Broken Soul

by Violent Brushstroke
(USA)

I leaned over and kissed my best friend. My soul mate. My boyfriend.

“Good luck today.” I smiled at him.

My parents had asked Brandon to ride Shooting Flame in the race today. I couldn’t do it because I had to sprain my ankle.

“Thanks.” His beautiful blue eyes twinkled. I loved his eyes. Mine were a dull, boring brown.

“Be a good boy today, Flame.” I stroked the blood-bay’s neck.

Shooting Flame was my favorite horse in the world. I loved him. I don’t know what I would do without him. Or Brandon.

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Horses shot out of the starting gate. Immediately, number five pulled ahead.

Brandon and Flame.

A black thoroughbred pulled up next to them. They raced down the track, neck and neck.

Suddenly, Shooting Flame stumbled. Brandon catapulted over the falling horse’s neck.

I watched in pure terror, as thousand pound horse after thousand pound horse ran over Brandon.

As the last horse passed, Brandon lay still. He didn’t stir one bit.

Panic threatened to choke me.

Get up, Brandon! I tried screaming, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

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Two weeks. Two weeks without Brandon. Two weeks without Flame.

No hope. No love. Life was nothing without them.

I had fallen into a pit. A dark, depressed pit. One where no light, no love, no hope could get to, I sat alone at a lunch table. I hadn’t bothered to pack a lunch. I had lost six pounds in those two, miserable weeks.

“That Brandon guy was a loser. Riding that psycho horse and getting himself killed.” Cloe Toddson gossiped with her friends.

Brandon and I would always call her Cloe Snobson.

“And he was so short too. Ugh, I can’t stand short guys.” Cloe’s highpitched, obnoxious voice whined.

A fiery rage like I’ve never felt before, boiled up inside of me. She could insult me behind my back, or even to my face all she wanted. But no one talks bad about Brandon or Flame.

I slowly stood up, turned around, and walked to the table with the blond haired snob.

“Brandon was perfect the way he was.” I narrowed my eyes at the girl.

“Why do you care? He was just a dumb loser anyway.” Cloe flipped her hair.

“You’re the dumb loser for even thinking that!” I screamed at her.

I yanked her out of her seat by her thin hair and slapped her. Right on her ugly, makeup-covered face.

“Say something else bad about him, I DARE you.” I hissed.

“You’re crazy! Just like your dead boyfriend.” Cloe spat out.

I rammed into her, knocking her to the cafeteria floor. I pressed my knee into her stomach, making her whimper.

Suddenly, strong arms pulled me off the brat.

“Calm down, Sam.” a deep voice said.

The voice belonged to the quarterback. Her boyfriend. My twin brother.

“Let. Me. Go.” I squirmed.

“Calm down first.”

I squirmed some more. He still wasn’t letting me go. So, I elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. He groaned and let go of me, clutching his side.

I may be a mere 5’2, but I was strong. Lifting 100-plus pound hay bales will do that to a girl.

“Stay away from me, pshycho Samantha.” Cloe backed away.

I seethed. I hated Samantha and she knew it.

“Cold-hearted Cloe Snobson.” I shot back at her.

Everyone had gone quiet. I looked around me at all the faces. Some portrayed shock. A few even showed fear. But what I saw the most of, I had a deep hatred for. Pity.

I strode out of the cafeteria. I didn’t run. I wasn’t embarrassed. I just had to get away. Away from Cloe. From my twin brother, Sean. From all the pitying looks.

Away from everything.

I slammed through the school doors, into the cold. It was thirty-seven degrees and raining. Primo weather for hypothermia.

My breath clouded in front of my face. I started walking. I wasn’t sure where to, just away from those wretched people.

A little voice told me to go back. Back to the heated building, out of the rain. I didn’t even have my hoodie. I wasn’t even wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.

My teeth started chattering. I kept walking. I started to shiver uncontrollably. I kept walking.

My phone buzzed. I stopped and pulled it out of my pocket. It was Sean.

Great going, Sam. Everyone’s calling you Psycho Sam, now.

I shoved my phone back in my pocket. I didn’t care. The rain had soaked through my clothes. The cold had seeped through my skin and penetrated my bones. I walked in the middle of the road. I didn’t care if a car ran me over. No one would miss me.

My phone vibrated again. I sighed. I pulled it out of my pocket, once more. It was a text from my twenty-year-old sister, Kylie.

I love you, Sammy! Idk why, but I just got the sudden urge to tell you that.

I started crying. Only Brandon called me Sammy. I hadn’t cried those entire two weeks. Maybe it had just hit me how much I needed Brandon and Flame.

I hadn’t gone near another horse since Shooting Flame had to be put down because of his broken leg. I loved Flame. I loved Brandon. He and I had planned on eloping as soon as I turned eighteen in June. That would’ve been five months from now.

Tears streamed down my face as my body shook uncontrollably. I was so cold. And tired. I just wanted to lie down. I probably had hypothermia.

A blaring horn jerked me back to reality. A car was headed straight for me. My instinct took over and I jumped off the road. I slipped and the ground came rushing up to meet me. My head connected with something hard. Warmth flooded around my head. Blood.

But, oh, how that warmth felt so good. My vision dimmed. I can finally be with Brandon and Shooting Flame, once again.