To Hell and Back - The Lost Soul

Chapter 1

New York City, New York

Today I dreamed about the same ocean-blue eyes looking at me in the darkness—since a month before my eighteenth birthday, I have had this dream.

I’ve never met a person with eyes this color. I’m not even sure that person exists. Nor did the dream show me anything more than, too irresistible to look, eyes.

When I look at them, I see everything: love, life, purpose, kindness…everything a teenage girl would want in a perfect prince.

Unfortunately, it’s just a dream and nothing more. Life is never simple: there’s no prince on a white horse coming to your doorstep; there’s no love that will last forever. In reality, many people will search for years for a person and only spend a year or two with them. Forever…there’s no such thing.

School starts tomorrow, and I’ll officially become a senior. I would love to think that college life will bring more excitement, but no. The truth is that I’ll go somewhere far from home, from my parents, and my best friend, Rose, will be somewhere else. Time will pass, and everyone will forget about me. And I don’t blame them—I would probably do the same. Not that I won’t miss the people who raised me or who brought a couple of good moments to my life, but it’s just the truth of life…

I’m used to that, especially after what happened in my freshman year. Jace, a boy with curly brown hair and a funny smile, was my boyfriend for almost half a year. And Elizabeth, my worst enemy, slept with him just to torture me. Since then, I haven’t dated anyone. It’s not that I’m afraid to have my heart broken all over again, but more because I haven’t found that person yet.

I never loved Jace. I only dated him to try new feelings—how it feels to be in love with someone, I guess. I thought I was falling for him and that he was falling for me, but, well… I was certainly wrong. After my lacrosse practice, I saw him naked with Elizabeth in the girls’ locker room. These images still haunt my mind. Anyway, I learned my lesson. Since then, I don’t trust people easily. I just prepare in general for them to betray me one day.

He never apologized. I never even saw him after that. I heard moved to California, but what is it to me? It was a long time ago, and I’m different now.

Rose is probably the only person who can drag me anywhere she wants. Not that I mind. With her, I can at least clear my head—leave the house, so to say.

Actually, her short name should be Rosa, but if you call her that, she gets furious. Her full name is Rosalind, but because it’s so long she agreed that friends (like me) can call her Rose (never Rosa). She says that the name Rose is like the name of a flower she likes so much: beautiful yet dangerous. Not that I have ever seen her being dangerous.

She’s the party version of me: trying to dance until her legs fall off, drinking until her liver shuts down, and dating anyone who kisses better—and, of course, who looks good. That’s the most important, as she keeps telling me.

For me? I don’t know. I was focused so much on getting into an Ivy League school that I forgot the opposite sex existed—at least, that what I keep telling myself.

“Why don’t you eat anything?” I can see the concern on my mom’s face. Her workload is heavy, but she is vibrant—way more than I am right now.

I almost never have breakfast with my parents—they’re usually at the hospital saving lives. I always take care of myself. That’s how it should be since I’m almost eighteen. I’m not blaming them; my mom is a neurosurgeon and my father is a cardiac surgeon—there’s almost no free time, and if they get some, they use it to sleep.

At least I have a chance to be relaxed with my mom. She is my mom, after all. But I can’t stop pondering how she bears three names: Mrs. Blake for people she doesn’t know very well or simply doesn’t want to know on a first-name basis. Allison is more informal but…not really. My mom’s friends—no clue if she even has any, with her constant bossy tone—would call her Alice. Dad does call her Alice, or Allison if he is angry about something.

Honestly, I don’t know why it’s Alice. The last time I asked Mom about it, she said it’s due to where her mother is from—France. But I have never met my grandparents from either side.

Dad is more informal and prefers that people he works with call him Will (short for William).

I’m staring at my plate of cold pasta, which my mother thinks is my favorite dish—it was, when I was ten. It’s kind of ironic to live with parents who are world-renowned doctors but who give their only child an unhealthy breakfast. I’m kidding, it’s just leftovers from yesterday’s dinner.

My mother is eating Russian grechka, which she tries to eat every day since Sophia, the middle-aged Russian woman who comes twice a week to clean our house, recommended it. Dad, on the other hand, is eating a boiled egg with black caviar—now I certainly regret taking leftovers.

“I’m not hungry.” I see the disappointment in my mom’s gray eyes. She hates when food goes to waste, and because I didn’t finish it yesterday at dinner, I have to eat it now—that’s a rule. I look at my father, sitting at the other end of the table, and ask, “Dad, can you please pour me a coffee?”

We live in Manhattan, just the three of us, and I still have no idea why we need a dining table for twelve people. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I’ve never been like the rest of my peers, who drive Lamborghinis to school just to show off. I’m not talking about the fact that neither of them has a REAL driver’s license.

My mom sits at one end of the table and my father on the other. Personally, I don’t care where I sit, so today I sit close to my dad. “You know that drinking just coffee isn’t healthy for you?” Dad raises his black eyebrows, but he still pours coffee in my cup and passes it to me.

“I’m just thirsty after the tomato sauce.” Plus, I’m sick of it. My mom isn’t a terrible cook, but when you eat it every single dinner and then eat leftovers every single morning because of the stupid rule, you start hating it. Okay, it’s not really every single morning, but it certainly feels like it.

I swallow hard and take a few sips of coffee as I try to avoid Mom’s suspicious eyes.

“You know I can cook something else, right? Just ask me to.” “Detective” could be another of Mom’s titles.

I’ve told her, ten times if not more, but eventually, she forgets about it and I start to see pasta on my dinner plate (yep, they are different from the ones for breakfast). I should probably create a new strategy or just figure out the way to bear it.

At least when they aren’t home, I can order anything I want—and mostly that’s how it is, even for dinner. “I’m good. Thanks, Mom. Rose and I are going shopping, so I’ll probably get something to eat at one of the places there.”

Mom rolls her eyes and rises to take my plate. With a grim look on her face, she throws leftovers in the trash, rinses the plate, and loads it into the dishwasher.

And then her phone buzzes…

I sip my coffee and sit silently in my chair. It’s better not to be in the way for what’s coming.

Mom views the message and pulls her dark brown hair into a ponytail. She hurries outside—I would say whizzes like a bullet—and even grabs a few things on her way. I feel dizzy trying to keep up with her every hectic movement.

The door closes, and I don’t even know if she has said goodbye. I hear sirens near our house and a car, her white Mercedes GLE Coupe, driving away. That’s how it always is if either of them gets an emergency message or a call.

“Excuse me for a second,” Dad says. He dials someone as he rises from the table and moves to another room.

I can’t hear the conversation, and I don’t try. I know it’s about his work.

A minute later, he’s back. “I have one scheduled surgery for the early afternoon, and then I should be back home.” He places his empty plate in the dishwasher, kisses the top of my head, and leaves the house.

I don’t hear sirens, but I know that his black BMW X6 isn’t parked by our house anymore.

A few minutes pass as I stare into an empty space in front of me. Finally, I pull myself together. I finish my coffee and take out my iPhone to check the school’s schedule.

Oberon High School is truly amazing in the sense of sending everything at the last moment. I log in to my account and see a schedule I pretty much expected: one to nine with lunch.

My phone rings. “Hey Rose.”

“Did you get my message?” She’s probably walking toward my house, as that’s where we’re supposed to meet in half an hour.

“Just a second.” She literally sent the message a minute ago, typical of Rose. Anyway, there’s a schedule (one to seven with lunch) and a question mark. I check mine to compare. “Only Cohen.” I hear groaning on the other end. “I know.” I...