The Unbound

“They were Da’s—”

“I know who they belonged to, Mackenzie. He was my father! And I won’t have you ending up like him.”

I pull back. If he’d struck me, it would have hurt less.

“But Da was—”

“You don’t know what he was,” snaps Dad, ru

“Peter—” says Mom, reaching for him, but he shrugs her off.

“How could you be so selfish, Mackenzie?”

Selfish? Selfish? “I’m just trying to—” I bite back the words before they escape.

I’m just trying to do my job.

I’m just trying to keep everything together.

I’m just trying to stay alive.

“You’re just trying to what? Get kicked out of Hyde? Ruin your future? Honestly, Mac. First your hands, and now—”

“That was a bike accident—”

“Enough,” snaps Dad. “Enough lies.”

“Fine,” I growl, throwing up my hands. “It wasn’t an accident. Do you want to know what really happened?” I shouldn’t be talking, not right now, not when I’m tired and angry, but the words are already spilling out. “I got lost coming back from one of Mom’s errands, and it was getting dark, so I cut through a park, and two guys jumped me.” Mom sucks in a breath, and I look down at my bruised knuckles. “They cut me off…” It feels so strange, telling the truth. “…and forced me off the bike…” I wonder what it would feel like to tell them about my wrist. About Owen and all the different ways he broke me. “…and I didn’t have a choice…”

Mom grabs me by the shoulders, her noise scraping against my bones. “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” I say, holding up my hands. “I hurt them.”

Mom lets go and sinks onto the edge of the couch, her hand to her mouth.

“Why would you lie about that?”

Because it’s easier.

Because it’s what I do.

“Because I didn’t want you to be upset,” I say. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want you to worry.”

The anger bleeds away, leaving me bone-tired.

“Well, it’s too late for that, Mackenzie,” she says, shaking her head. “I am worried.”

“I know,” I say.

I’m worried, too. Worried I can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep playing all the parts.

My head is pounding, and my hands are shaking, and there are two names on my list, and all I want to do is go to sleep but I can’t because of the boy with the knife waiting in my dreams.

I turn away.

“Where are you going?” asks Dad.

“To take a bath,” I say, vanishing into the bathroom before anyone can stop me.

I find my gaze in the mirror and hold it. Cracks are showing. There’s a glass beside the sink, and I dig a few painkillers out of my medical stash under the counter and wash them down before snapping the water on in the tub.

What a mess, I think as I sink to the tile floor, draw my knees up, and tip my head back against the wall beside the tub, waiting for the bath to fill. I try to count the different things Da would give me hell for—not hearing the cops in time, getting caught, taking a full two days to notice I was being set up—but then again, it sounds like Da wasn’t as good at separating his lives as he thought.

He only cared about himself, and I’ll be damned if I see you behaving like him.

Is that how Dad really saw him? Is that how my parents see me?

The sound of the ru

I open my eyes to find Owen sitting on the counter, bouncing the tip of his knife against the sink.

“So many lives. So many lies. Aren’t you tired yet?”

“Go away.”

“I think it’s time,” he says, tapping to the rhythm of a clock.

“Time for what?” I ask slowly.

“Time to stop hiding. Time to stop pretending you’re all right.” His smile sharpens. “Time to show them how broken you really are.”

His fingers flex on the knife, and I spring to my feet, bolting for the door as he jumps down from the counter and blocks my path.

“Uh-uh,” he says, wagging the knife from side to side. “I’m not leaving until we show them.”

His knife slides back to his side, and I brace myself for an attack, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he sets the weapon down on the counter, halfway between us. The instant he withdraws his hand, I lunge for the blade; my right hand curls around the hilt, but before I can lift it Owen’s fingers fold over mine, pi

“We fit together,” says Owen with a smile.

“Let go of me,” I growl, trying to twist free, but his grip is made of stone.

“You’re not even trying,” he says into my ear. “You’re just going through the motions. Deep down, I know you want them to see,” he says, twisting my empty hand so the wrist faces up. “So show them.”

My sleeve is rolled up, my forearm bare, and I watch as six letters appear, ghostlike on my skin.

B R O K E N

Owen tightens his grip over my knife-wielding hand and brings the tip of the blade to the skin just below the crook of my left elbow, to the top of the ghosted B.

“Stop,” I whisper.

“Look at me.” I lift my gaze to the mirror and find his ice blue eyes in the reflection. “Aren’t you tired, M? Of lying? Of hiding? Of everything?”

Yes.

I don’t know if I think the word or say it, but I feel it, and as I do, a strange peace settles over me. For a moment, it doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real. It’s just a dream. And then Owen smiles and the knife bites down.

The pain is sudden and sharp enough to make me gasp as blood wells and spills over into the blade’s path, and then my vision blurs and I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the counter for balance.

When I open my eyes a second later, Owen is gone, and I’m standing there alone in front of the mirror, but the pain is still there and I look down and realize that I’m bleeding.

A lot.

His knife is gone, and the drinking glass is lying in glittering pieces on the counter, my hand wrapped around the largest shard. Blood runs between my fingers where I’ve gripped it and down my other arm where I’ve carved a single deep line. There’s a rushing in my ears, and I realize it’s the sound of the bathwater shhhhhhhhhhing in the tub, but the tub is overflowing and the floor is soaked, drops of blood staining the shallow water.

Someone is knocking and saying my name, and I have just enough time to drop the shard into the sink before Mom opens the door, sees me, and screams.

SEVENTEEN

GROWING UP, I have bad dreams.

My parents leave the lights on. They close the closet door. They check under the bed. But it doesn’t help, because I am not afraid of the dark or the closet or the gap between the mattress and the floor, places where monsters are said to lurk. I never dream of monsters, not the kind with fangs or claws. I dream of people. Of bad people dropped into days and nights so simple and vivid that I never question if any of it’s real.

One night in the middle of summer, Da comes in and perches on the edge of my bed and asks me what I’m so afraid of.

“That I’ll get stuck,” I whisper. “That I’ll never wake up.”