Heart on a Chain

• Title Page
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Epilogue
  

Heart on

a Chain

by Cindy C Bennett

Published by Cindy C Bennett

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Cindy C Bennett USA

Prologue

Six Years Earlier

Henry watched Kate
as she stuck her hand into the slotted opening on her sparsely populated Valentine’s box, nerves thrumming—it was an unusual sensation for him, this insecurity.

He didn’t take his life for
granted
exactly, but there wasn’t a lot of conflict thrown his way, either, from his peers or from his family. He was too young to fully appreciate the blessing of having such a peaceful life, but old enough to understand that not everyone had it as good as he did.

He’d loved Kate for as long as he’d known her. She’d been his first friend on the first day of Kindergarten. He hadn’t wanted his mom to leave him in the big, new, scary place full of strangers. Kate had come over as he fought the tears and placed her hand in his. With a smile, she’d led him to the coloring table and he’d been smitten from that day forward.

He’d never forgotten that; she’d been his comfort, his ray of sunshine in the dark storm of emotion.

Because of his sensitivity for her, he was one of the few who’d noticed the change in her over the past few years. She’d gone from a sweet, funny girl who always smiled, and could always make others laugh, to someone who was quiet and rarely smiled.

It made him sad, mainly because he didn’t know why, and therefore couldn’t fix it.

He never gave up. He thought if he just kept trying, he could find that girl again. Even more than that, though, he wanted her to know how he felt about her—how he
really
felt about her. He didn’t think she could know how very much he wanted to be with her, how much he loved her. He hoped his special Valentine would make that clear.

Kate stuck her hand into her box, listlessly pulling out the small, store bought, generic cards that mostly sported cartoon characters on them along with some cheesy, false sentiment. She barely glanced at them as she set them to the side. He might have believed she was completely uncaring, removed from feeling anything about them, except for the tiny upturn at one corner of her mouth.

Finally she reached his. He could tell because the smile dropped from her face and her forehead creased in consternation as her hand was stopped in its retrieval progress. She tugged a little, then turned her hand at an angle to maneuver the large, folded piece of construction paper out of the opening.

Kate stared at the front. Henry suddenly felt embarrassed, unsure of his gift to her. Maybe it was stupid…it
was
stupid. It was idiotic and childish. Amateurish, the different colors of hearts layered one on top of the other on the red paper. He should have just bought one at the store—it would have been better. He balled his fists at his side as a flush stole up his cheeks.

Then she opened it, read the words he had written there, and his stomach clenched.

An amazing thing happened then. Like the sun rising on the horizon, her smile appeared, changing her countenance, lighting her face in a way he hadn’t seen for too long. Her eyes came up to his, and in them he could see her answer.

She stood, and walked unsurely toward him, her smile wavering slightly. Then she turned into the coat closet, giving him a look that drew him toward her. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, waited a minute or so, then followed her in.

She stood in the back corner, waiting, worry puckering her brow, wringing her hands—until she saw Henry. Her face cleared and a small smile played across her lips.

Henry walked over to her, stopping directly in front of her. She glanced down, eyes slowly coming back to his as he leaned closer. She raised her mouth to his and kissed him. Surprise held him frozen for a long moment before he melted, innocently kissing her back.

She was his dream girl, and with her kiss she told him she was finally his.

Four months later Henry and his family moved away.

Chapter One

Wham!

The back-handed blow knocks me to the floor. I look up at her, determining in a nano-second whether I should stay down or get back up. I scramble to my feet, cringing slightly in anticipation of the next strike, guaranteed to come if I read her wrong.

I didn’t. She turns away from me with familiar disgust.

“
Clean up this mess you made, Kate,” she grumbles, kicking at the plate filled with the remnants of her lunch that had been knocked to the floor from her side table as I fell.

“
Okay, mom.”

She turns back, threat in her pose.

“
You sassing me?”

“
No mom, I’m sorry.” I hate the wheedling in my voice, but I am as helpless against that as I am in changing the tide of my life.

I scoop up the food scraps with my hands, piling them back on the plate and set it aside. I wipe a couple of the prescription bottles that had tumbled into the mess with the front of my shirt. I set the fallen bottles back on the table in their precise spot within the cluster of small brown bottles. She knows just what is in each one by their location.

Unbidden, the picture I have hidden under my mattress slides into my mind. In it, my mother stands in the backyard with me and my father, laughing and loving and looking young and beautiful—and very pregnant.

I was nine-years-old at the time, getting ready to start fourth grade, which was exciting because it meant that I was on the up-slide to being what I thought was the coolest of the cool—a
sixth
grader, oldest class in the school.

The day the photo was taken my father had brought home an early birthday surprise for me. My birthday isn’t until February, but Dad couldn’t wait. He wanted me to have it early so I could enjoy it before the snow fell.

As I carry my mother’s dirty plate into the kitchen, I glance out the window at the long-ago birthday surprise. It’s a swing-set, one of the sturdy, steel, A-frame kinds that you normally don’t find in a backyard, but rather at a public playground. It was made to last for a very long time—even now it looks nearly the same; only the dulled shine gives away its age. Three swings hang from long thick chains. The burly men who delivered it made sure to cement the poles deep into the ground so that it wouldn’t tip over. I was told I had to wait three days to swing on it to give the cement a chance to harden.

Three days is an eternity to a nine-year-old.

In three days, I learned, an eternity of changes can occur.

I quickly and as quietly as possible wash the plate—the dishwasher long ago quit working and the idea of paying a repairman or buying a new one is as foreign as a trip to the Taj Mahal. As soon as I’m finished I silently slip out the back door.

I’m well aware of how pathetic it is to have your only escape, your best friend, be an inanimate object—and a child’s play toy at that—for someone who is seventeen years old and getting ready to begin her final year of high school. But it’s all I have, so I hurry over, ignoring the light rain that begins to fall as I plant my feet into the well worn dirt, and shove off as hard as I can with a slight jump. The wind blows past me from both the speed as well as the storm kicking up. It cools the raw spot on my jaw that will leave me with a bruise to start the school year tomorrow.

Not that it matters. A pre-bruised punching bag doesn’t make a difference to most of my tormentors.

As I sail higher, I feel the release of tension, the world fading away. I’m eased by the rush that comes as I push myself higher and higher. My mind empties as I give myself over to sensation. The only interruption comes when I hear my father stumble into the house—early tonight—and the yelling starts. Even that I can push away with little effort; I’ve had years of practice.

Luckily, there is no tell-tale sound of fist against skin when the yelling stops. My mind registers this in relief because it also means there’s a good chance I won’t have to be on the receiving end of her anger anymore tonight.

Sometime later, I become aware of lights being turned off in the house. It doesn’t occur to either of them to wonder where I am, or to even check my room to see if I’m there. I don’t have a problem with that—their lack of concern and attention long ago stopped being painful and became a positive thing if it means being invisible.

I continue to swing in the cool night air, hair damp now from the light rain. I wait for the peace to settle completely before letting the swing slow and then stop.

A deep breath, gathering courage, then I slip into the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to call attention to my existence.

I pull open my bedroom closet, and blow out an exasperated breath at the lack of options before me. Tomorrow I’m officially a senior; seems like that should qualify maybe just one new outfit, one thing that isn’t a thrift store second that’s worn out and ill fitting. I allow myself a two minute pity-party, then pull out the least worn items to put on in the morning.

Senior year.

Ugh.

I hate the first day of school.

Actually, I hate every day of school, but as this is the first day of my last year of high school, it somehow seems worse than all the others. There’s a palpable excitement in the air from the other seniors, knowing that after this year they can start their real lives. I don’t have a real life so this year is more frightening than all the rest—and that’s saying a lot considering how every previous school year has been for me.

“
Look out, freak.”

I stumble but don’t fall as I’m shoved to the side by one of the juniors. I see a couple of the sophomores look over in interest. Time will tell if these newbies will join in the game, or if they’ll take pity and leave me alone.

I turn away from them and see Jessica Bolen coming down the hall, surrounded by her groupies. That’s a really good reason for me to turn and head in the opposite direction. She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I make a quick retreat down the nearby stairs, even though it means I’ll have to hustle to make it to my first class. Tardies are something I avoid with a passion, not wanting more attention than is absolutely necessary.