hold on to your heart

The pain is accompanied by a purple glow.

A faint haze of color that shifts between indigo and scarlet, always coming back to rest in its natural state of violet. It exists in the corners of my mind and the hollows of my bones, painting my reality and dousing the world in its hue. It’s a soft burn, but there’s a violence in its light that wraps me in agony.

Not a bystander of the pain, but the source.

***

The metal is cold to the touch. It feels heavy in my hand- its physical mass tripled by the moral weight it carries. I examine the barrel, noticing the scratches and other imperfections. The safety is on, despite the magazine not carrying a single bullet. The last one was fired at me months ago, and while I took the weapon on the hope that it might serve a purpose one day, I could never bring myself to buy ammunition.

I never really needed to. Just the possibility of a bullet in the chamber has always been enough to get me what I want. It doesn’t matter that it’s always an empty threat- people are willing to do almost anything when facing the barrel of a gun.

I tuck the gun back into the waist of my jeans, pulling the hem of my gray hoodie down to cover its appearance. The feel of it against my skin makes me shiver. Or maybe it’s just the cold of the night.

It’s the first week of November, and the world has fallen into a stale winter. Here in Upstate New York, there’s no snow- just a bitter wind and a constantly gray sky. I manage to keep warm in the boiler room of an old church that I discovered by luck a few weeks ago. Other than the Sunday services at nine in the morning, people steer clear of the building, making it the perfect place for me to lay low.

Still, I don’t leave any belongings in the church. I don’t have much to leave behind, but the possessions that I do have stay on my person at all times. I don’t need anyone coming to check the boiler one day and discovering that a homeless teenager has been crashing in the corner.

So I zip up my battered backpack and slip it on, ready to commit armed robbery.

This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. When I was younger, I never would have dreamed of getting to this point. I got by for years by dumpster diving and begging for change. But the older I got, the less people were willing to give, and the less grace I was given when bakers would catch me stealing day-old pastries from their trash cans.

Stealing is harder when people see you as inferior. But point a deadly weapon at their face, and you gain the high ground in a second. The only challenge is dealing with the guilt of the pain you cause.

Luckily, I got over that guilt years ago.

I pull the boiler room door open slowly, but it still creaks loudly. I wince, but there’s really no chance of anyone hearing. It’s six o’clock on a Wednesday night. Not many church-goers at this hour.

I step into the hallway, making a right around the corner. I can see the line of moonlight glowing at the bottom of the door at the end, and I pace eagerly towards it.

The air outside is jarring. I shudder as goosebumps rise across my arms, the wind cutting straight through my sweatshirt. It blows my hair like a dark curtain across my face. I exhale sharply, my teeth chattering, and prop the door open a few inches with the same stick I’ve been using for weeks. The door handle is busted and it doesn’t lock anyways, but I want to be sure that I can make it back inside.

I make my way onto the sidewalk, walking briskly with my hands in my pockets. My backpack rattles slightly as my few belongings knock against each other with each step. Streetlights brighten the way, assisted by the full moon. I’m not sure exactly where I am- near Westchester, most likely. It’s not as busy and littered with skyscrapers as in the heart of New York City, but it’s still urbanized and lively.

My eyes trail the lines of stores across the street. I walked this same route earlier, searching for the perfect target. Convenience stores are easy, but it’s not worth the hassle for a few hundred bucks. Restaurants are a waste of time entirely. Clothing stores are good for pawning some new socks or a sweater.

But I don’t just need clothes. I’m starving, and I’ve been sleeping in boiler rooms and warehouses for years. I need money, and if I’m going to hold a gun to a living person and threaten their life, I need it to be worth my while.

A few blocks later, I see the glowing white sign with the swirling black letters on the storefront. The font exudes luxury, and even from across the street, I can see the sparkle of gemstone jewelry in the cases inside.

A cliche spot to rob, but there’s a reason jewelry stores are a popular choice. Just a couple of those necklaces could set me up comfortably for years, and with the type of clientele VonDair Jewelers gets, there could be thousands of dollars in the register.

I’ve never gone for something this big before. My last robbery was an ATM that I cracked open, and the money from that tied me over for months. I ration and steal where I can to make the funds last, but it always runs out, and I find myself back at some corner store with an empty gun.

I need something more. I don’t want to just make it by. I want to live. After almost a decade of picking through garbage and sleeping in alleys, all I crave is a normal life.

And while my life might never be normal, those necklaces will get me as close as possible.

Still, my steps falter before crossing the street. While it’s true that the majority of my guilt has faded away over the years, there will always be that sliver of humanity that I can’t quite shake. Not even to save my own life. There will always be a part of me that hates hurting other people to survive.

But I don’t have a choice. Nine years ago, a tall woman with auburn hair and green eyes put a passport in my hands and pushed me into a taxi. Stay hidden, she had said. Don’t stay anywhere for too long. Don’t make friends. And most importantly, don’t let anyone know who you really are.

A simple task, considering I don’t even know who I really am. The passport she gave me then said I was ten years old. But I may as well have been born on that day. My life before that point is a total blank.

For nine years, I’ve only had her words to hold onto. That is my earliest memory. Everything I know about myself, she told me. I know it seems unfair, but I’m doing this to protect you. It’s the only way I know how to keep you safe. I’ve never forgotten her voice, and I’ve never forgotten my own as I begged her to let me stay.

They’ll find you if you’re with me. I close my eyes and I can still feel her hand on my cheek, her thumb brushing away my tears. It’s as if I can feel the taxi door closing beside me all over again.

I’ve done everything in my power to follow her instructions. I’ve stayed hidden. I’ve never made friends or stayed in any city for longer than a couple months. I’m a ghost, fleeing from one life to the next like a shadow.

Don’t take the ring off. I open my eyes, and I’m back on the street, staring at the jewelry store in the moonlight. I raise my right hand, studying the ring on my middle finger. My flesh has molded around its form for almost a decade, hugging the silver band. A cloudy purple stone is set in the metal.

I wear it because she told me to, and because her few words that day are the only pieces I have of my life before. But I’ve never understood why its presence on my finger is so important. The ring holds a certain degree of pain, like when I look at it, I can feel everything that’s missing.

I drop my hand and shake my head to clear it. I can’t think about her or that day or the years that came before that I’ll never get back. Whoever I was, she’s gone. The person that I am now has to get her hands dirty and fight to survive.

During my scouting of the jewelry store earlier this afternoon, I made sure I found all of the cameras pointing at the street. I’m in a blind spot now, but in a few more steps, I’ll be in view of the store’s security system. I unzip my bag and pull out a black ski mask that I lifted from a sporting goods store a few weeks back.

I pull the mask over my face and make my way across the street, prepared to steal some rings that, unlike the one on my finger, will actually bring me some joy.

***

“Please. You can have whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

The cashier is dressed in an immaculately tailored blazer and pencil skirt, with a silky white blouse and big diamond earrings. She has a matching necklace, and as she raises her trembling hands above her head, I can see her nails are manicured and polished in a deep shade of red. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, and not a single hair is out of place. She looks professional and put-together, but in her eyes, she’s falling apart.

“Please.”

The quiver in her voice threatens to disarm me. She looks young, maybe thirty, but the look on her face holds the horror of a thousand years. Her gaze darts between me and the gun that I’ve leveled at her head. Her lip quivers. “Take anything. Please,” she begs again. “I have a daughter. She’s six months old.” A tear slides down her cheek. “Her father left us. She needs me.”

I exhale slowly, carefully, and gesture with my gun towards the register. “Put all of the cash in this bag.” I throw a black leather satchel onto the counter, and she flinches. “Now.”

She nods erratically, reaching for her pocket. “Hey,” I warn, forcing a cool edge into my voice.

Her hands fly back up. “The keys,” she gasps. “For the register. The keys for the register are in my pocket.”

I pause, using my thumb to flick the safety off of my empty gun for effect. She whimpers. “Take them out slowly,” I command.

Her hand slides carefully into her pocket, and I hear the jingle as her fingers grasp them. She pulls the keys out, holding them for me to see. I nod, and she uses them to open the register. It takes her a few tries, her hands fumbling, and I step behind the counter to make sure I can see her every movement. The cash drawer slides open, revealing stacks of bills.

I swallow. “In the bag,” I direct.

She pulls each stack out of its place, gently placing all of the cash into my satchel. I can see the sheen of sweat on her forehead, and I’m smart enough to realize that I don’t have much time. Even if she doesn’t call the cops, someone on the street could see me holding a gun to her head at any moment. “Okay,” I mutter. My eyes rake across the room, coming to rest on the opposite wall- a case of necklaces that’s clearly more valuable than the rest. A steel box with a glass window houses a dozen huge necklaces, stacked with diamonds and emeralds and a bunch of other gemstones that I could never identify. The metal box is sealed with a padlock, and a digital keypad lock that requires a code and a fingerprint.

The visible security alone on those necklaces is more intense than the Pentagon. It’s a risk I probably can’t afford.

But I can’t afford anything. That’s why I’m here.

I tilt my head towards the case. “Open it,” I demand.

Her eyes flick towards the case, and she shudders. “I- I can’t. Only the store owner can open that one.”

I look at her name tag, which reads Kate VonDair. VonDair Jewellers. “Kate.” She winces at the sound of her own name. “Open the case.”

Another tear slips down her face, and she moves around the counter slowly, making her way to the case. I grab the satchel and follow. With the keys still dangling from her fingers, she unlocks the padlock. I glance quickly outside as she keys in the code, six soft beeps proceeding a green glow that momentarily lights the case. She presses her index finger to the sensor, and after a moment, the steel door clicks open.

I check the street again, then make my way over. I keep my gun pointed at her, but let my eyes fall on the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of jewelry. Maybe it was stupid to risk everything by making her unlock the case. But looking at the necklaces, I can’t bring myself to regret it.

The world has been a cruel place to me for my whole life. I need this. I deserve this.

And at that same moment, I’m struck with the realization that she doesn’t. Kate VonDair, a single mother with a new baby, doesn’t deserve having her business ruined and a gun to her head.

My conflicting emotions of want and guilt make my heart race. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. And yet, I can’t go back.

My hand shakes as I hold the bag open to her. “All of them.” I know I’m being foolish and greedy, and the knowledge makes my words shake.

She watches me for a moment, and something in her terrified gaze hardens. Like the break in my voice made her realize that I’m not actually going to hurt her. Her brow furrows. “How old are you?”

I blink. “What?”

Her eyes soften. “You sound young.”

A mixture of fear and rage overcomes me. I step forward, pushing the barrel against her forehead. She exhales shakily, but it doesn’t hold the same fear as before. “Shut up,” I growl, “and put the necklaces in the bag.”

She purses her lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be sorry,” I snap. “Just give me what I want.”

Silence. She doesn’t move or breathe, and neither do I. Then I hear it— faint sirens approaching. My head whips to the street, and I see red and blue flickering lights flashing in the distance, streaming towards us. I turn towards her. “What did you do?”

She swallows. “A false code.” Her blue eyes are bright with apprehension. “For instances like these.”

I glance at the case. Everything looks normal. There aren’t any flashing lights or blaring alarms. No indication that the authorities have been notified.

And then I see it— a flickering red light, no bigger than a needle point, blinking on the bottom right corner of the keypad.

A false code. A discreet way to call the police, for instances like these. Of course there would be more security than just what I could see. The necklaces in this case that I so foolishly pursued are worth millions.

“I’m sorry,” Kate repeats, closing her eyes tightly.

I huff in disbelief, stepping back. Her eyes stay closed, and I realize with a start that she’s waiting for me to shoot. But my gun is empty, and I’m out of time.

I break into a sprint, ripping the door open and flying into the street. I hear the screech of tires as the first of the police cars skids to a stop in the road behind me. Car doors slam, and a pair of voices commands me to stop and put my hands up.

But I’ve been a slave to my own life for as long as I can remember. I’m not going to be a prisoner of the law.

I duck into an alley, pushing my feet as fast as they’ll go. I hear the shouts multiply behind me as more officers arrive on the scene. The air is cold but it only rejuvenates me, my breath bursting out in little puffs of white. I glance behind me and see four officers on my tail, guns drawn.

I gasp, turning sharply down a perpendicular alleyway as I hear the crack of gunfire behind me. Strange thuds echo from the brick wall beside me as bullets miss their mark and are buried in the side of a building.

They shot at me. I’m not sure why it’s so surprising, but I never imagined they would turn to lethal force so quickly. “Drop your weapon!” someone shouts, and I remember the gun in my hand, glinting like a silver beacon in the moonlight as I run.

I curse under my breath and tuck the harmless weapon into my jeans. I notice a building ahead— a warehouse of sorts, its sides formed from wavy sheets of rusted metal. The metallic pieces are layered over each other like shingles, but one of the sections is badly bent. The warped part forms a gaping hole into the building. With no better options, I squeeze sideways through the opening. A metal edge scrapes across my back and I grunt, but there’s no time to feel any pain. Deafening clangs sound behind me as more bullets strive to reach me through the wall.

I continue my race through the room, weaving around dusty crates and boxes from whatever company used this space to store their product. I hear metallic scraping and various shouts of “She’s in here!”, before footsteps are scuffling behind me.

It’s dark in the warehouse, but not so dark that I can’t see the space ending in front of me. The metal walls encase a singular, vast room, and I’m quickly approaching the end of it. I notice a door in the corner, and without thinking about whether or not I’ll be trapping myself, I dive straight for the handle.

It’s locked.

I jiggle the knob furiously, but it doesn’t budge. My heart rate picks up. I can feel the chill of a breeze flowing underneath the door, and I know it leads to the outside. What kind of door locks from the inside?

Voices and footsteps approach behind me. I quickly scan my surroundings, noticing a cardboard box of tools and trinkets on the floor to my right. A rusted crowbar peeks above the rest. I snatch the crowbar and jam its end between the edge of the door and its frame. I struggle to pry it open, leaning with my full body weight against the bar, but despite the terrible screeching noise it makes, the door remains closed.

“There she is!” someone shouts, the voice too close for comfort. “Freeze!”

There’s no time. I pull out the crowbar and use it to wail on the door handle. Horrible cracks sound as my blows land against the knob, each one harder and more desperate than the last. A different kind of noise deafens me, and I scream through my teeth as bullets fly past me, making little explosions of sparks as they burrow into the walls.

There’s a pinching ache in my side, but I can see the doorknob coming loose. I land another hard hit, and the handle falls away in a clatter of twisted metal. “Stop!” an officer shouts. I throw my shoulder into the door, stumbling into the freezing alley as shots rain around me.

I force my clumsy feet forward, breaking back into the hopeless chase. There isn’t even a moment to take a full breath before I can hear them behind me again, screaming their warnings. Despite my best efforts, I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes.

I take a sharp left into a new alley, seeing the street up ahead. But before that, my eyes lock on a dark green dumpster against the bricks. A stupid idea, but maybe the only one I have. I duck behind the far side, cowering into the shadow of the large unit. I hold my breath, curling my legs to my chest, praying to whatever gods there are that luck might be on my side this time. I hear my pursuers nearing, and…

…they sprint right past me. Four police officers in bulletproof vests miss me as I hide beside piles of garbage, bursting onto the street with their guns drawn. I blink, dismayed.

There’s only a few seconds before they realize I’m not on the street and turn back for me. I step quietly out from beside the dumpster, my feet as light as feathers, and turn a corner, out of sight.

I don’t let myself rest. I can still hear their voices, growing more confused by the second. I put as much distance between me and the officers as possible, taking random turns and trying to make my path as difficult to follow and unpredictable as I can.

I start to grow tired, and not just in my limbs that have carried me this far. My mind begins to wander, like a fog is spreading over my brain. Thoughts start to jumble, and my vision sways.

I shake my head. Not yet. I’m not in the clear yet.

The buildings start to wane up ahead, and I see a tall fence that forms some sort of border at the end of the alley. Beyond the fence, grass stretches into sparse trees, and even further ahead, lights twinkle from some building I can’t quite make out.

No time to waste. I reach the fence, gripping the links and pulling myself off of the ground. My arms scream with fatigue, and my knees tremble. What is wrong with me? This wave of exhaustion is coming at a very inopportune time. Even so, I pull myself higher, climbing until I grab the top edge. I gather myself at the top, swinging my feet over. I let out a nervous breath, and drop down to the other side.

The impact of landing feels like a punch to the gut. My legs give out and I crumple, panting on my hands and knees. I draw a deep breath, pushing myself up and forcing my stubborn legs to work.

The drop shouldn’t have affected me that much. I stagger forwards, wrestling with the fatigue that begs to topple me over. My swirling gaze rests on a tree up ahead, blowing with sparse yellow leaves. If I can just make it into that tree, I’ll be hidden, and then I can fall apart.

I can tell I’m not thinking straight, but the part of my brain that controls reason and logic has been replaced by a persistent fog that muddles any thoughts into nonsense.

My throat feels tight. I pull off my ski mask, fighting for a full breath that won’t come. I cough into my arm, and when I pull away, the fabric of my sweater is stained with something dark. I stumble to a stop. My shaking fingers touch my lips, and when I pull them away, the tips are wet with a deep red liquid.

Blood.

I cough again, the wretched movement drawing a pained gasp from my chest. Deep breaths, I tell myself. Don’t panic.

An unfamiliar noise breaks through the static in my hearing. Like a jet engine, but quieter. Cleaner. The sound intensifies, and I start to pick up the nuances— the high pitched whining, the sounds of air rushing, metallic scraping, and then…

BANG

The cacophony peaks with the sudden outburst, so close that I can feel the noise rumble through the ground. My sluggish head turns to the side, struggling to identify the source.

Less than five feet from me stands a human-like silhouette. It’s taller than most people, towering over me at what my confused mind estimates to be seven feet. The legs and arms are formed of red and gold metal, shaped with astonishing detail. One arm is raised towards me, the palm lit by a bright center. The mechanisms of its body are intricate, but my eyes are drawn to the brightly lit disk in the middle of its golden chest. A mask with glowing eyes rests where the face would be, if this were a real person.

And there’s something familiar about it, like I’ve seen this metal statue before. But it can’t be real. People are formed of flesh, not metal. I decide that this must be my fractured mind playing tricks on me, making me see things.

But then the statue is moving, taking a powerful step in my direction. Its arm remains extended, the palm glowing painfully bright as it points towards me. Its heavy foot lands on the ground with a thud, crunching a branch underneath. “Who are you?” it asks me, the voice low and masculine. And somehow familiar.

My breath hitches into a horrified gasp, and I stagger away from the metal man. “Get away from me,” I choke.

The figure halts, lowering its hand. A breath of silence passes, and I watch as the golden mask dissolves. The metal is eaten away, the edges crawling outwards until a face emerges.

Dark eyes. Darker hair. Ivory skin and a jaw trimmed with well-shaped facial hair. His features screams familiarity. His eyebrows are drawn slightly, his face pinched in mild concern. The metal man opens his mouth to speak to me, and I see the flash of his white teeth. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I step back, shaking my head. “Leave me alone.” My head whips around, searching for an escape. “I have to go. I have to get out of here…” My feet refuse to work properly, and I trip over something in the grass. I barely keep my footing, nearly toppling to the ground.

“Woah, kid,” the metal man warns, the edge of concern in his voice growing. “Take it easy.” He moves towards me gently, but all my hypervigilant brain registers is a threat.

“Stay away from me!” My voice is crackly and raw. I fling my hands in front of me defensively. My eyes dart around, looking for a way out.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” His words are soothing. He’s trying to comfort me, but my head is spinning.

No, it’s more than that. The whole world is spinning. The skyline is tipping and the ground is falling away. “I have to get out of here…” I can see a swirling image of the fence I scaled in the distance, the dark spots in my vision eating away at the links. It’s so far. And I’m so tired…

“Hey!”

His voice brings me back, pulling me away from the cliff of unconsciousness. The grass is closer now, and it takes me a second to realize I’ve sunk to my knees in the dirt.

“Kid, let me help you.”

I look up at him, his face almost completely covered by a black hole in my sight. My brow furrows. “What?”

He kneels in front of me, and although I feel the urge to flee, my body doesn’t have the strength. “You’re hurt,” he explains, gesturing to my abdomen.

My chin lolls towards my chest as my eyes fight to see what he means. I blink through my splintered vision, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

My favorite gray hoodie is splattered red, the color deeper on my left side. The fabric there is soaked through, and the harder I focus, the more the pain localizes in that area.

My mind flashes back to the warehouse, struggling to break free as shots rain down on me. A sting in my side that the intensity of the moment forces me to ignore. The agony that adrenaline has covered.

I lift the bottom of my sweatshirt upwards, getting a clear view of the dime-sized hole in my abdomen. Blood runs down my stomach, the wound pulsing with each heartbeat. “That makes sense,” I mutter. I groan, feeling a tingling that starts in my fingertips, and slowly consumes my body.

I can still hear his voice, more urgent and panicked than before. But my eyes are closed, and I can’t make them open. Numbness burns through me, and the world goes silent.