by Smith, A. T
“No, Scott. What I need to do is hurt something, because if I go back there before I have had my fix, I will be in too much of a state of anger to deal with anything. So please, be a friend and help me.” I beg him, my eyes pleading with his.
“Help you kill somebody because you need to? I understand doing it because we’ve got a job Leigh, or because someone deserves it, like Abbi’s dad, but just to sate you’re fucking needs? That’s fucked up on a whole other level.”
“You don’t think I know that, you don’t think I’ve struggled with this for longer than I’ve fucking known you, you prick? I don’t want to be like this, to need these things, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t sleep, breathe or survive unless I do something, and soon.” I grab his arm, crying out for his help.
“This is wrong on so many levels mate. You need help, real help,” he informs me and I laugh sadistically.
“And what, say to the therapist, ‘Hey, Doc, I like to kill and mutilate people because I get off on it, help me’? She’d call the police and have me locked up in a nut house until I was deemed fit for the public, and then I’d serve my life behind bars. Not happening, I couldn’t leave Abbi alone like that,” I tell him, clenching the glass so tight in my hand I think it might bust.
“What, like you just done now, leaving her frightened and scared, alone in a fucking hospital? So fucking manly of you Leighton.” He turns his head in disgust and I fucking snap.
I stand from my stool, pushing it back across the bar, the metal clashing with the oak wood. My hand is once again around his throat squeezing far too hard. I lift him from his chair, his feet hovering from the floor a little. “You do not talk to me like that Scott; I pay your fucking wages. You do not get to judge me and you do not get to tell me what I should be doing.” I continue to grip his neck, my fingers whitening from the constriction. His eyes are bulging and turning red, his hand grasping and fighting with my own for release. I can’t stop myself. The part of me I have warned Abbi about is on the surface and begging for freedom. I know nobody will understand how potent the demon is, how can they? I am killing my friend without any second thought to it.
“Hey, mate, let him go.” I feel a strong grip on my arm pulling my hand away from Scott. “I said let the fuck go.” His tone is darker than anything I have ever heard, even from myself. His grip tightens and my body triggers back into reality, my hand letting go instantly.
“Shit,” I say as I watch Scott fall to the floor, all blood having nearly left his head. He is struggling to breathe, huge gasps coming from him, his eyes streaming.
Scott is strong, but he is nothing in power and height, in comparison to me. “Leigh just go mate, you need to sleep,” Scott tells me from his perch on the floor, a girl now at his side trying to calm him.
I am a shit fucking friend.
“I’m sorry mate. I told you, I needed it.” I confirm my previous statement and turn to leave.
I walk from the bar, out of the double doors and through the lobby. “Off already Leighton?” the doorman asks and I ignore him as I carry on walking. I am practically running, trying to get away.
I click the fob and swing my car door open. I feel a hand grasp my arm and swing me around harshly. “What the fuck are you on mate?” the guy who had stopped me earlier asks. “You nearly killed your friend back there.”
“Fuck off mate,” I snap at him trying to turn again, but his strength outweighs mine a thousand to one.
“Ha,” he laughs once, sadistically. “Chill it mate, you aint such a big boy next to me. Now tell me, how long you been feeling these feelings for?” The look he gives me, tells me he knows how I am feeling, but I believe there is nobody on this god forsaken planet that will understand me.
“Who cares?” I shrug my shoulders.
“I do, I can help you,” he tells me and I scoff.
“I know how you’re feeling mate, I know how you can’t sleep at night until you feel sated, how the feel of somebody's pulse fading beneath your hand gets you off, how you only feel calm knowing somebody left this world because of you. You can’t live that way,” he informs me and I turn and hold my fists tight, my level of agitation rising.
“How the fuck would you know, how could you even tell that?”
“Your eyes kid, your eyes tell it all. I was you five years ago. You have to learn to control it.” I bite my lip hard, blood filling my mouth.
“How the fuck do I do that huh, how do I stop it when it’s all I want right now? You’re standing here but all I can see is your body on the floor right there, your throat open and your chest presenting a nice round hole from my gun. You tell me, MR FUCKING KNOW IT ALL, HOW THE FUCK I’M SUPPOSED TO LIVE WITH MYSELF AFTER TELLING MY WIFE I WANT TO KILL PEOPLE.” He smiles at me and I can’t stop my fist as I pull it back and smash it into his cheek.
“I’ll let you have that one kid, but try it again and you’ll lose your fucking arm.” He stands up straight and gets into my face. “Now, breathe deep and control it. Close your eyes and take a minute to yourself,” he tells me and I do as he orders.
I close my eyes shut, relax my hands and breathe deeply, in and out. All I can see is my daughter, beginning to walk, strong and bold. I’m not there; Abbi is with another man, another man holding my Melissa, telling her he loves her and is proud of her. I can see another man putting my son to bed at night, reading him stories and helping with his homework. I am breaking apart rapidly and I can’t control the sobs that erupt from my chest.
“Fuck.” I cry out loudly, pulling at my hair and slapping the side of my head. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.” I continue to cry. I can’t bear to see those images, to know that if I continue this way I will lose the people that mean the most to me.
“Come here mate,” the guy says softly and pulls me into him. He holds me tightly and firmly as I cry into his chest. I cry like a fucking baby, my heart broken, my spirit shattered and my life in pieces.
“Fix me, please,” I beg him as my tears soak his tight t-shirt.
“I’d be honoured, but first you need to tell me your name,” he suggests.
“Leighton, Leighton Lock,” I say as I raise my head from him and wipe the remnants of my tears away. I am ashamed that I have cracked in front of a complete stranger.
“Please to meet you Leighton, I’m Marcus. And kid, please don’t swing for me again because I will break your arm.” He smiles widely and puts his hand out for me to shake.
I place my palm to his and acknowledge the journey I am about take.
Chapter Eighteen Abigail
Dead. That is what I am. Well, I might as well be, because the second Leighton walked from this room taking my heart with him, I became an empty shell of a girl with nothing left.
He doesn’t understand, I don’t care how damaged and broken he is. I already know of his thirst for blood and violence, I knew as soon as I knew his business. It wasn’t hard to see how he thrived on the death of people. It is sickening for sure, it makes me want to heave every time I think of him ending somebody's life, but it is always someone who deserved it, always those who have hurt somebody beyond repair. I know he’d never hurt somebody who didn’t deserve it.
As soon as Leighton had revealed the fate of his father I had seen how much the fucking arsehole had damaged my husband. His influence had been nothing but evil and venomous. If he were alive now I’d kill the bastard myself for subjecting a very young Leighton to that.
He had misunderstood me when I said my heart was breaking. It was breaking, shattering and splintering into a million tiny pieces, it hurt and bled. It doesn’t hurt for my loss, it hurts for him, for the little boy whose life had been shaped in a way that made me feel an anger I knew I’d never possess again. I can see how much he is hurting himself by revealing that part of himself. I wish he would have opened his eyes and looked at me, and seen the pure and utter love I hold for him, how much I admire his strength and determination to better himself.
Over the last few month
s, since the attack on me from Phillip, I have seen the change in him. The shortness in his temper, the frequent trips out, the even more frequent trips to work. He owns a restaurant, I am sure that isn’t the work he is referring to. I refuse to believe he is killing people; I don’t want to subject my imagination to the vile images it likes to create when I think of my beautiful husband turning into a vengeful psychopath.
“Mrs Lock, are you okay?” A quiet voice sounds from the doorway. I am still sat on the bed where he has left me. My knees are pulled to my chest and my one good arm wraps around them. I look to the woman stood there, it is Andrea.
I smile weakly at her as more tears spill forth from my eyes. “Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asks me as she walks to the bed she had been bent over and fucked brutally, only an hour or so before.
“Nothing, I’m fine thanks.” I wipe my eyes and turn my head away from her.
“Honey, I heard you screaming for Leighton only twenty minutes ago and now your crying. What’s wrong? I’m sure we’re on a truthful base now.” Yes, I’m sure we are, but I really don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me right now. I just want my Leighton.
“I had a nightmare. When I woke he had gone,” I lie.
“Probably going to see that beautiful little girl of yours, hey. You want me to call him to come back?” she asks me.
“Could I call him? Could you get me a phone?” I request. I need to make this right before he does something I know he’ll regret when he comes to his rational sense.
“Sure thing babe. Give me a minute and I’ll be back.” She disappears out of the door, the hinge swinging it closed behind her.
I lean back on the headboard and drop my head back. I sigh hard, having used all of my tears. Stupid, stubborn man. Why does his pride always drive him to make rash and stupid decisions? I would have held him, told him it would be okay and that I understood his feelings. I would have fought to the very end to keep him with me, but no, what does the stupid bastard go and do? Walk out, that’s what. It is becoming a regular thing in our relationship. Whether it is on my behalf, or his, that we are failing, instead of fighting and proving that we are destined to be happy he runs and hides until he gets over his emotions enough to approach me.
A little knock sounds at the door and Andrea re-enters holding a phone for me to use. I had been rushed in here, having nearly lost my life, only two days ago. All my belongings still reside at home; my wedding dress is most probably thrown in the bin, as it is guaranteed to be covered in my blood and possibly my spirit, as it has long since left my body.
“I’ll leave you to it sweetheart,” she tells me before leaving the room and closing the door firmly shut behind her.
I stare blankly at the phone, typing in Leighton’s number, which is etched into my brain, over and over again. Each and every time I delete it, returning it to a blank screen. What will I even say to him? He won’t understand that I can rationalise this for the both of us. He is too proud to want to face the facts he is fucked up and needs help, but far too stubborn to accept any of it from me.
I breathe out a deep breath as my shaking hand finally presses the green key on the touchscreen.
I look to my bad arm as the phone rings, begging for even the slightest movement. I need it to work for me now so I can get out of this place as soon as possible. My family needs me, all of them.
“Come on Leigh, answer the god damn phone you foolish man,” I curse him, hoping he will somehow hear me and have some sense knocked into him. I hope he is with one of his men, preferably Ant, so they might be able to explain to him what a stupid decision he is making, walking away from me. I will support him through anything in this world, unless it involves the abuse of children or the killing of innocent people.
“Welcome to the O2 messaging service, please leave your message after the tone.” The phone answers in my hand and I want to throw it across the room, letting it shatter like my heart is rapidly doing so.
“Leighton, where are you? Please don’t do anything stupid. We can make it work baby, I’ll help you, I’ll always help you. I’ve known about this part of you for a long time, this isn’t a surprise to me, I knew how much you needed to do what you did. You never let me finish what I was going to say. My heart wasn’t breaking because I didn’t want you anymore; it was breaking for you because of how hard you were being on yourself. Please come back to the hospital so we can talk and sort this out. Melissa needs her father, I need my husband. I love you baby.”
“ERGHHHH!” I shout and slam the phone down onto the sheets surrounding me. My head falls into my hands and I begin to scream, releasing some of the un-expelled hurt.
“Stupid fucking arsehole.” I am angry beyond belief. I haven’t felt this angry in a long bloody time. “Always got to be right,” I scream again, trying to clench both my fists. “Stupid fucking hand, stupid fucking shitty bloody life.” I have been upset before, in despair at the near loss of my life and then my husband walking out when we needed each other most. Now I am fucking fuming, I want to punch him in his god damn perfect, godlike face.
I read the clock, a very late 05:10 showing on the LCD display. I am so tired, emotionally and physically. I have been through a lot in the last week, so many ups and downs I don’t know where the normal level ground is anymore, or if I’ll even find it again.
I submit, letting myself fall into the sleep I so desperately need. I relax into the softish pillows, begging them to swallow me whole right now and end this shitty fucked up mess I seem to be engulfed by, in the last two days.
My life has been perfect for months now; since Phillip was killed, everything has been smooth and beautiful. Only the few weird things my father has done to unsettle us, but we have worked through it all as a family and come out stronger than ever.
But my wedding, the day that should have changed my life for the better, turned it on its head, giving my entire being a fucking concussion.
Goodnight world. Hopefully for a long time, I say to myself as I drop into sleep, the softest clouds surrounding me, comforting me and protecting me.
*****
“Mrs Lock, wake up, you need to eat something and take your meds.” I hear a soft voice call me from my deep sleep. I blink rapidly trying to force my heavy eyelids to deliver me light. “You’ve been out for the count Abigail,” she continues and I manage to tilt my head to look at the clock. 17:59 the red digits show me.
“Fuck.” I sit up sharply, a pain zipping through my shoulder. “CUNT!” I use my good hand to cover the spot where a burning pain stems from.
“Careful Mrs Lock. You need to take it easy. Those stitches could easily reopen again. We don’t want you back down in surgery for a third time. Now, can I check your BP please sweetheart?” she asks sweetly and I smile and nod to her.
I grit my teeth as the cuff begins to tighten to almost unbearable around my arm. “It’s up a little, but that’s to be expected after the trauma you’ve suffered. I’m sure you’re going through a range of emotions right now.” I roll my eyes as she turns her back to hang the equipment back up. Like she really understands what is going through my head.
I have had just about enough abuse and destruction to last a lifetime if not longer. There isn’t a person on this shitty planet that can possible feel what I feel, nobody could have endured as much as I have and still be here to tell the tale. The only reason I haven’t topped myself like my useless mother did is because I have ambition and hope. Every day it gets harder and harder to believe that hope is even worth it.
I mentally kick myself for even letting those thoughts enter my mind. I have to remember my beautiful daughter who needs me, who needs her mummy strong enough to protect her from the cruelty this world possesses. I was damned that my own mother hadn’t been around to do that for me, to protect me from the shit I had to endure.
I flop my head back down into the pillow in a huff. “How you feeling after that sleep Abigail?” Twelve hours has done my levels of exhaustion wonde
rs, physically that is. I still feel as shitty as I had before falling into unconsciousness.
“More awake.” I answer simply.
“And your arm, any movement today?” I look to the limp useless limb attached to my body, and strain to get my brain to signal the nerves to work but they ignore my pleas. “You’ll get there. I don’t care what the doctors say, I think it’ll work. Just think of your daughter and you can do it. Anything is possible if you believe it is sweetheart. The Physiotherapist is coming in this evening to talk to you about the régime you’ll go through.”
I just smile back at her, fiddling around the bed sheets to try and find the phone I’d fallen asleep with this morning.
I lift my bum cheek and fish out the plastic thing. I click the button, saddened by the lack of a returned message or call. NOTHING. ZILCH. It pisses me off further to know he is completely ignoring me, as though he has surrendered to never healing. If I had fucked off for this long with no sign of safety, I would have a spanked arse at the very least. A funny thought of having Leighton over my knee and my hand smashing against his skin pops into my head and makes me chuckle.
Yeah, like that will ever happen, I think the giant would break my legs just from his sheer powerful size.
“That’s a lovely sound Abigail. I hope we get to hear it a little more whilst you’re here. Would you like me to ask somebody to bring little one up for a bit?” she questions me and the smile that infiltrates my face gives her the clear signal she needs. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She winks to me and leaves the room, returning ten minutes later.
“I called your landline and an Antonio answered and god, wow he has a very sexy voice. He’s going to bring Melissa up straight away.” I smile widely at her and my broken, shattered heart heals on the spot. Well, a little anyway.
“Thank you so much,” I reply, snuggling back into my bed.
I have to look after my daughter, keep her safe and well until her father decides he wants to return. I just hope he will come back to me, because I don’t think I can do this without him.