Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series) (6 page)

VICTORIA

Rough hands seize me and drag me down a corridor that stretches for miles. I'm shoved into a room like a rat shoved into a cage. Bright lights blind me. No chair. No table. No place to run.
No place to hide
. Fabric rips and screams as it's torn from my body. Fingernails scratch my skin. I don't struggle. I'm too scared and cold to struggle.

They back away from me as I
stand naked
before them. I cover myself and cower and when the water comes on and hits me like needles, I wrap my arms even tighter around me.

The water makes me
shiver

and
cry

and
scream
.

I turn so the water hits my back but then I'm spun around so fast I nearly fall.

And I'm
shoved
again. I'm shoved into
paper-thin pants and a shirt
. I'm shoved into another hallway. I'm shoved into another room and
slammed
into a chair. I’m still rocking backward when a large hand grips my chin and forces my jaw down, forces a long q-tip against my cheek and swirls it round and round. Something sticky is shoved against each temple. My hands are
wrenched
behind my back and the metal is so cold it
burns
.

“Please. Please. You’re making a mistake.”

DEREK

I squint as I walk to my car. The humidity is unforgiving—it’s like walking through water. Hot, sticky, disgusting water. A blast of heat pours over me when I open my car door and sit behind the wheel. The dashboard thermometer says the temperature outside is 113 degrees.

It's October 9th.

The weather wasn't always like this. I remember my dad telling me stories about trick-or-treating during blizzards. Or that, when he was young, a surprise snowstorm hit Western Pennsylvania and school had been canceled for a week because of it.

There are no more blizzards. There’s no more bundling up in large, soft coats. It's been eleven years since the last time snow fell, and even then it was nothing more than a dusting. There are tons of theories as to why this happened: global warming, pollution, evolution. Whatever the reason, no matter where you travel now, winter doesn't exist anymore. Polar bears do not exist anymore. White Christmases, snowmen, and sled rides do not exist anymore.

Slowly, I drop my hand from the ignition. I lean back. Suddenly, the enormity, the overwhelming realization of the last eighteen hours slams into me. Victoria, the love of my life, is being charged with murder.

I reach over and pick up my cell phone. I left it there last night and lacked the energy to go out and get it. But now, in moments like this, there's really only one thing to do. I dial the number.

“Hello?”

My eyes well up at the sound, my throat expands to painful proportion. It takes me several deep breaths before I feel as if my chest won't explode right then and there. But when I speak, it still feels unbearably tight.

I say what I need to say. Then, I break down and cry. I have never been more grateful to say two simple words:

“Hi, Dad.”

VICTORIA

This room is dark and the ground is covered with hay. It sticks to my wet feet. There’s a barred window up high.
I die when the door slams shut
.

But he’s there, locked in with me.

The
ally
from the hospital. The
enemy
at my front door.

I can’t take my eyes off his lips.

I'm mesmerized by his words
.

Surprising words.

We found the gun your father was shot with.

Monstrous words.

Your prints were all over it.

Life-ending words.

The gun was found in your purse.

The purse was in the dumpster.

Victoria?

DEREK

Mom runs out to me before I make it to the front door. She throws her arms around me. She isn't crying, but she's perilously close.

“My baby,” she says. “My poor baby. I can’t believe this happened to you. To Victoria.”

I shut my eyes and squeeze her tight. “I know, Mom. Me too.”

She rises up on tiptoe, tightening her famous stranglehold. But it feels so damn good, I don't rush out of it. I just enjoy it. And I hug her even tighter.

Several beats later, some inner bell has sounded and Wrestlemania is over. Mom releases her hold on my neck but instantly grabs both of my shoulders. She looks me over, as if trying to find some wound or cut. But, like most injuries that hurt the worst, in places that matter most, you can’t see them from the outside.

Satisfied I’m not falling apart at the seams, she adjusts her body so she fits right against my side. I drape my arm over her shoulders, she puts her arm around my waist, and we walk to the porch.

If Mom is the parade that welcomes me back—loud and gorgeous and beautiful—then Dad is the man behind the scenes, the one to whom I tell every single detail. Mom is the one I can still be the child with, the one I can still run to and ask for Count Chocula in the morning and she'd give it to me in a supersize bowl with some cartoon figure on the bottom. But Dad…no coddling there; it's full responsibility for every action I make, and complete accountability for every circumstance I find myself in.

He waits on the porch for us and I'm embracing him in no time. I throw my arms around him and don't let go. He pats my back. It's a semi-large motion and it feels more like he's trying to burp me than comfort me, but it feels perfectly right. Gratitude, plain and simple, bursts inside me.

“Alright, come on inside,” Mom says after a while, taking me by the elbow as Dad and I break apart. “God, you must be starving. I can’t imagine you ate during any of this.”

Dad and I both follow her in. We go to the living room, but Mom makes a beeline for the kitchen. Cupboards open and close, drawers slide out and in. The sounds are soothing. Dad and I sit on the couch. He’s about to say something when a familiar beep sounds from the TV, signaling breaking news. We both turn toward the screen. A serious-faced anchorman intones that a partial shoe print was just found outside of a first floor window of Issy Campbell's house. 

Dad turns off the TV.

“Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to see that.” He looks at me and sighs. “How’re you holding up?”

I chuckle. It’s a sickly sound. “I don’t know. I’m just...I’m tired, I guess.” Overwhelmed.  “In fact,” I stand and run my hands through my hair, “I think I’m going to go upstairs. Try to get my head straight.”

Figure out what the hell my next step is.

Dad’s brows rise in surprise. “Oh, okay. Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head and turn to the steps. Before I reach them, Dad calls my name.

“By the way, your mailbox lit up earlier this morning. You may want to check it out.”

Nodding, I walk over to the TV. I tap the screen and various boxes come up. I hit the one that says D. Archer Mail. All my emails pop up—well, the last hundred of them at least. I read the subject lines of the three most current. One is from Pitt Medical, one is from Penn State. And one is from PMAA. I open that email, and as I read the words—kind, congratulatory words, words I’ve wanted to read for the last five years of my life—something inside me twists and clenches.

Dear Mr. Archer:

We received your test scores, teacher recommendation letters, and essays and it is with great excitement that we offer you a place in the PMAA family as a Pre-Surg I. Please click here for salary and benefits package. Orientation is November 13, 2054 at 9 AM, where world-renowned surgeon Alex Bartone will begin onsite training.

It’s strange. This letter is all I ever wanted, but now it suddenly doesn’t seem so important. It’s the key to my future, but it doesn’t seem all that bright anymore. It’s been the goal I strived for and now that I’ve achieved it, I’ve never felt more hollow.

I don’t know how long I stand there, my mind blank and riotous all at once. It’s only when I feel a hand on my shoulder that I snap out of my haze. I look over. Dad is beside me, his eyes on mine. He’d never read my mail but I can tell, from the look in his eyes, he knows what I just saw.

Dad asks, “Do you want me to write them? Explain what happened? Maybe they’ll give you an extension.”

I lower my gaze. My fingers brush against the small item that's still in my pocket. Recited words float through my head.

I love your laugh. I promise to work as hard as I can to hear that laugh as often as I can. Victoria…

“No,” I answer. “You don’t have to do that.”

My love for you was instant.

“Derek, you can still do this. You can still move out, take that job, and…” He trails off, an embarrassed look crossing his face as I meet his gaze, as he realizes what he was about to say, and what he couldn’t.

I nod. “You’re right. I could still do everything you said…”

My feelings won’t ever change.

“…but it wouldn’t mean anything.”

“It would mean something,” he says.

“No, Dad. Because she won’t be a part of it.”

Will you marry me?

VICTORIA

It's hot
. My sweat soaks my clothes until I feel like they're
disintegrating, tearing
, like water weighing down a Kleenex. I curl myself in a ball and cry. I can't stop crying. And it's dirty. The ground beneath all this hay is nothing but dirt. And it smells like urine and body odor and that's when I realize what the hay is for. Like some
rodent’s cage
, it's my
bedding and my bathroom
. The thought makes me jerk up and wipe at my face more and more and more and harder and harder and harder until my skin cracks and my face bleeds and
I tear myself to pieces
.

DEREK

Internet curfew is three in the morning. And when I can no longer look up every article and post, comment, and mention on The Corps I can find (which, unfortunately, isn’t a lot), I pull up a blank word document and start typing. I begin with the moment I finished my test to the moment I hugged Dad goodnight just a few hours ago. And then I read it, over and over, as if I magically wrote down something I hadn’t known before. I read it over and over, until I finally fall asleep at the keys.

VICTORIA

Daybreak. Heartbreak.

Jace comes in with a woman with brown hair. He nods at me, then leaves. The woman extends a black dress to me. It's the brightest, boldest color in this tear-stained room.

And she says:
Get dressed
.

And she tells me:
We need to be in the car by ten
.

And she tells me:
The funeral starts at eleven
.

And the heat and the smells and the dirt all go away.

Nothing matters after that.

DEREK

Funerals have, for the most part, remained the same in the last thirty years. The biggest difference now is that everyone is cremated. It was deemed too hazardous to the world for a coffin and all its metals and brass to be buried. Government agreed. So now it's cremation.

The funeral is at William’s house. I’ve never been there before. I plug the address into Dad's GPS and we all ride over together. Mom gets incredibly car sick, so she lies in back with a damp cloth over her eyes. I sit in the passenger seat, only half-listening to Dad as he talks about baseball. Apparently the Pirates are in their eighteenth straight winning season.

No, as we pass miles and miles of trees and green, I can only think of one thing.

Victoria.

<><><>

“Here by yourself?”

She’s gorgeous. The eyes, the lips, the nose, the hair. The sum of the parts is breathtaking, to be sure, but each part is its own thing of beauty. I’m still trying to formulate a reply when she sits down on the couch beside me. Just like that, the party around us fades away, the music and laughter and talking all seems to hush. It’s like a camera zoomed in on us, and everything else is darkness.

“My name’s Victoria.”

I nod. She raises an eyebrow and that’s when I suddenly, mortifyingly realize she’s waiting for me to answer back.

“Derek. Derek Archer.”

“Well, Derek Derek Archer, are you here by yourself?”

I lick my dry lips, my mind racing to find the coolest answer to the simplest yes or no question. It’s suddenly imperative that I impress this girl. It’s all I want to do, and I have a feeling, it will be all I’ll ever want to do.

“No,” I finally say. “I’m here with a friend…who’s, uh, around…somewhere.” I chuckle, though it sounds more like a wheezy, dying sigh. I clear my throat. “How about you? Are you here by yourself?”

“My friends left me for a beer run. I’m here by my lonesome, which is why I came up to you.”

“Oh?” Smooth.

“Yeah. To be honest, I saw you the minute you walked in."

"Oh?" Jesus. Kill me.

"Mmm-hmm. I took one look at you and knew I wanted your attention.”

"Oh—uh," I clear my throat. "Why’s that?”

Her grin is small, but her expression is pure confidence. “Because I knew it would delight me.”

I feel like I’m suddenly freefalling, like the couch beneath me just disappeared. It’s baffling and bewildering and exhilarating as hell.

“You’re very direct,” I say.

“I go after what I want.”

“Do you always get it?”

“No one’s turned me down yet.”

“You know,” I say, taking in the loveliness, the focus, the pure fierceness of her features, “a part of me thinks no one ever will.”

“I feel the same way.” And she winks at me. “For their sake more than mine.”

She touches my arm, her skin soft as velveteen, and she laughs at the next thing I say. We talk all night, neither one of us realizing when the party was over.