Lost.

A New Adult Contemporary Romance.

by Nadia Simonenko.

Subject Matter Warning.

Please note that this novel contains heavy subject material and detailed portrayals of domestic violence, child abuse, and s.e.xual a.s.sault.

This material is derived from the author's personal experiences and from the accounts of other victims, and the events of this story may act as a traumatic memory trigger to certain readers. Please exercise caution in reading this novel if you believe you are at risk of triggering on any of the above subjects.

I'm sorry that you have to live with those memories.

-Nadia.

Seven Years Ago...

Owen.

I hear him start yelling, and I'm up from the couch in an instant. My heart starts to pound in my chest and my breathing quickens. Where is he? What did I do? Is he coming for me?

"If you cared one G.o.dd.a.m.ned bit about this family like I do, you'd be..."

He's yelling at Mom. I can hear his drunken words slurring together as he screams at her. I don't even wonder what they're fighting about anymore; it's been like this for as long as I can remember.

As I got older, I began to understand the truth. It isn't about anything.

The fight is so one-sided that it's not even a fight anymore. My father is being what he always is: a drunken, violent a.s.shole.

A gla.s.s shatters against the floor in the kitchen, and I instinctively raise my hand to my face, feeling the ridge of the long scar running along my jaw. It's nearly invisible now after so many years, but I can still feel exactly where it is. I got this one from a gla.s.s, but my parents told the school I'd been in a bike accident.

In the kitchen, Mom starts to cry.

"...stupid f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h! What the h.e.l.l is wrong with..."

His yelling grows louder, more violent and terrifying to me, and I quietly head upstairs to my room. I feel like I should step in and try to help Mom, but I know I'll just make things worse. She wouldn't help if it was me, either; if I'm the first person Dad sees, she disappears and leaves me to take beating. She comes crawling back when it's all over to tell me that everything is going to be okay, but I haven't believed her since I was twelve.

The only person I'd protect is Samantha, but I thankfully haven't had to yet. My sister is only eleven, and Dad doesn't go after her.

Yet.

I close my door, sit down at the wooden desk in the far corner and pretend I'm working on my homework. I'm staring at numbers scrawled near-illegibly in my physics notebook, but they don't mean anything to me right now. My mind is still hiding in terror behind the couch downstairs.

The fight is spilling out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. I can hear their voices echoing through the heating vent; my bedroom's vent connects to the one in the living room, and there is no vent in the kitchen. The aluminum ductwork distorts his cold, hate-filled voice and makes him sound like a monster out of a bad movie. I wish this was all just a bad movie.

I hear my mother's light footfalls as she runs up the stairs. She is trying to get away from the fight, but the loud, dull 'thud' of Dad's boots are following behind her. He was honorably discharged from the army almost ten years ago after he hurt his back, but he still wears those same old combat boots everywhere. It's obvious enough to me that he isn't ready for civilian life, but the army disagrees.

They're fighting at the top of the stairs right outside my door now. I close my eyes and hunch over, trying hard not to shake as I hear the sickening sound of his fists. .h.i.tting her again and again. He's beaten me so many times that I'm terrified of him even when I'm not the target of his rage.

A new voice cuts through my thoughts and I bolt upright in my chair.

"Stop that! Stop hitting her!" cries Samantha. She sounds terrified, and I can see her wide-eyed, fearful look in my mind. I imagine her jaw quivering in fear, but even if it is, she's still braver than I am. I'm hiding in my room, trying to pretend that I'm not here.

"I promised I'd protect her."

I get up from the chair and start toward the door.

As I reach the door, though, I stop. No, she's not in trouble yet. Dad won't hurt her. As I turn around and head back toward my desk, I hear the loud clap of my father's palm against her face, and she starts to cry.

A door slams down the hall. Mom has abandoned Samantha.

I spin around and hurry back to the door, but again my hand hovers at the k.n.o.b and refuses to budge.

"He'll kill me!"

"If you don't go, he'll kill Samantha!"

My hand trembles and my teeth grind as I try to force myself to open the door. I need to protect my sister, but my mind screams at me to step away from the door. In the end, my cowardice wins the battle and I turn away My entire room shakes as Dad slams her against the door, and I nearly leap into the air. A framed photograph falls off the wall and its gla.s.s shatters as it strikes the ground. It's our family photo from ten years ago; we were all smiling back then.

I can hear Samantha's terrified whimper just outside my door, and my legs begin to shake. I'm such a f.u.c.king coward.

I have to protect her.

I open the door just in time to see my father's outstretched arm and my little sister tumbling down the stairs.

Samantha crashes into the wall at the middle landing with a terrifying thud, her neck contorted in an impossible way and her gray eyes staring blankly up at me.

The world freezes around me as I stare back into her empty eyes, and everything is strangely silent.

I've failed her. I've failed her in the worst way I possibly could have.

My father's face is as white as a sheet as he looks down at what he's done, and I shove past him and race down the stairs.

"She fell, Owen," he calls after me. "It ain't what it looks like."

I don't care what his excuse is this time; my sister isn't breathing. I can't tell if my heart is sinking into my stomach or if my stomach is rising into my chest. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

"Owen Maxwell, you come back up here and..."

I ignore him and race for the telephone in the kitchen. I have to call 9-1-1.

The phone is nowhere to be found, and I hear the thud of his boots coming slowly down the stairs after me. I shove papers off the kitchen table, knock over a vase by the sink as I push aside all the clutter and broken dishes, and then I finally see it lying on the floor next to an overturned chair.

I pick it up and just as I start to dial, Dad's fist connects with the side of my head.

I hit my head on a chair as I collapse to the ground. I'm dizzy and my vision goes almost entirely black except for a few strange, floating blue spots. He grabs the phone out of my hand, and as I try to get back up, he kicks me hard in the chest and knocks the wind out of me. I can't breathe, and I feel like I'm going to pa.s.s out.

I hear him dialing a number above me as the toe of his boot catches me squarely in the ribs again. Somehow, I barely notice the blow this time. Maybe I'm too far-gone already.

"Hi Betty. Sheriff please," he says in a shaky voice. He steps over me and starts to straighten up the kitchen. He sets the chair upright as on-hold music blares through the receiver, and even from down here I can smell the alcohol oozing from his pores.

"Hi, Bill? Yeah, it's Todd. I need you to send someone over here with an ambulance. Samantha fell down the stairs. Please hurry!"

He's so good at putting on an act when anyone else is around; it's only his family that sees the other side of him.

"Thanks Bill. I really appreciate it," he says with a tone of terrified concern, and I almost believe him for a second. My belief shatters instantly as he hangs up and shoots me an ice-cold glare.

"Don't you ever tell the town about our dirty laundry like you were gonna, you hear me boy?" he snarls, and he kicks me again for good measure. "Now get the f.u.c.k up and help me clean up this mess."

I continue to lay motionless on the floor. A strange chill is spreading down my body, and I can't be bothered to listen to him anymore.

"G.o.d, please take me away from here."

His boot connects with my stomach, and I gasp as he knocks the wind out of me again. I close my eyes and brace myself for the next blow.

"You heard me, you stupid s.h.i.t! Get up!"

He kicks me again and again, and I don't care about the pain anymore. It doesn't matter. None of this matters.

The only thing that mattered to me is lying dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Seven Years Later...

Friday, February 15 9:48 AM.

Maria.

My breath forms a thick white cloud in front of my face, and I shift my weight from leg to leg awkwardly as I wait at the top of the stairs. The bus is ten minutes late, and my feet are starting to go numb.

"Jesus Christ, it's so cold today!" complains Tina, her teeth chattering. Even after four years here at Cornell, she still can't handle the cold. Sometimes I wonder why she chose a school known as much for its bleak winters as for its education. It's upstate New York-what exactly did she expect?

I'm happy she picked this college. I'd be completely alone if she hadn't.

"Who the heck even gets up for cla.s.s this early, anyway?" whines Tina. "Maria, why am I even out of bed? Seriously!"

"It's almost ten o'clock, Tina."

"Hey, that's early for a Friday!"

I roll my eyes at her, but I can't help but smile anyway as her blond ponytail bounces up and down as she tries to keep warm. Tina has only one cla.s.s on Fridays-one of the benefits of being a second-semester senior, she claims-but she decided to ride up to campus with me today anyway.

My feet are freezing. The only thing stopping me from just giving up and walking to cla.s.s is that our apartment is two miles away from campus... and it's all uphill, too. It's a fantastic apartment-and so much cheaper than living in the dorms-but I sometimes feel as if I'm commuting from the moon.

The dirty blue bus caked in salt and muddy road spray pulls up to our stop, and we race up the stairs and into the warmth. The bus is as humid as a rainforest from the melted snow from countless students' winter boots, and I watch condensation drip down the window as we pull away from the curb.

I sit in the middle of a gap of three empty seats and Tina sits down next to me. Two stops later, a swarm of students crowd into the bus, and I feel like I'm a sardine in a tiny can.

A boy in a green jacket and blue jeans sits down next to me, and my stomach turns over. He's too close to me. My chest tightens up and I suddenly feel like I'm short of breath.

His leg touches mine as he sits back and relaxes, and my heart starts pounding. I close my eyes and try not to shake, but I can feel my jaw trembling. My neck muscles tense up and start to cramp as I sit rigidly in my seat, nearly paralyzed with fear.

I can't breathe. I'm going to suffocate.

I open my eyes as Tina nudges me with her elbow. She gets up from her seat and grabs onto the handrail as she looks down at me in concern.

"Hey, wake up, Maria!" she says, winking at me. "You're gonna miss your stop!"

She waves to the driver and drags me out of my seat as the bus pulls over to the side of the road. I follow clumsily behind her as she takes me away from the boy sitting next to me and outside to safety.

I feel completely helpless and devastated by my embarra.s.sment, but I am also grateful beyond words for her saving me yet again. This isn't the first time she's pulled me back from the brink of a panic attack.

She links her arm around mine and we walk the last half mile to campus together.

"Thank you, Tina," I whisper after several blocks of silence. My heart is still racing, but I'm finally starting to calm down a little.

"Don't worry about it. I know how you get around crowds," she answers with a warm smile and understanding eyes.

I smile back at her. She's too good to me; she's even pretending that the crowd is what upset me.

"You didn't have to do it, though," I whisper back to her, feeling guilty. "You didn't have to take care of me. Now you have a long walk to cla.s.s because of me."

"Big f.u.c.king deal," she says. "My fat a.s.s could use the exercise, so let's walk."

I grin at her. Tina has the dirtiest mouth of any girl I've ever met, and it only gets dirtier from here. At first glance, she seems like a dainty little blonde with a penchant for pink, but that's as far as her party-girl facade goes. Her mouth is downright legendary after a few drinks.

I'd expected her to be a typical sorority girl when I first met her. Instead I met someone almost as broken as me-someone who I could trust-and I've never been happier that my first impression was wrong.

She turns to me with a grin after another long silence.