Jessica Sorensen: The Probability of Violet and Luke

So gripping onto the edge of the bathtub, I drag myself up out of the water, gasping for air, my lungs gratefully aching. I sit up, half in, half out of the water, inhaling, exhaling, blood pumping through my veins and mixing with the adrenaline. My emotions are still numb and I focus on getting that next breath of air. But the longer I breathe, the easier it becomes, and the more my mind starts to awaken again. Feelings and thoughts of my parent’s death arise, stabbing at my heart. Their murders. And the thing that nearly kills me every time I think about it. Every minute. Every second. Every damn day—it consumes me.

Luke Price. The one guy—the only person—I’ve ever let in. The only person I’ve ever felt safe with. And now that’s all gone—he’s gone. Taken away—stolen—by destiny’s sick and warped humor. Letting us meet for the first time, then allowing us to discover that we’ve been connected with each other long before we first met. Revealing that his mother was one of the people responsible for my parent’s murders. That all along, we could have never ended up together. Even though destiny let us think that it was meant to be from the moment I fell out that window and kicked him in the face.

And now I’m left feeling worse than I’ve ever have in my entire life. Before Luke, I didn’t know what it was like to have someone care about me and to understand how it felt to care about someone else and I’m learning really quickly that it’s difficult turning my emotions off when I know how amazing things can feel.

But I keep trying to push through, if for nothing else than to see this through the end. See someone finally pay for my parent’s deaths. But it might be impossible since there’s still another person involved—another person that is still unknown. I hate not knowing yet at the same time I loathe knowing who one of them is, especially since there hasn’t been any justice yet. Hate that it ruined my shot at happiness and I despise myself for thinking about it that way. It feels selfish. My parents are dead and I should only be thinking about justice for them, yet I can’t stop thinking about how Luke made me feel. Content and happy, something I hadn’t had since I was five years old. I want it back, almost as much as I want justice for my parents. And that feels wrong, makes me feel like my parents would hate me if they were still around. And maybe they do. Maybe they’re hating me from the graves I’ve never yet even paid a visit to, simply because I can’t bring myself to go there.

“Violet, what the hell are you doing in there!” Preston, the last foster father I had from the ages of fifteen until I became eighteen and an adult, bangs on the door. He’s eight years older than me, but doesn’t mind the age difference, and uses it to his advantage all the time. He didn’t use to be so interested in me, well not to this extreme. But then his wife left him and now all he seems to see is me. It makes me sick to my stomach, just hearing the sound of his voice because it reminds me of everything that’s happened the last two months I’ve been living here. Rent doesn’t come free and Preston won’t accept money. So I deal to pay rent and then my body pays him for any mistakes I make along the way.

I hate myself, for letting despair kill me enough that I allow stuff to happen.

“I’m taking a bath,” I reply, brushing my hands over my wet hair and letting my head fall back against the rim of the tub as vomit burns at the back of my throat as I remember the night… his callous hands...

“Well, it you don’t get out soon, I’m going to have to pick the lock and come in and make you get out,” he says through the door with amusement in his tone. And desire. Lust. Need. .

I hate him.

I need him.

I wish I was somewhere else.

“I’ll be out in just a few,” I holler back, watching the faucet drip and ripple the water. I put my foot up on the brim of the tub and stare at the yellowish bruises covering my shin and that dot up from my knee to my thigh. But as the images rise of where they came from, I shake my head and put my wall back up. I refuse to think about them. I need to survive no matter what happens, like how I did for most of my life, in and out of foster homes. After all, I’ve had worse.

“You should get dressed out here,” he tells me, the sound of his voice making the bruises on my flesh sting. “It could be another payback for that eighth you lost last week.”

I cringe at his reminder. Last week I messed up badly. I was distracted knowing that the semester would be starting in a few days and that Luke and I would have to see each other again in the hallways and probably in class. I ended up giving some guy an eighth without collecting the cash first and he took off without paying and totally screwed me over.

“I thought I was going to sell for you on Saturday and Sunday for that.” I don’t bother mentioning that I already did something else to make up for it, only because I’m afraid I’ll throw up if I say it aloud. I slump back and stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to be affected by his words, not be affected by the vile sensation manifesting in the pit of my stomach. Vomit burns at the back of my throat, but I refuse to hurl.

“You’re becoming a real downer, Violet Hayes,” he says. “Life would be so much easier if you’d just relax and do what I tell you.”

“I do that already,” I reply through gritted teeth. I’ve never been a fan of hearing my last name, or even telling people it. It reminds me too much of my mother and father and how they died. The only person that’s said it where it didn’t bother me was Luke. Usually I’d chew Preston out for using it, but lately I’ve been too emotionally drained to put up a good fight.

I only breathe freely when I hear Preston walk away from the door. Then I get out of the bathtub and dry off my pruney skin with a towel before putting on a purple tank top, a black vest, and matching pants. I tousle my hair with some gel, put lip-gloss and some kohl liner on, then head out of the bathroom, feeling a little high from the adrenaline rush I got from almost drowning myself in the bathtub.

I grab a Pop Tart from the cupboard and a bottle of water from the fridge, hoping that Preston will be cooperative when I ask him for a ride to school. Please be cooperative.

But he’s not in his room, which probably means he’s down under the house in the crawl space, where he keeps his drugs. The entrance is always locked but I wouldn’t go down there anyway. The last thing I want to do is go down into some creepy, small, narrow space below the house, alone with him. So I go into the living room and put my boots on, taking my time as I wait for him to come out.

The trailer that we live in is fairly clean, although it does smell like cigarette smoke and weed. Still, there’s no garbage lying around and everything is organized and in place. I’ve lived in foster homes where cleanliness was nonexistent and filth, garbage and dust coated everything. It wasn’t ideal.

“So what are you up to today?” Preston asks as he strolls into the house, slipping on a plaid hooded jacket and then dusting some dirt out of his hair.

My hand twitches with this aching urge to ball my hand into a fist and punch the casualness off his face. But I bury the urge and zip up my knee-high boot, then get to my feet, reaching for my bag. “I actually need a ride to class, unless you just want to lend me your car for the day.” Please say a simple yes with no strings attached.

“You know I hate doing that unless it’s for dealing,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms, giving me that look—the one that comes before he asks me to do something for him. “Then I’m just stuck here without a vehicle.”