Thrive

by Rebecca Sherwin

  The car began to close in on me, shortening my breath until I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn’t see anything beyond tonight. I wanted to envision infinity or a happy ever after; a field of green and two beautiful dark-haired children with chocolate eyes running through it, but all I could see was the now. Tunnel vision of an ugly present that promised us no future. I’d felt like this once before, trapped and doomed – the night Thomas died. My life did end that night; the Skye I was when I was tied to Thomas was no more. What if I’d been spared death to complete this mission? What if this was it? What if I was about to fulfil my life’s goal and it would end once I’d served my purpose? I wanted my purpose to be to love and shelter; to protect, to encourage, to give. I didn’t want my reason for my time on Earth to be to hurt, to punish, to suffer loss and feel pain. What if it had all been for nothing? What if we were choosing our own fate by traveling this road and had signed our own death warrant?

  “Skye?” Curtis’ stern voice caught my ears and dragged me back into reality. One hand was pulling at my seatbelt, the other tugging on the door handle. “Skye, stop.”

  “I have to get out.” I clawed at the window and twisted my body in the seat. “I have to get out!”

  “There’s no going back now. We have to end this.”

  “No!” I pulled at my hair and lifted my feet to kick the dashboard. “No, no, no!”

  The car swerved as Curtis pulled over in a layby and slammed on the brakes. He pulled his seatbelt off, leaned over to take hold of my face and turned my head to look at him.

  “It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “How? How is any of this going to be okay?”

  “Because I love you.”

  He crashed his lips to mine so desperately it stopped my breath and my heart ground to a halt. His lips didn’t burn, they didn’t hurt; they calmed, they healed – they revived the madness that had fallen redundant. It had returned to tell me we did have to do this.

  “We’re going to find him,” he said, edging back, running his thumb over my swollen lips. “We’re going to find him and make him pay. I need you to be strong. I will protect us, but I need you to, too.”

  I nodded. I was back; I had returned from the dark place Curtis called home and pulled myself from the abyss that would have seen us plunge into failure.

  ***

  The rain still poured when we drove along an access road that was almost hidden by overhanging trees and bushes, and pulled up outside a derelict house in the desolate marshlands of Kent. There were no lights, no signs of life; just a house with boarded up windows and a metal-plated front door. As the headlights slid over the front of the house, I saw graffiti of teenage gangs, discarded beer bottles and cigarette packets; a lonely red stiletto sat on the front step, captured by the winding vines that carpeted the entrance of the house and had begun creeping up the exterior walls.

  Curtis reached into the back for the things Phillip had sent us. My heart leapt and fluttered; I knew it had synchronised with Curtis’. Our hearts beat to the same rhythm of the fear of the unknown; I could almost hear his hammering in time with mine, before I felt him slip away. “Come on.”

  We got out of the car and I followed Curtis quietly.

  I was afraid; I’d never seen him so totally detached. It had fallen over him suddenly, and left me feeling cold and empty.

  He wasn’t gone, like when he shut me out to deal with whatever plagued him; he was just…gone. There was no energy, no aura that pulled me closer no matter how much he pushed me away. I needed something from him, to tell me he’d come back to me eventually, but I couldn’t feel it. There was no warmth or comfort as he wrapped the blanket around me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, leading me beyond the house into the adjoining woodland.

  His arm shook and his breathing was shallow as the fog of his breath spread out in front of us and evaporated into the rain. The faint light from the car on the driveway gave way to darkness as we continued deeper into the forest. Curtis needed no direction; he needed no light to lead the way. He stepped over raised tree roots, his feet squashed the sodden leaves and dirt, and still he held me, stopping me from stumbling and keeping the blanket wrapped tight. The knife hung loosely from the hand he was holding over my chest – I knew he had the turtle in the other, extending to the forest floor that he seemed to know as if he’d walked it yesterday. I knew then that something was wrong, more wrong than I could begin to imagine, and it was completely out of my control. All I could do was play along, only this wasn’t a game I wanted to be a part of.

  The trees of the forest began to thin out and I could see a clearing ahead; the lights of the town we’d driven through on the way here were twinkling beneath the crescent moon.

  Curtis led us out into the empty space, the uncut grass hitting my knees as he continued on the mindless journey along his invisible path. We were heading towards an outbuilding in the centre of the field. I could smell the rust as we moved closer to it; the scent of rotting wood and varnish burned my nose, but Curtis seemed unaffected as the rain pounded into us, the trees no longer shielding us.

  “Curtis?” I whispered, my voice barely carried by the wind that howled around us. “Curtis?”

  There was no response, just the flexing of his fingers on the knife, and the backs of his fingertips against my arm. His bicep tensed against my neck and a shiver travelled along my spine.

  I wanted to call to him again, but the fear lodged in my throat, halting my next breath as another flash of lightning struck in the distance, followed quickly by a clap of thunder beyond the hills. I jumped. Curtis took a deep breath as if drawing comfort from the aggression of the storm. He paused and raised his head, allowing the downpour to rain down on his face, before blowing a spray of water out, composing himself, and continuing the final few steps to the little shed.

  Keeping one hand on me, he bent down to pull a key out of a crack in the wood panelling. He inserted it into the rusting lock on the door and slipped the padlock and key into his pocket. He pulled the door open and I closed my eyes as the smell of neglect overwhelmed me. I moved to cover my mouth with my hand, but Curtis shot out in front of me and pulled the blanket tighter.

  I gasped, my breathing constricted by the sudden force of his hold; the stitching pulled tight around my neck, my arms, crossed over my chest, squeezed tighter and I frantically nodded my compliance. He let go, sucked in a breath, and sighed to release it.

  I leaned towards him, seeking the connection that had been lost as quickly as a bolt of lightning lasted; I wanted to breathe in his scent to distract me from the smell of mould and mildew. I wanted to remember why we were here. I wanted to remind Curtis, but the Cut Throat I knew was gone.

  “Go inside,” he instructed, his voice laced with a fear I’d never heard before. It chilled my bones.

  “Why?”

  “It’s safe.” He scanned the field behind me, and then stepped aside. “Go inside.”

  One of his large hands met my shoulder and he shoved me over the threshold, sending me tumbling over old terracotta pots until I crashed to the floor. Dropping the blanket and using my hands to aid me, I scrambled across the soaked floor to the far end of the shed, beneath a shelf. I sat against the wall, the splintered wood catching my t-shirt and cutting into my back. All I could make out was Curtis’ shadow as he followed me in and bent to pick up the blanket.

  As another flash of lightning struck, I saw the dirt on my bare legs, and the terror in Curtis’ eyes as he moved closer and held the blanket out to me. I leaned forward, accepting the tiny amount of care he offered and let him wrap me up once more. His fingers slid under my chin and tipped my head so my eyes found his gaze

  “I used to come here when I was a boy,” he said, squeezing my knees as I brought them to my chest. “I didn’t remember this house existed until we pulled up. I don’t remember anything about being inside, but I remember coming here and sitting just like you are now.”

&nbs
p; “What did you do when you came out?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember.” I felt the blood drain from my face and my bottom lip began to tremble. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  The Curtis I knew was trying to break through the Curtis he became when we arrived here.

  “I do.” I nodded and reached for him, but he edged back. “I love you too. Please, Curtis.”

  “I need you to do something for me,” he said, dropping his gaze and I watched in the shadows as the physical darkness joined the mental devilry.

  “Anything.”

  My hands moved to reach for him again, but he took hold of them, with the blanket, and settled them on my lap.

  “Remember,” he whispered. “Remember every bit of pain you’ve ever felt. Remember the fear, the agony, the loneliness and the rejection. I need you to remember where you are and all the things that led you here.” A tear fell from his eyes, in time with the stream that trickled from mine. “I need you to be strong and I need you to have hope. Without strength and hope, you’ll have nothing. I need you to hold onto them for me.”

  “I will.” I shifted frantically, but he held me still. “Curtis, what happened to us? What happened to we need to be strong?”

  I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t move to touch him like I wanted to. He had me trapped in the blanket as the tears streamed from us both, a river of impending tragedy.

  “Remember how much I love you. You’re everything, Skye. You’re everything on this earth and I love you for it. You’re in my veins. You’re the blood that keeps me alive. You’re the air that I breathe. You’re every thought I’ve ever had, every action I’ve ever taken. Everything I have in me that’s good, I have because you knocked on my aunt’s front door all those years ago. I was waiting for you and you found me, and I’ve never felt so alive. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Promise me,” he pleaded. “I trust you. You’ve made me believe again and I need you to promise me you’ll remember that…always.”

  “I promise.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned closer to him, searching for his lips, for him to promise me we were in this together and I had no reason to be afraid.

  My eyes fluttered open when he let go of me and didn’t respond to my silent plea for reassurance.

  The door of the shed closed and I heard the lock snap in place.

  “Curtis, no!”

  I scrambled to my feet and ran to the small window next to the door.

  “You’ll be safe here,” Curtis said, pressing his palm to the glass. The rain pounded his defeated body and dripped from his jaw as the downpour disguised his fresh tears. One of my hands covered his and the other pulled at the door handle to no avail.

  “Infinity,” he mouthed, before turning and walking away from me.

  The turtle still hung loosely from one hand and the knife was held tightly in the other. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders as he crossed the field, and Cut Throat Curtis disappeared into the woods.

  Twenty Nine

  I said goodbye to my princess, to my sick, twisted tigress who had come on this journey with me and given me a reason to live. A sacrifice had to be made, and it wouldn’t be her. If I couldn’t save us, I would save her. I owed her that much; she had fallen in love with the man who was unlovable; with a man who had lied and stolen and cheated his way through life.

  It was time for redemption.

  It was time to atone for my sins, to expose Uncle Phil’s filthy lies once and for all, and to watch him go down in flames as I ended him.

  Skye could have nothing to do with it.

  I couldn’t cure cancer, I couldn’t abolish third world poverty, I couldn’t tell you the meaning of life; but I could fight.

  Geoff had taught me to fight. Skye had given me a reason to.

  Uncle Phil had offered himself as an opponent.

  I was Cut Throat fucking Curtis…and I was going to fight to the death.

  ~Curtis~

  “Uncle Phil?” I called as I walked through the hallway that looked just like ours at home. “Uncle Phil?”

  I kept calling him, searching for him; he’d opened the front door and walked in before I had time to get out of his car and now I couldn’t find him. I knew I’d be in trouble for not keeping up. I knew Phil would tell me off and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be a bad boy. I wanted to be a good boy because Uncle Phil said my mummy and daddy would come and get me if I could be a good boy.

  I missed them.

  I wanted to go home…

  I stepped through the front door and looked around; the house was quiet and a memory I couldn’t place struck me, like the silence was welcoming me home. Instinct told me where to go and I walked the hallway towards the kitchen. There was a glass of water on the counter and I knew I should drink it. I did, listening for something, anything, to tell me what to do next. I didn’t know why I felt so out of control, unfazed by it as if it should be this way. I was moving my body but something, someone, else was controlling my mind. I shook my head, trying to break free, but it was no good. My body froze when I heard heavy footsteps approaching me from behind…

  I turned around when I heard someone walking behind me.

  “Turn around!” Uncle Phil shouted and spun me in the other direction. “You see that glass of water on the side?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want it?”

  I nodded. I was thirsty. I hadn’t had a drink since Auntie Lois gave me some orange juice with my breakfast before she left to work at the market.

  “So drink it.”

  I picked up the glass with both hands and drank all the water. It dripped off my chin and made my coat wet. I put the glass back on the side when I was finished.

  “Why did you drink that, Curtis?” Uncle Phil smacked the back of my head and pushed my hand away when I rubbed my head. “Why?”

  “You said I could, Uncle Phil.”

  He smacked my head again and my eyes began to sting. I wanted to cry but Uncle Phil called me a baby when I cried.

  “Why did you drink the water?”

  “Because…because I wanted it?” I asked.

  He smacked me again and I stepped forward so I didn’t fall over. That really hurt.

  “Tell me again.”

  “Because I wanted it, Uncle Phil.”

  “Again.”

  I sniffed away a tear when he hit me again.

  “I wanted it.”

  “And what do we do when we want something?”

  “We take it…”

  “Good to be home, boy?”

  I jumped when I heard Phil’s voice, like I was seven-years-old all over again and waiting for the strike. I remembered being the little boy Phil used to hurt here, and he was here with me; I was becoming him all over again, more with each passing second I spent in this house. Why hadn’t I remembered this before?

  “Why am I here, Phil?” I asked.

  “I see you drank the water.” He ignored my question and gestured with his finger for me to turn around. I did. “Do you remember what comes next?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t remember, but my fingers began to twitch. Phil stepped past me and swiped the glass off the counter. I watched it fall to the rotting linoleum and shatter into tiny pieces…

  “Pick it up,” Uncle Phil told me.

  He was angry. I was a bad boy. I wouldn’t be able to see Mummy and Daddy today. I looked around for the brush I’d seen Auntie Lois use when she broke a glass by accident.

  “With your hands, boy.”

  The glass made a crunching sound under Uncle Phil’s feet when he walked past me. He crossed his arms and pointed to the floor. I got to my knees and wiped the floor to pick up the pieces of glass. They cut my hands and it hurt, like when I got splinters from the door of the shed, but worse. Really worse. I started to cry.

  “Does that hurt?”

  I nodded. Uncle Phil smacked my
head again and I cried harder.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt. Let’s try again.” Uncle Phil pulled my hair and made me look at him. “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” He held my hand and squeezed, squashing the glass into my skin.

  “It hurts,” I cried. “It really hurts, Uncle Phil.”

  He punched my head and told me to keep going. I tried to stop crying, I really did. I wanted to be a good boy and good boys didn’t cry…

  I saw the shards of glass slicing my skin, but I felt nothing. The blood began to trickle from the cuts, but I continued scraping the broken glass together to clean the floor as much as I could, under Phil’s angry glare. I stood up to discard it into the sink. I knew it wouldn’t be good enough; I knew I never caught all the tiny specks I saw sparkling under the moonlight and flickering candle on the windowsill. I waited for the punch, but it didn’t come. He chose not to attack me this time.

  “Pick up Michelangelo. Let’s go get your hands fixed.”

  I picked my turtle up off the floor, keeping the knife in the waistband of my jeans, hidden beneath my sweatshirt…

  “You’re a bad boy, Curtis,” Uncle Phil said as I walked up the stairs and he followed behind me. “Bad boys cry like babies. Are you a baby?”

  “No.”

  “I think you are.” He pushed my back to make me walk faster. The tears had stopped now. If I wanted to see Mummy and Daddy, I had to be a good boy. “Babies don’t get their mummy and daddy back, do they?”

  “No.”

  “Bad boys who cry don’t get rewarded.”

  “I know, Uncle Phil.”

  “Well then you need to be a good boy, don’t you?” I nodded and waited for Phil at the top of the stairs. “Let’s go and see Pamela.”

  He grabbed my hand and I squeezed my eyes shut to stop the tears as he took me to Pamela’s bedroom...

  “Say hello to Pamela, Curtis.”

  Phil passed me to stand on the other side of me. Skye’s mother was kneeling on the bed in the centre of the bedroom with her head bowed. She lifted her eyes on cue and waited for me to acknowledge her. It made sense now. I’d known Skye’s mother my entire life, without even realising. I stared through her, trying to remember if I’d seen Skye, Ollie or Beth here before, but my memory wasn’t mine. I was trapped in my head; my free will and conscious thoughts belonged to Phil. I wanted to kill him, but something held me in place, under his control. It kept him safe from me.