to some of the awareness of the situation. I can hold on to the memory of her. Maybe it’s because she hugged me extra tight this time, and told me to be strong. Maybe it’s because even as I step over the threshold, I know what waits for me on the other side. I am bombarded with the scent of Benjamin, and I know that as soon as I pry my eyes open, he will be there, staring back at me, waiting to harm me.
Even as I step over the threshold, I feel bile rise in my throat. I wonder if I will even be able to continue out into the upstairs, out into the daylight. I hesitate and step backward cowardly. Should I turn around and run? Should I let her take over for me completely?
Looking back toward her, I see that she is already waiting. She knows how weak I am, and how much I need her. I reach out for her, touching her hand, gripping her arm, squeezing tightly.
“I’m here for you,” she tells me softly. “You never need to do this alone.”
I feel the warmth of her arm, and the strength of her muscles beneath my grip. Yes, she is far stronger than I am. She has been doing this for most of my life. Stepping in when things get tough, to handle the situation for me. She is the master handler. She always, always succeeds when I fail. But as I study her face, I see something I’ve never seen before.
There is a certain look in her pale blue eyes. A certain… weariness. I move close to her, so close that I can feel her breath tickling my eyelashes, and I take her face into my hands.
“Snow?” I whisper fearfully.
She seems surprised at the touch, and I notice a tiny flicker of vulnerability in her expression. An unmistakable sheen of moisture coats her eyes. It disappears as quickly as it comes.
“I’m ready,” she tells me. “I’m always ready.” She stands taller, and straightens her shoulders, lifting her chin like a soldier preparing for combat. “Just let me at him. He will never touch you.”
Moving closer to her, I let my forehead fall against hers as I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Tears stream from my eyes as I cry for the both of us. It is so strange to embrace a better version of myself—her height and build are identical to mine, yet her posture, demeanor, and identity are so different.
“Stay down here, Serena,” she tells me, but her voice quavers slightly. “As long as you’re locked away down here, he can’t touch you.”
I stroke my hand over her hair comfortingly, knowing that she needs to be comforted.
Because I do. And I think she needs what I need.
“You should get some rest, Snow,” I tell her quietly. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me try to handle this.”
“No,” she says with alarm. “I don’t want you to see what he’s doing to us. You’ve already been through so much. You don’t need to suffer anymore, Serena. If you want to just sleep until this is over—until we escape and find Cole—I totally understand. You need to protect yourself, first and foremost.”
“You are myself,” I tell her. “And it’s not fair for you to absorb all the damage, while I get all the fun.”
She laughs softly, a derisive laugh. “It’s much more than damage. You have no idea what he’s doing to us.”
I shudder. “But I think I want to. We should share it all, Snow. I should bear some of the burden of pain, and I should share some of the joy with you. I should share Cole.”
“Don’t worry,” she says teasingly, poking me in the stomach. “I share him plenty. I get my share of everything you feel and experience, more than you know. The major difference between us is that I was born to shoulder the pain. I was born to be your punching bag and shield. Whatever you need is exactly what I am. I exist only to protect you. So, dammit, girl. Let me protect you.”
“Not this time,” I tell her with a quiet determination. “I have to do this. I have to face him.”
“You can’t, Serena. You’re not capable of dealing with this. I know you.”
“Well, maybe it’s time I stopped relying on you. Maybe I should get stronger.”
A deep frown settles on her face. “You have no idea what you’re saying. This is dangerous. You could destroy yourself. You could destroy us.”
Smiling, I trace my fingertips over her cheek, so much like mine. She is so angry and beautiful. It’s funny how I find her beautiful, even though she looks exactly like me, while I only feel disgust when I look in the mirror. I think it’s her strength. I can see it in her face, in her eyes—that same unshakable power that first attracted me to Cole. She can survive anything.
She is so much like him. Maybe she deserves Cole more than I do. Maybe she’s his soulmate, and not mine. Maybe I’m just the broken shell of a girl.
And she’s the girl.
Inhaling deeply, I promise myself that I will try to be stronger this time. For her.
My best friend, my sister.
I will protect the protector. I will be the first line of defense.
Because I can see her cracking. Tiny cracks, but cracks nonetheless.
Cracks like that can get out of control quickly. A tiny chip in the windshield can be unnoticeable at first, until the wear and tear of many miles causes the damage to run deeper. It spreads, like a sickness, in the starburst pattern of a spider web, infecting, splintering, expanding throughout the entire fabric of the glass, until it eventually shatters and breaks.
And if she breaks—if she shatters—what will become of us?
Nothing will be left of me. If I lose the pure, unbridled strength of her, I will have lost everything that keeps me standing.