Schasm schasm series, p.1
Schasm (Schasm Series), page 1
SCHASM
SHARI J. RYAN
Booktrope Editions
Seattle, WA 2014
COPYRIGHT 2013, 2014 SHARI J. RYAN
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions
should be directed to: info@booktrope.com
Edited by Steven Luna
Previously published as Schasm, Tycon Books, 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-201-0
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-297-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900488
Table of Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DEDICATION
MY MOM DOESN’T LIKE YOU
CAPABILITIES
DRIFTING
MENTAL INSTITUTION
JOURNAL ENTRY
ALEX
DR. GREENE
NIGHT ONE
JAMES
A BURIED PAST
NIGHT TWO
NUTCASE
THE WORDLESS LETTER
WHERE I WANT TO BE
C’EST LA VIE
IN THIS MOMENT
AWAKE
COLD ADJUSTMENTS
STRAITJACKET
SILENCE
SOFT AND WHITE
VISITING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW
HOPE FOR NOTHINGNESS
THEN THERE WERE FOUR
BLACK PILL
SELF-ANNIHILATION
SHIFTED
EATEN ALIVE
SHIFTING
TWENTY-NINE
DISTURBANCE
DEFINING REASON
LET ME INTRODUCE YOU
TWO TO RECONNECT
TAKEN
REALITY
SNOW IN MAY
A THICK BLANKET OF DARKNESS
TIME. TICKS. SLOWLY.
DARK
DARKER
FIGMENT
PREVIEW OF FISSURED FREE
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to so many people during this amazing journey. The love and encouragement from my family, friends, and the Booktrope team, have been the biggest and best support system in helping me work toward my dream.
First, I’d like to thank Marni Mann for mentoring me as a new author, and showing me the light. If it weren’t for you, I would not have become a part of the amazing team at Booktrope. You are a true inspiration.
I’d like to thank Jesse James for being my “go-to-guy”and welcoming me into Booktrope. You opened the golden gates of opportunity and I will be forever grateful. You are an awesome community leader, and we are all lucky to have you.
Jennifer Gilbert, my book manager and now friend, you have gone above and beyond your call of duty in every aspect. You have calmed my fears, and boosted my confidence when it was falling short. Thank you for being my partner in crime on this crazy journey.
A book is nothing without a story and an amazing editor. I could never thank Steven Luna enough for the skills he has taught me, and for helping to make my story better than I could have ever imagined. True talent is when you can take a story from someone else’s mind and understand it enough to take over where the writer left off.
I’m thankful for my little boys, Bryce and Brayden, who have given me a reason to push myself further than I ever thought possible. I want to make you proud of your Mom; and I look forward to the day you are both old enough to understand what that truly means.
Thank you to my sister, Lori—my first reader, my first fan and my biggest enthusiast. I sent you the story in chapters and you begged me to keep going. Thank you for the endless support.
Thank you to my parents, Cindy and John, for always believing in my dreams and never doubting my outrageous goals. Also, thank you to my step-parents, Mark and Evilee, for supporting me, and dealing with my parents’ crazy daughter.
Thank you to my grandparents, Al and Marcia, for never missing a weekly check-in to ask about the status of my book. You have always believed in me, and it gives me the motivation to reach for the stars.
A special thanks to Lisa Farmer, Kristina Lazaro, Lindsay Olin, Lisa Lasker, Jessica Van Der Valk, Tiffany Rodriguez and Allyse Monahan for being my beta readers and for your unconditional encouragement. Thank you to Lisa Safran, my very best friend, for always being my shoulder to lean on, and always offering great advice. A big thank you to Lauren Potischman for putting me in touch with Marni Mann.
Lastly, my husband, my rock and biggest believer, Josh—I could never thank you enough for your patience and understanding during the time I’ve spent in my fictional world. I love you for each conversation you’ve endured about my characters, and for showing me you believe in them as much as I do. You pretend to ignore my loud typing at odd hours of the night and you turn over when the laptop light shines in your face before the sun rises. I could easily blame it on you, though. You told me I should write a book. You told me I should reach for my dream. You told me I should make my dream a reality. Your endless excitement and happiness encourages me like nothing else. Thank you for being more than I ever could have asked for in a husband and best friend.
Dedicated to Bryce and Brayden, my two incredible
little boys, and to my amazing husband, Josh.
Thank you for always being my inspiration.
CHAPTER ZERO
MY MOM DOESN’T LIKE YOU
“MY MOM SAID we can’t see each other anymore. She doesn’t like you or your mom. She said you were bad for me. She said you were the reason I was sick. She said you were the reason my life was about to change.
“When she found the photograph that your mom took of us, she took it away, and now it’s gone. It was my favorite picture.
“My mom isn’t happy anymore; she isn’t like my mom was before. She doesn't smile and her eyes aren't as large as they used to be. Her words are mean and she stopped giving me hugs and kisses. She hit me when she found the photograph, and I don’t understand why. When I asked her to stop, her cheeks turned red and she walked away. I'm afraid she'll hurt me again.
“I was so excited to show her a picture of my best friend. I told her I wanted us to move to your house so we could play together every day. I said it was because I missed you when we weren’t together. That’s when she stopped responding and started crying.
“My mom is taking me to a special doctor tomorrow. She said he’s going to fix me. But I don't think there's anything wrong with me. Do you?”
“I think you’re perfect, Chloe,” he says, smiling.
“When I asked her why we had to go to a special doctor, she said it was so I wouldn’t have to miss you anymore. I'm not sure what that means, but I don't like the sound of it.”
“Chloe, don’t worry about your mom,” he says. “We’re best friends forever, and nothing can stop that.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Wait right here. I’m going to get something for you.”
He runs into his house and comes back right away. He looks scared and worried for me. Should I be scared and worried for me, too?
“Here, Chloe. Take this locket. Promise you’ll hold on to it, and that you won’t ever lose it. Do you promise?” he asks.
I open the shiny gold necklace. I see a picture of two people I don’t know. They’re standing in a dark place, in front of a weird-looking rock. I’m not sure what’s so important about this necklace, but I’ll keep it safe.
“I promise I’ll never lose it,” I say, holding it up to my heart.
“I’ll miss you, Chloe,” he says with sad eyes.
Why does he sound like he’s saying good-bye? I don’t want to say good-bye.
“Honey, you can always come back over here and play whenever you want,” his mom says as she gives me a big hug.
Why is everyone crying? It doesn’t make sense.
***
This doctor’s office is scary. It smells bad, and I don’t like the people walking around. They’re scary too. I don’t like the way my mom is telling me not to worry. I don’t understand why she thinks she has to fix me.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
We’re waiting in a room with four white walls and three metal chairs. It’s a strange doctor’s office…it doesn’t have any doctor’s kits or lollipops. I have a bad pain in my tummy, and my heart feels as if it’s moving too fast.
A man walks into the room. He looks back and forth between my mom and me. “Hello, Chloe,” he says. “I’m going to make you all better.” He’s a strange-looking man with shiny black hair and dark eyes. He doesn’t look like a doctor. He isn’t even wearing a white doctor’s coat.
“I’ll be right back, sweetie. Tomas will take good care of you,” my mom says as she walks out the door.
Why is she leaving me here with this man? I don’t want to
The man sits down in one of the metal chairs next to me and shifts his body to look at me. “Everything is going to be okay now.” He places his cold hand on my back. It makes me shiver. “Most people call me Tomas, but you can call me Franco,” he says with a friendly smile.
I guess he’s kind of nice. I’ve never met anyone with two first names before. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
“Chloe, would you like a special juice drink?” he asks.
I like juice, and I’m thirsty. “Okay,” I say.
He hands me a small plastic cup with a red liquid. It tastes like strawberry…but it also tastes like cold medicine. The icky kind. He only gave me a little bit, so I finish it with one big gulp.
He pats my back after I return the cup. “Good girl, Chloe. That should fix all of your problems.” He says it with a smile that doesn’t look so friendly anymore.
“I don’t have any problems, Tomas…I mean Franco,” I say.
Franco kneels in front of me and rests his arms over my shaking knees. “Chloe, I need you to close your eyes and repeat after me. Ten… nine…eight…seven…”
“Ten…nine…eight…seven…”
I don’t like this.
It’s too dark.
CHAPTER ONE
CAPABILITIES
IT’S SEVEN IN THE MORNING. I wish just once in my life this condition would allow me to sleep a little later. I have this perpetual mental alarm clock that switches my mind on at the same time every morning, whether I’m still tired or not.
I lie here most mornings until I hear my mother and father moving around downstairs. I would lie here all day if I had the choice.
I slap my arm over my eyes in hopes of dozing off for just another minute or so. I find myself dazed and awake instead. I see a blazing hot sun in a clear blue sky, not icicles dangling from my windowpane like there should be. I turn my head and focus my eyes on the thermostat that shows seventy-five degrees. I smile and reach my arms above my head, stretching out every muscle. It looks like a perfect moment to head outside for a quick run before my long day starts.
I don’t intend on losing a single moment of this warm, welcoming weather. Vitamin D would do me some good, I’m sure. I slip on jogging pants and a t-shirt and shove my feet into old sneakers.
Running feels effortless today, as if the world is floating beneath me with no resistance.
I feel like I’m flying…
I glance down at my feet and find that I’m not quite running anymore, but rather pirouetting three feet off the ground with the grace of a ballerina at every stride. My thoughts race. I’m filled with a feeling of freedom, happiness.
Clarity.
My eyes snap open and my ears sting from the alarm clock's screaming buzzer. The clock says 7:02 a.m. It has only been one hundred and twenty seconds since I closed my eyes. I sigh and gaze out at the dark sky filled with gray clouds and cold wind. I hate how my frost-covered window allows the single-digit March temperatures to sneak into my already frigid bedroom.
I’d prefer someplace more reasonable, like San Diego, where the weather always seems to be warm and perfect compared to frostbitten New England. I’ve been there, actually. It’s become my dream to take up permanent residence there someday.
Just as I’m drawing up my daily plan to escape from Southborough, Massachusetts, an echoing sound travels up the stairs.
“Chloe, are you awake?” Her voice makes me cringe. I clap my hands over my ears to block out the shrill sound of it. “Do I need to come up there?” she yells again. Her voice pierces my clenched fingers and penetrates my ears.
No, I think. The last thing I need is for you to come up here.
“Sorry, Mother,” I shout back. “I must have fallen back asleep.” I groan at the thought of starting another day in the same way I start every other day.
And it’s all about my so-called condition.
I’ve clearly become a burden on them since the age of seven… which, not coincidentally, was around the same time my diagnosis was made. No big surprise there.
I hesitate to call it a condition because it really seems as if there’s nothing that can be done to fix it. And really, I don’t mind it; my altered state of mind has never bothered me like it bothers my parents. Other than slipping into this state every so often, I’m no different than anyone else. But I’ve been going to the same doctor since I was seven years old. He’s the one who labeled it “temporary fugue-state dissociation.” Second opinions aren’t an option when it comes to my mother; one person told her twelve years ago that I have an incurable condition, so that’s the opinion we’re going to rely on forever.
And in her world, protecting me has meant imprisoning me. I’m essentially a captive here, in my own house…in my own room. She’s made it clear that if I leave, she’ll report me to the authorities and disown me. I’d become a ward of the state, and be institutionalized—permanently. At this point, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference.
I drop my feet onto the arctic floor as a chill sparks up to my neck, like an electrical current bolting through my body. Every strand of hair stands at attention. Even the floor has it out for me. God, I hate this place.
I plop down at my vanity table that was given to me on my seventh birthday, afraid of the mess caused by the static. I look in the mirror and find the dreadful disarray that I have to deal with for the day. It’s the same every morning: gray rings beneath my bulging eyes, which accent my nearly-monochromatic complexion; pasty cheeks and forehead. Winter and my irregular sleep patterns don’t combine to make for a very pretty Chloe. The only color that exists on my face is the redness of my severely chapped lips and my ruddy winter nose. I snarl at the stark pallor of my own reflection. I ruffle my fingers through my hair and push it all up in a pile on top of my head, trying to figure out what to do with it. It really doesn’t matter what I do; according to my mother, there’s no reason to get all dolled up just to go see my doctor. Strange how she doesn’t appear to follow the same philosophy for herself.
She’s left me a pile of clothes on top of my bureau. She insists on picking out my clothes every day. Nothing about my state of mind prevents me from pairing colors or matching patterns. I’m fully capable of pulling clothes out of my drawers and getting myself dressed. But she continues to treat me like a child, even all these years later. And God forbid I don’t put on what she laid out for me.
It’s not even worth the fight anymore.
I slip my legs through my straight-leg jeans and poke my head through a knit sweater the color of snot, something my grandmother made for me back in the mid-nineties. All of my clothes are perfect for covering every inch of my body, from my chin down to my ankles. No skin is allowed to show at all, per her overwhelming concern that I might attract the wrong person—or any person, for that matter. I shove my feet into a pair of brown hospital socks and shamble down the stairs, taking my time, moving just slowly enough to aggravate her. She screams my name one last time. “Chloe!” It’s irritating for me to hear her, but I know my moving slowly irritates her even more.
I shuffle into the kitchen, dragging my feet across the yellowing linoleum tiles. The odor of my usual breakfast assaults my nose: bland over-scrambled eggs, a burned piece of turkey bacon, and a large glass of orange juice. It’s the same thing I’ve had every day for the past twelve years. It's clear that my gaunt figure isn’t enough to justify the need for a better diet. I’ve stopped pointing it out, though. It’s another fight that I’ve lost a million times before.
My mother is rinsing dishes when she sees me. “Good morning,” she says, as if her shrieking me to attention had never happened at all.
“It’s morning,” I say, “I don’t know how good it is, though.” I pull my chair away from the table, the chair I’ve claimed to be my own for as long as I can remember. It faces the wall where our clock hangs, ancient and foreboding. But I’d rather look at that than anyone here.
“Eggs?” she asks.
“You mean I have choice?” I answer, my eyes sliding from numeral to numeral on the clock. Not only is it the only thing I want to look at here; it’s also the only thing in this house that has any personality.
