Coral Read online

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to anyone who has ever encouraged, or listened, or understood.

  And to anyone who needs encouragement. Or to be heard. Or to be understood.

  This one is for you.

  As well as:

  For my husband, Caiden—

  Because you accept my tears and love me, emotions and all.

  And for Brooke—

  You are my sister always.

  Thank you for letting me borrow your name . . . and for everything else.

  And for Janalyn—

  A sunshine heroine for my beautiful sunshine friend.

  I hope she’s everything you wanted and more.

  And for Mary—

  For understanding. For empathy. But mostly for your heart.

  And for my sister, Madisyn—

  You are one of the strongest people I know.

  I hope you know how much your strength continues to inspire me.

  And in loving memory of Angela (Coffee & Chapters)—

  You were a light in the darkness.

  Your story lives on through the lives you touched.

  Can’t wait to see you again, my friend.

  And for Mandi—

  Your heart and courage amaze me.

  Your authenticity resonates with me more than I can say.

  And for Kayla—

  You’ve been with this story from day one.

  For that and so much more, this one’s for you.

  And for Gabrial—

  From beginning to end, you have always been right here.

  You remind me why I write even when I want to quit.

  And for Nadine—

  Because you walked me through this Abyss.

  And you brought light when I couldn’t find my way.

  Epigraph

  “Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.”

  —Hans Christian Andersen

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  A Note to My Readers

  Before

  Winter Interstitial – Prince Letter

  One: Coral

  Two: Brooke

  Three: Merrick

  Four: Coral

  Five: Brooke

  Six: Merrick

  Seven: Coral

  Eight: Brooke

  Nine: Merrick

  Ten: Coral

  Eleven: Brooke

  Twelve: Merrick

  Thirteen: Coral

  Fourteen: Brooke

  Fifteen: Merrick

  Sixteen: Coral

  Interstitial

  Seventeen: Brooke

  Eighteen: Merrick

  Nineteen: Coral

  Twenty: Brooke

  Spring Interstitial – Prince Letter

  Twenty-One: Merrick

  Twenty-Two: Coral

  Twenty-Three: Brooke

  Twenty-Four: Merrick

  Twenty-Five: Coral

  Twenty-Six: Brooke

  Twenty-Seven: Merrick

  Twenty-Eight: Coral

  Summer Interstitial – Prince Letter

  Twenty-Nine: Brooke

  Thirty: Merrick

  Thirty-One: Coral

  Thirty-Two: Brooke

  Thirty-Three: Merrick

  Thirty-Four: Coral

  Thirty-Five: Brooke

  Thirty-Six: Merrick

  Thirty-Seven: Coral

  Thirty-Eight: Brooke

  Thirty-Nine: Merrick

  Forty: Coral

  Forty-One: Brooke

  Forty-Two: Merrick

  Forty-Three: Coral

  Interstitial

  Forty-Four: Brooke

  Autumn Interstitial – Prince Letter

  Forty-Five: Merrick Prince

  Forty-Six: Brooke

  Forty-Seven: Merrick Prince

  Forty-Eight: Brooke

  Forty-Nine: Merrick Prince

  Fifty: Brooke

  After

  Author’s Note on Hans Christian Andersen’s Tragic Tale of Tears and Tortured Souls

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Advance Praise for Coral

  Other Books by Sara Ella

  Copyright

  A Note to My Readers

  (Trigger Warning)

  For my friends who have experienced trauma, a warning—this story may be triggering. I have done my best to approach the mental health topics addressed in this book in the most sensitive and caring way possible. But even all the research and sensitivity readers in the world would never make it so I could approach every aspect of mental health from every perspective. Your experience is unique to you.

  Potential triggers include suicide, self-harm, emotional abuse, anxiety, depression, eating disorders, PTSD, and unwanted advances.

  With that said, while some of what I have written comes from research and some from the caring eyes of readers who have lived through many of these experiences, other pieces come from my own personal experience with emotional trauma. If you have lost a loved one, I’m with you. If you face depression or anxiety, my heart aches with you in a truly personal way. If you have ever felt misunderstood for these things or simply wanted to escape altogether—I understand.

  For the girl who is not okay. For the boy who wonders if it will ever get better. This story is for you.

  My hope is that Coral’s tale may be a small pinprick of light in your darkness—a reminder that you are seen. You are loved. You are not alone. You are not nothing, my friend. And neither am I.

  Sincerely,

  Before

  Her soul was bleeding.

  The sand beneath her was cool and damp, the high tide from last evening lingering between the grains. The water would turn red soon, transforming into a bloody, poisonous mess. Red Tide called for her.

  Maybe it always had.

  She buried her feet, allowing them to take refuge as a hermit crab does on a summer day. She could sit here forever, listening to the ocean’s song as she sprayed her melody onto the shore. The ocean beckoned her as a mother to a child, pleading with her to return to her bosom. To her heart.

  But she could never go back. Not now. It was a strange feeling. Longing for something she’d never have again. Hoping for the past, while at once realizing there was nothing she could do to change it.

  Hope. A foolish girl’s dream. Time. An unavoidable monster.

  Time was a ribbon. She could fold it and tie it, bend it, lose it. Cut it. But if she cut it, she could never piece it back together the way it was before. She could never get it back. All she had left was after.

  And after was never the same.

  After was full of regret and remorse, fear and doubt. It was the era of shoulda, coulda, woulda. The evolution of “Hi. This is me.” And that was it. Nothing. Because she’d given herself away time and time again, in each instance losing the very fibers that made her who she was inside. And outside. And every in-between. The fibers that made up the soul she longed for and at once wished she never had.

  She rubbed her feet. Curled and stretched her toes.

  A broken shell tore into the skin of her left foot. She winced and withdrew. Blood, red and angry, drip, drip, dripped onto the sand, dissolving in an instant. As if it never was.

  Better a bleeding sole than a tortured soul.

  A soul that was nothing now. Because before preluded after.

  And after. Was never as it was. Before.

  Winter

  “But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.”

  —Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Mermaid”

  Interstitial – Prince Letter

  One

&nbs
p; Coral

  She’s not sick. She’s not.

  Coral repeated the idea over and over in her head, clinging to the hope her belief would become truth if she willed it so.

  But as her oldest sister’s tearless weeping carried on a steady current from down the palace hall, the idea she was, in fact, not sick became all the more a fantasy. Her sister’s once upon a time now led to an unhappily ever after, forever looming in the shadows of the end.

  Coral’s oldest sister—the crown princess—was Diseased.

  The Disease hung over their family, their people, following them in all they did. It was a spell that held them under. An illness from which their kind could not hide.

  Coral would not allow it to drown her too.

  She cursed her constricting throat and shuddering fins. Her palpating pulse, as thunderous as the red flashing before her eyes, could take a swim in the Abyss as far as she was concerned.

  Coral longed to swim to her oldest sister’s chambers and comfort her, but how could she? Any show of emotion might mean Coral carried the illness her sister bore.

  “Father will calm her.” Their middle sister, Jordan, tightened her grip on Coral’s shoulders, her dainty, silken hands stronger than they appeared. “Trust me.” Jordan’s whisper did nothing to abate Coral’s anxiety. “He knows what he’s doing.” Her voice was slick and silver and sleepy, the same muted hue as her tail.

  Coral bit her trembling lower lip, wished upon a sea star that she might shed even a single tear. She shook her head. “Father never calms her.” Nothing did.

  “Bite your tongue.” Jordan’s voice changed from silver to red with three words.

  Red was poison. Red was pain.

  Coral ripped out of Jordan’s grasp, the forceful jerk out of character but necessary. She may have been small for her age, but Coral more than made up for it with the feisty tenacity their grandmother had quietly encouraged. When Coral whirled to face Jordan, her sister’s expression appeared as smooth as a pearl.

  But this did nothing to quench the fire inside. “If stoicism is equal to soothing,” Coral said, “then I’m an electric eel.”

  The crown princess’s sobs increased, coloring the water around them in faded shades of taupe and gray.

  Coral pictured her oldest sister. She imagined Father floating there, watching. Staring through his first daughter as if she were nothing. Contaminated. As if she would make him ill too.

  But she wouldn’t. Mermen were immune to the Disease. Deep, soul-wrenching emotions were not something they could fall prey to.

  Especially not the great King of the Seas.

  “I’d be careful with that temper of yours, baby sister,” Jordan said.

  “I’ll be sixteen in three days.” Didn’t that count for something? “I don’t need you to chastise me.”

  Jordan blinked but did not waver from her spot three shark fins away. “You’re too emotional for your own good. Dramatic. Sensitive. Let those feelings hook you, and you’ll end up just. Like. Her. Sunken and unsalvageable.” She jammed a finger toward Coral’s chest, slid her gaze sideways to the portrait of their trio on the nightstand. When Jordan’s gaze found hers again, it dared the little mermaid to react. To respond and prove her theory true. “You are like her, you know.”

  Coral stuffed her thoughts into a bottle at the back of her mind, corked the glass tight for good measure. Why must Jordan remind her? Did she think Coral was oblivious to the signs of the Disease?

  “It’s only a disease if you allow it to be one . . .” Their grandmother’s words swam back to her on a wave. They’d never made much sense. Still, they comforted. Giving her the confidence she needed to say, “You’re wrong.”

  “We shall see.” Jordan considered her complexion in the mirror that stretched from the stone ceiling to the straw-colored sand. She fussed over her silver hair. Examined the bridge of her refined nose. “You’re weaker than she is. What makes you think you are immune?”

  “What makes you think you are?” The quip was ill formed but quick enough.

  Jordan eyed her through the mirror’s reflection, clearly considering her response.

  Coral bit her lower lip until it bled, tasting of brine and rust.

  Curse my overactive tongue.

  “I am not the one raising my voice or turning so red in the face I’d be mistaken for a lobster.” Jordan’s breaths didn’t hasten and her eyelashes didn’t bat.

  Coral forced a matching calm into her features. Relaxing her coral-hued tail from scales to fins. For once, she had no words. Her. The mermaid whose life was a run-on sentence.

  “You are young, baby sister. One day you’ll understand.”

  Coral almost believed she detected a hint of softness in Jordan’s tone, but then it drifted away as easily as sea foam across the surface of the water.

  And then the cries grew louder.

  Jordan rolled her eyes, crossed to the heavy chamber door carved from old ship wood, and shut it.

  The action muffled their sister’s heartbreak, but this didn’t change the true volume of the situation. “You can’t pretend this isn’t happening. She needs help.”

  “Mind your own business, Cor.”

  Ugh. Coral hated when Jordan called her that. But two could play at that game. “Our sister is my business, Jor.”

  “These episodes are nothing new.” Jordan rolled her eyes again, her signature expression. “She’s had them since Mother died—giving birth to you, I might add.”

  Guilt blossomed. Shame had hung over Coral since she understood they once had a mother who was not their grandmother or her oldest sister—who had both helped raise them.

  She allowed the argument to drop to the golden-grained seabed. Then she floated to the closed door. Coral cracked it an inch as more cries filtered down the hall. When she was younger, the crown princess’s episodes were few and far between. Only recently had they become more frequent. A constant they could no longer ignore.

  The future queen was Diseased. Her sobs were an unbearable, Abyss-worthy black.

  Something slammed. A door? A chest? Father’s voice—tinged with deep magenta—released low and forced. While their sister’s words came through as clear as tropical water, Father’s were more difficult to decipher.

  Coral strained to listen.

  “How many times must we go through this?” Father grew louder, then eased again. “You will sing. And that is final.”

  “I won’t,” the crown princess snapped. “I don’t feel it anymore.”

  “You know very well that word is forbidden in this household.”

  Coral pictured the lines creasing on her father’s forehead. She imagined his dark eyes attempting to force their sister’s emotions away.

  “Feelings are devious,” Father said. “They are deceitful. They are human. Use your head, Daughter. Your feelings are deceiving you into betraying your family. You know how much we depend on your voice. We have a contract. It is binding. And that is final.”

  The crown princess moaned.

  “Stop this. You are being dramatic.”

  She moaned all the more. “This isn’t helping me, Father.”

  “What would help, then? The truth?”

  Silence. Then sobs. “Your truth and my truth are very different things.”

  “There you go again with your nonsense. There is only black or white.”

  “Except for when there is gray,” the crown princess said.

  Coral pictured their oldest sister, gracious and poised, reining in her heart before their father crushed it again.

  “I cannot do it any longer.” Defeat weighted their sister’s faded ash words. “If Mother were here—”

  “Do not bring your mother into this,” Father barked. “She is gone. She’s been gone for nearly sixteen years.”

  Coral’s eyes burned with each retort. Her throat tightened.

  Their sister grew quieter. Withdrawing. Sinking into herself until she was drowning inside.

  “W
hy won’t you listen?” the crown princess asked.

  Father’s response, ever the same, ramped Coral’s irritation. She didn’t need to listen to hear him say, “Why won’t you obey?”

  But the little mermaid did listen. And this time, their father kept silent.

  Coral opened the door wide enough to swim a few feet into the corridor outside the bedchamber.

  “What are you doing?” Jordan spat, swimming up behind her. “If Father were to catch you—”

  “Shhhh.” Coral waved her off. Now was not the time to suddenly care if she got caught. This was the part where Father would ask his question, then leave their sister be. But . . .

  “I’m sick, Father.” Her sister’s words became stones, weighing on Coral’s heart. “I feel like I’m dying. Please, don’t make me sing. Jordan can do it solo.”

  Their defenses lowered. Jordan reached out and grasped Coral’s hand. A split second of unity, maybe even love.

  Coral squeezed her hand, wishing their temporary bond would last.

  “You are fine.” Father’s resignation was an iron anchor. “You’d be fine if you’d only choose to be.”

  Choose? Does he believe the Disease is a choice?

  “It isn’t so simple,” the crown princess said.

  “But it is. You’re making yourself sick. The Disease takes those who are too weak to rise above their feelings. This is all in your head.”

  “Maybe.” The answer bled of resolve. “But the Disease affects the heart, Father. And mine is breaking. If only you could understand—”

  “You will sing, Daughter. Tonight.”

  The crown princess did not respond to his final word. He’d silenced her. She would sing. Then she wouldn’t speak again until morning.

  It took everything in Coral’s deepest fathoms not to swim down the hall, barge into the sitting room, and defend their oldest sister. She hated that they weren’t even allowed to use her given name anymore. She was simply “the crown princess” or “the future queen.”

  The king was detaching himself. They all were.

  “Will Father sit by and wait for Red Tide to come as it has for others before her?” Coral whispered. “We’ve heard the stories. The Disease spares no one who contracts it. If our sister is ill, if she’s getting worse . . . How long before Red Tide takes her too?”