The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,16

I’d never heard of her, she’s a massive author. Her books flash on screen, and I could see the covers, even recognized some of the titles. My brows rise as I see clips from movies that have been produced from her stories.

Then, there are more flashes on the screen, like cards with a pen that scrolls exactly what she’s enduring. A cyst. In her brain.

My stomach tightens at the thought of that beautiful head, a brain so filled with tales and stories that caught the hearts of millions of people around the world, being cut open.

The panel seems to be dissecting her as much as the surgeons are—wondering if, after the surgery, she’ll be the same.

I find myself sending up a quick prayer to God, hoping that she will.

Andrea Jura.

I savor her name for a second before I’m spat off the moving sidewalk and have to shuffle onto the next one.

Each one has a TV overhead, and for what feels like miles, I follow her path, her journey.

And each time, they flash her image between segments. Her at an award ceremony, her on the red carpet. Shots of her in a city as she goes about her business.

On every occasion, she’s alone.

And, God help me, that pleases me.

I bite my lip as I make it to the termini at long last, and it’s strange, because, there, where I purchase my ticket, I see a sandwich shop and a newspaper stand.

Her face is on the cover too.

How is she so famous? She’s young. Incredibly young. But her stories have fed the world. Nourished it.

I find myself collecting a paper to read on the hour-long trip into the city from the airport, and as I travel, I read more about her.

Until the point where I feel like I know her.

Even though that’s impossible.

When I finish the paper, I could have tossed it away. But I don’t.

I keep a hold of it and don’t throw it away until, weeks later, I hear on the news she’s in recovery.

And I’m glad.

I hope for her sake that she’s truly recovered, and more than just on the ‘outside.’

Because it’s destructive to look fine, to be normal to the rest of the world, but to feel like you are being torn apart with every breath you take.

I know how that feels, and I wish it on no one.

Not even Ishmael.

For him? I wish fire and brimstone to tear him apart for centuries to come.

For the woman with the bright green eyes and the imagination that has made the world happy?

I pray for peace. For good health. And, more importantly, happiness.

Part Two

Four

Andrea

Today

Rome smells good.

Yeah, that’s a strange thing to say, but ever since the surgery, I have weird perceptions.

Weird, as in I couldn’t tell anyone because if I do, they’d probably lock me up in an asylum for the rest of my life.

That’s not going to happen.

Nope.

I refuse to spend another goddamn day in a hospital. Eleven months I’d been inside the clinic. Eleven. Frickin’. Months.

For someone who moves around like a butterfly, just staying put for that length of time has been a killer.

While I healed, physically, I knew psychologically they’d never understand me, so I lied.

And that’s the only reason I’m out.

Why I’m free.

I lied to everyone.

My parents, Diana, the doctors.

Because no one would understand.

Sure, that makes me sad, but nobody has ever gotten me anyway. Now they could use the cyst to explain that away, my peculiarities, the things they classed as cute before but now rub their heads over. With the cyst gone, that part of me ripped out, they have nothing to blame except the surgery.

And if they blamed the surgery, they’ll question if I’m still sick, which means I’d have to stay longer in the clinic.

So, I’d come to the decision to remove myself from my well-meaning family and friends and travel overseas.

Rome.

It isn’t by chance.

Eleven months in the hospital and you thought I’d forgotten?

Never again.

Savio Martin.

During my recuperation, the only thing that has kept me going is learning about him. Sure, I’m kind of stalking him, but it’s for his own good!

He needs me.

And, God, I need him.

He’ll understand me.

I just know it.

He knows what it means to have a vocation, to have a calling. Just like me.

The weight of the wings aren’t there anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.

I haven’t lost my calling, and I just need to...

Fuck, I need him.

I know it’s stupid and crazy and weird, but he’s been with me from the start. I