Heartless (The Heartless Series) (5 page)

He smiles and lowers his head. This could go either way. Either he'd just take me at my word and go on about his life, or he'd question things because Sam is Sam and that's what Sam does. He questions. He scrutinizes. He overthinks.

"That's not like you. You're like clockwork."

"I know…"

He sits up and rubs his eyes like he's getting the sleep out of them. "One time we had to leave a movie early because you forgot your medicine, and we had to come home so you could take them."

"I…"

And then he starts walking toward me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's then that I notice the one or two or ten beer bottles scattered around the coffee table. Sam isn't a big drinker. In fact, he just started a few months ago. I've caught him a few times nursing a beer, while looking at something that I think is a picture… maybe. It's old and wrinkled, whatever it is. Looks worn like it has been folded and unfolded many times. Those times when he's drinking and looking, I don't bother him. I asked him once what the picture was. He said it was none of my business.

He says I'm nosey sometimes.

He says he drinks because I drive him to it, me and my insecurities. Sam and I are horrible for each other, but neither of us can leave.

I know… pity party for one.

"I mean it, sweetheart. What's up with you?"

Sweetheart.

Sam is tall. Six foot five. I'm short. Five foot two. I barely come up to his elbow when he stands up straight. Yet another reason why I liked him so much when I first saw him. Lone, tall handsome dude who just happened to have dimples and smiled at me. Yes, please.

Too bad we can't go back to those days.

"Nothing. I just fell asleep studying, that's all. No big."

Sam leans his hand on the banister, and I'm pretty sure every muscle the man has under his white t-shirt bulges. I'm not opposed to those muscles. I do like looking at them. But not when he's drunk and not when I'm tired. It's complicated. I'm complicated. We're a mess.

"You weren't here when I got home."

"I… what?" No, I can't remember coming home or what happened after class. All I do know is that I had a dream about Hart, and he told me to tell Lucien something. Then, I woke up in Professor Mitchell's office, and the new T.A.—who just happened to be the same Lucien I was looking for—was fixing me up. And then I woke up at home, so obviously it'd all been a dream. Which leads to the question, how did I get home? What's with the dreams within the dreams? Why am I
Inception
dreaming? Who the heck are Hart and Lucien to me? And why can't I remember anything?

Tears sting my eyes. I've completely lost it, right? Like completely this time. My doctor warned me this would happen if I didn't get the proper care. I thought the medicine would be enough but apparently I was wrong.

"Gracen." Sam clamps his hands on my shoulders. When he squeezes it isn't gentle, but I don't think he's trying to hurt me. "Seriously, what's up with you?"

"Nothing," I whisper as I look directly into his glazed-over eyes.

What is happening to me is a good question. I have no idea. All I know is that something is. Something bad, and I have no one to turn to. Think I'm turning to Sam? He'll have me committed. My mom? She was ready to sign the papers years ago. Tina? I can't. She's the only friend I have, and if she finds out I'm crazy, she'll leave me too. I can't have her leaving me.

No. This is something I have to deal with on my own. I have to figure out a way to tell my freakin' mind that it's being stupid. That Hart Blackwell isn't real. That I've not been in Professor Mitchell's office with Lucien. That I'm not going crazy. Easy enough, right?

"Why don't I believe you?"

"I'm fine."

He tilts his head. "Yeah… yeah."

"I am. I promise. I swear I did just fall asleep studying. It was stupid and irresponsible, but it's what happened. I swear it. I woke up. Talked to Tina for a few minutes, came down here, and took my medicine."

"You should've taken your medicine before you talked to Tina."

Always with the helpful hints.

"I know. I know I should have, but she had, um, urgent boy problems." It was a total lie, of course. I had been the one to contact her first. What Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Sam looks into my eyes for what seemed like forever. He placed his fingers gently on my cheek and rubbed in light circles. Sometimes I miss how it used to be between us before we moved in together. That was probably a big mistake.

When he looks at me, like he's looking now and acting so tender, I think the old Sam is still there somehow. I want to tell him to come back to me. I never do, but I miss him. I figure it would tick the Sam-I-have-now off worse if I did. "It's not real, you know?"

What?

Just like that. His fingers are gone. My cheek is cold. I'm always cold. "Get some sleep. You look terrible. I'll be up soon."

"Ok--ay. Good night." I start up the stairs and disappear into my room.

All I know is there's no way I'm going to sleep. I'm too wired. My brain needs to shut off quick because I need sleep.

It's not real.

I decide to give myself five minutes for computer time before bed. It's all I'm giving myself. If I play some mindless game or video, I'll be asleep in no time.

I open up my wall and see the first post.
College freshman found dead.

Under the headline is a picture. The picture of the girl in my dream last night. The girl Hart brought into my dream. The girl I sat beside in class today. The one that called me Gracen. The one that made me scream.

I dreamed about her, and she died.

Dead.

Her heart had been ripped out.

I don't have enough pills to deal with this.

Chapter Six

W
HEN MY ALARM GOES OFF,
I
'M
sitting in the same position as I had been when the sun came up and all the hours before that. I have three pillows behind my back, my white comforter and two quilts cover my legs, and my knees are drawn up to my chest. Not that I'm in the least bit warm. If I thought I'd been cold before, it doesn't compare to now.

About an hour ago, Sam knocked on my door and told me goodnight. I told him the same and listened as the floor popped as he went toward his room. I didn't tell him about the dead girl. He'd question why I'm so upset over a girl I don't know. To tell him would mean I'd have to tell him about the nightmares and Hart, and I'm not ready. I can't.

In a perfect world, it would be nice to lean on him. Let him hug me. Tell me everything was all right. Then again, I'm not sure what sort of perfect world that would be. It's not all right. It'll never be all right.

How in the world did I see the girl in my dreams?

I didn't sleep, so I didn't dream. A night without Hart. I didn't miss him, the nightmares, or the girl. Especially not the girl.

The girl that's dead now. The girl I'd never even seen before last night. So why had I dreamed about her. Why had she died? So many questions and none I really want to answer. If I look into this, I might find answers I don't want. Might nothing. I know I will. I'm not the kind of person who looks into things. I'm the kind of person who lets things happen to her. I just mind my own business. I stay in my room. I live my life as safely as I can. Heck, if not for Hart Blackwell eating my organs every night in my dreams, I'd be the poster child for sane and boring and normal. I'd be the vanilla. I like vanilla. I just want to be vanilla.

I'm not one of those people who want an extraordinary life. I just want to fit in, blend, and be normal. That's not to say it wouldn't be nice to hold out for something good every once in a while. Back in high school, there was another girl named Gracen. You'd think it wouldn't be a common name, but apparently it was. Common enough. I finally learned that when someone in school said that name they weren't talking to me, about me, or anything having to do with me. Because I didn't exist. In the walls of that high school, I was nothing. A big fat nothing. A person who the football players used to cheat off of but wouldn't bother to remember her name. I was a nobody.

I got used to it, I guess. I still want to be a nobody. Scratch that, I want to be a somebody, just not a crazy somebody who sees red-eyed demons and visions of girls who die the next day.

I don't want this. I don't want any of this, It just needs to go away.

So far my wishful thinking way of dealing with it hasn't worked.

I can feel my heart beating in my neck. I'm tense and stressed. My anxiety is through the roof. I can tell I missed some of my pills last night. I'll have to remedy that in a few minutes. I can't go through the day like this. I just can't, even if it hasn't been the recommended time between them. I'm probably screwing my already crazy brain up. I just don't care at the moment.

In the scheme of things, what I have going on in my life isn't that important or big or whatever. Yeah, I get tortured every night in my sleep, but it's just my sleep. It isn't real. I know it isn't. I don't wake up with marks on me, well, except yesterday when I'd been talking to Lucien. Or I think I'd been talking to Lucien. Is there really a Lucien? Heck if I know. It could've been one of those dreams-within-a-dream things… But I digress. All I have is Hart, and sometimes my live-in boyfriend says not so nice things to me. So what? I'm sure I deserve it. Now, that doesn't mean I think any other girl in the world deserves their boyfriend to say stupid stuff to them. They don't. I do. Because… well, I do.

I have a roof over my head. I should be okay. I want to be okay. I want to be able to look in the mirror and declare myself normal.

But I can't.

And I can't look in the mirror to my left on the dresser because my eyes are fixed on Danika Pierce's face, smiling at me from my computer screen. She looks so happy. A girl with her entire life in front of her. Until it wasn't.

It wasn't just some random accident either. Not a car crash or medical thing. She'd had her heart ripped out.

I want to think of it as a coincidence. Hart says I don't have a heart. Then, the girl I dream about has her heart ripped out. Danika.

It can't be connected… it can't.

I won't believe it.

Then came the real kicker, as if the heart thing wasn't enough, the news reported that not only had Danika had her heart ripped out of her chest… she had a single stab would… to the palm of her hand.

I should tell someone. Who would I tell? Who would believe me if I went to the police and said I knew the girl who died. They'd ask how, and I'd say I saw it before it happened, and I'm pretty sure my evil demon subconscious killed her.

They'd throw me away and lose the key.

I have a very bad feeling in my stomach, a very bad feeling, but I refuse to think about it. Sure, it has weighed heavily on my mind every since I saw the article. Hart might not be real, but I am. And I'm missing a lot of time from yesterday.

What if…

Nope. NO! I slam my laptop shut and jump out from under my covers. I rake my hands through my hair and pace the floor. I can't think like that. I didn't do anything to Danika. I didn't even know her. Not really. But Hart…

What in the world was Hart? What exactly? If I knew, maybe I could stop him. If there's a way to stop him.

I'd never been able to figure it out, and I sure won't today. I have Professor Mitchell's class in an hour, and I don't want to be late. Although, I should probably stay home today. Think. Heck, even nap because I'm exhausted. There's no part of me that wants to sleep, though. I know just as sure as I do I'll see him. He'll be hungry. He'll have sharp knives and all sorts of good things ready for me. If I'm lucky, it'll just be Hart. If I'm not, another person will be there. Another person who's more than likely going to die. The weight of that on my shoulders is too much.

I don't know what's going on with me, and a big part of me doesn't want to know. That's the scary part. The terrified part that doesn't want to face what's going on. The girl who decided to take the medicine five years ago to shut Hart up instead of trying to figure out who or what he was and how to stop him. The easiest explanation is that he's just a part of my mind. An annoying imaginary friend—for lack of a better word—but I know there's more to it. I've always known, though I've always told the therapist differently. I know what will happen to me if I tell her what I really think. I'd never see the light of day again. Too overly dramatic? I used to think so. Not anymore.

So, I lean on my antique dresser that used to be my Grandma Lou's, stare in the mirror, and cringe. Looks like I've aged ten years in a week. My hair is darkening. Instead of a bright blond, it's turning into what's not so nicely called dirty blond. Bordering on brown. Doesn't seem natural. Don't want to think about it.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes. I stand up straight, and I smile the most awesomely, least fake, fake smile I can pull my lips into. This is how I will get through the day. Tomorrow, I'll do the same. I'll smile. I'll pretend to be fine and normal and whatever.

I'll be fine.

But I'll be looking for answers at the same time. Because even though I don't want to, I have to know. There is a little grain scratching the inside of my mind. A little grain. A little doubt. One little thought that scares me more than anything. The thought I want to forget, but the one that has kept me up all night. The one that fuels the guilt.

Am I the one who killed Danika Pierce? Is Hart more to me than just a something in my head? Is there something inside me that's truly evil?

How can you run from what's inside you?

Chapter Seven

M
ARCY
B
ISHOP LOOKS UP AT ME
from her post, exactly where she always sits in Professor Mitchell's class. I don't see
him
. The other dude. Lucien. That doesn't give me the least bit of comfort. Either I dreamed him up, or something bad has happened to him. If I dreamed about him, then he could have ended up like Danika. Dead somewhere. I don't want to think that I'm the cause, but who knows? It isn't like I am the poster child for sanity.