SAVE POINT 18

Loading An Empty Apartment...98.88%

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Rosabella

When I awake, my bedroom is pitch black. I try to unglue my eyelashes from each other, instantly remembering the tears that had dried on my cheeks and cemented them together.

And my soul sinks and stomach twists.

Because I know this apartment is as silent and empty as a robbed tomb.

The digital clock on my nightstand flashes a red 9:32 PM. My feet are heavy as I throw them over the side of the bed, and I blink blearily at the band poster near my headboard.

Why did I used to obsess over this stuff? Everything seems so unimportant and childish right now.

I pad into the bathroom, observing the purple half-moons under my eyes in the flickering, incandescent glow of the overhead lights and the general un-wash of my hair.

A fabulous look to start the day.

The living room is in the same state of disaster I remember leaving it in—trash thrown about, my boots still in the middle of the floor and me having no desire to do anything about any of it. Darkness reflects my pale reflection back at me in the open windows, showing the New York skyline and the grubby street below.

I'd thought this place was freedom...so, why then, do I still feel like a caged mouse?

...What am I supposed to do now? Go to school tomorrow like none of this even matters? Pretend everything's okay when it's really not?

A glossy picture of Goran and I glints in the lighting overhead from its perch on a nearby end table, catching my eye. It's in the gold frame I'd given him for a birthday when I was small. He'd said then that he'd always keep it and a picture of the two of us in plain sight so that we'd both remember how much we love each other. I remember his smile as he grinned at the frame.

Now, it just makes my heart hurt.

I swipe at it, feeling the cheap plastic underneath my fingers as I bring it towards my face to squint at our expressions.

In the picture, Goran has his arm around me and we're grinning at the camera, having a blast. I'm around the age of 10. It was the day he took me on a special trip to the zoo. "I always have time for you, Rosie," he'd proclaimed when he took off work just to give us that special day, "You remember that. You're that important to me. I'll always make time." I remember we'd taken the picture in front of the reptile house. I'd been in love with lizards then. ...Ironic because, after the dragons, I wasn't feeling the same...

...Something about the openness in his face makes me shudder.

He'd been lying?

All this time?

My heart wants to harden, but it's like it can't—like there's an impenetrable foot jammed in the door there.

...Like I'd rather take off my own foot, than let that door close.

Even after all this, why did I still...love him? Why was I getting this aching pain in my heart from leaving him in The Game?

No, I counter quickly, he deserved it.

...But did he? And what did he do?

I can't rid myself of the thoughts or the heartache, so I begin what the receptionist at my high school calls 'puttering'. I wander, distractedly, around the living room, picking up the trash, cleaning...straightening the sofa cushions...anything to give myself time to think.

I meander into the bathroom.

I turn the shower as hot as it'll go—which is really just lukewarm in this shithole of an apartment. ...And I lather soap into my scalp till it hurts.

But I look the same in the fogged-over, water-dotted mirror when I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around me and blink into the glass. I still look...

Lost.

Confused.

Unsure.

And, more than anything, I want to be sure.

Of what to do next.

What do I do next?

I feel so...empty.

I yank on the clothes I'd been wearing before, feeling them stick to my skin from the water, and I drift into my bedroom—

But I stop short.

Because the body armor Callen had given me lays knocked-over and semi-rigid on the carpet where it sunk near the bed.

And I remember the ring—Callen had given me a ring when he left in case I wanted to contact him.

I dig in the mesh pocket till my fingers hit it and pull it out: solid, gold metal meets a giant sapphire. I marvel at the thickness of the metal and the engravings around the side.

And, that's when my eyes travel to the sword, laying awkwardly on an angle against the belt of the body armor where I hadn't even bothered to detach it.

...Mom's sword...

Supposedly.

My jaw goes slack—as do my fingers holding the ring.

Because I realize that I'm dealing with a hole much bigger than I thought. No wonder I scarfed that pizza down and cried myself to sleep! Sure, I'd learned that Goran wasn't my real dad, but I was, also, dealing with the loss of my real mother and father.

...The loss of not knowing who they were.

Goran had told me that Mom divorced him. ...But, if he wasn't my father in the first place...

Who are my parents?

And how will I find out unless...

I ponder the ring still in my hand, rolling it around in my palm.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

...Unless I go back into The Game.

Callen would answer my questions if he knew! Maybe I could just summon him and ask...real quick. ...Maybe it would give me some sort of closure. So I can move on.

The thought grabs me.

Excites me.

Pulsing energy through my veins to the ends of my fingers.

To learn about my actual parents?! That would be worth all this. That would allow me to start over.

And, before I can question the heck out of it and reevaluate my evaluation, I jam that ring on my finger.

And a portal flares to life, rimming orange and aqua fire.

...In my bedroom.

Which is more than semi-alarming.

I leap back, peering into the darkness in the center of the magic circle.

"Callen?" I shout.

Honestly, I don't really expect a response—

"You called?"

I jump.

Shit.

Callen's head ducks out of the portal and he steps...into my bedroom. His eyes quickly sweep the premises and stop slightly on my choice of posters, which makes my cheeks instantly redden in embarrassment. Kid shit. I should have ripped them all down—

"That guy's got cool hair," he notes, pointing at the picture.

And, somehow, all the cringe leaks out of me, and I know I've made the right decision by calling him here. This was the right thing to do.

"What do you need, kid?" His eyes are serious and wide, but there's enough kindness there to give me the boost I need to spill.

I take the deepest breath, running a hand through my wet hair; I must look crazy. "I—I was just wondering if you could tell me about...my parents." My voice pitches and wobbles steeply, as does my confidence in asking the question.

I watch Callen lick his lips, taking a breath in and out too.

"Okay," he says softly, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," I blurt, excruciatingly relieved by his response. "—And I want to know about Goran too. What did he do that's so terrible?" The last question is a hurried addition. The words seem to bleed over my lips without my permission.

Callen's eyes narrow. His jaw tenses, "Okay," he states, "but I need you to know that these are things that, once you know, you can't take the knowing back."

I nod, only partially understanding.

"I want to know, Callen," I plead, "Please."

He nods.

And he gestures towards my bed, "Mind if I sit?"

...And it's then that I know it's going to be a long story...

I shake my head and watch him perch on the edge of the mattress. I move to sit next to him.

...And his eyes gloss over.

"As you probably know," he starts, "your father, Ford, was one of two twins—the second twin, of course, being Goran, the man we're holding hostage."

I nod, eager to get to the part I don't know.

The man licks his lips, "Well, Goran and Ford were always very close as brothers. As kids, they liked everything each other liked: fencing, the outdoors...animals... Well, Ford liked animals. Goran liked to torture animals," the man's face scrunches up as he recalls, "...And, when it came time to date, both brothers liked the same girl too."

I swallow, "Meaning my mother."

"Exactly," Callen says, pausing. "Your mother's name was Rosabella, and you were, obviously, named after her."

"...How do you know all this?" I ask shyly, not wanting to interrupt, but, also, rather intrigued.

"I was friends with them," Callen surprises me by answering, "My father was a noble in the same circle as your grandfather, except your grandfather was a Game Maker, of course. The title is royalty in The Game. Game Makers are the only ones able to create The Game world, patch holes and build civilizations. It's a title that has been passed down for generations through blood. It always falls to the firstborn in any generation."

"So, my father, Ford was born first?" I guess.

"Yes, and his brother, Goran is not a Game Maker," Callen emphasizes, "He can't create. And underneath all their pleasantries, jealousy began to brew, especially when Ford wooed your mother, and they got married. Goran was close friends with your mother, Rosabella, but you could always tell in his eyes that he wanted her for his own, and...when you came along...some say it was too much..."

I can barely breathe...

"Too much? What do you think it was?" I whisper.

"That made him go mad?" Callen mused, "Oh, I don't know... He's been talking since you left. He told me why. I don't know if I should believe him."

"What did he say?" my voice rasps up my throat.

Callen's lips constrict; he licks them again, taking his time with his words, "He says he did it to protect you—to give you the life and all the attention you deserve."

"Did what?" I breathe, feeling tears gathering in my thick throat—burning at the edges of my eyes—"What did he do?"

"He murdered your parents," Callen blurts boldly.

And, suddenly, I can't feel my limbs.

Or my face.

Or—

Oh my God.

Oh my—

"Rosabella," Callen reaches out, pinning my shoulder in place like he's afraid I'm going to fall off the bed—maybe his fear is justified, the world is spinning—"I told you this would be hard to hear."

"He—" I sputter, "He killed my parents?"

I'm freaking out.

I am full-out freaking out.

The monster! The traitor! He took everything from me!

"Yes," Callen's face is very close; his eyes sweep across my expression as though constantly gauging it, "They say he poisoned the wine in your father's bedroom. Your parents were Game Makers and lived in the palace with traditional and formalized, separate bedrooms. ...But your father didn't drink the wine Goran left for him. Your mother did. ...And when Goran came to check on him—to see if the poison worked—he found your mother dead in your father's arms...and he became so enraged that he..." he winces, pausing. "I can see this is hard for you."

I'm breathless.

Probably red in the face.

Wholly angry and livid and terror-stricken...

I swallow hard, "He killed him, didn't he?" I sputter, "Goran killed his own twin?"

What the literal fuck—

"It gets harder," Callen warns, nodding 'yes', "He not only killed his twin, your Dad. He shoved his body under the bed and grieved your mother's death so loudly that a servant came busting into the room. And the servant didn't know it was the brother. He thought it was Ford. ...And the absolute brute let it stay that way, preaching that 'Goran' had done it and ran. And he impersonated his brother Ford for months. Until we found out because everything Goran tried to create decimated parts of our world. His ego literally broke our world. And, as he continued to delusionally pretend, people died in masses... The Game crumbled...and the dragons gained control. ...We eventually found your father's body—"

"Stop," I hold up a hand I wasn't expecting, "Please, stop."

I need to silence him.

To stop the flow of words.

So that, maybe, my body can stop shaking.

But it's a stupid hope.

Because there's no more pretending that this is okay—that I'm okay. Because all of this is so entirely wrong.

And backwards.

And twisted.

Their world is in ruins because of Goran?!

No wonder they hate him.

No wonder they needed to take him prisoner right away the second we were in The Game.

No wonder they've been searching for us...

...Are they right?

And am I just sitting in this dark apartment, hanging onto everything wrong?

The mattress of the bed squeaks as I stand. My hand flails in the air, gesturing to Callen. "Can you just...can you just stay here for a minute...while I..."

But I can't finish.

I stumble into the bathroom.

I close and lock the door behind me.

And I heave myself over the sink, both palms flat on the cheap laminate there.

And my hair dangles into the sink.

And I stare at my haggard face as tears slip silently down it.

What the fuck? This is all so warped and messed up.

"Take your time, whatever time you need," Callen calls from the other side of the door.

But that's a lie, and we both know it.

Because I'll have to decide sooner or later.

Now that I know how the story has gone up to this point, I have to decide where it's going to go next.