Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1)

by James, Victoria L.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  A note to the reader:

  Izzy Moffit’s story is the first in a series of releases, all written by different authors who came together with one idea in mind: to be part of a team that could create a world away from reality, where struggles are dealt with today in order to find a better tomorrow.

  This is their journey to Wonderland.

  For more information on upcoming releases, please visit Twitter @RTWSeries or like our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/RTWSeries

  Izzy Moffit’s Road to Wonderland© 2014 Victoria L James

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except that of small quotations used in critical reviews and promotion via blogs.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination only. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, events or any other incident is entirely coincidental.

  Front cover image by upcoming author LJ Stock.

  Edited by Heather Ross and Claire Allmendinger.

  Victoria L James is in partnership with Francesca Marlow as co-creator of MP~Wonderland©, an independent twitter RP group that was created in January 2012 and still runs to date. All stories played out there are from the future of these characters lives and do contain spoilers. Please be aware of this when choosing to follow.

  Acknowledgements

  To avoid any kind of lengthy, award winning, acceptance speech, I would just like to thank everyone who has supported me and the rest of the upcoming authors in the Road to Wonderland series. To my family who have pushed me when I have been wobbling, to my friends who have inspired me along the way and to all the supporters we have out there on twitter, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Special thanks to my two editors, Heather Ross and Claire Allmendinger who gave up hours of their free time to help me correct things along the way… and to my extra beta, Charlie Shelton. To the woman who has a direct link to the radio station in my heart and the designer of my cover, LJ Stock, I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me whilst asking for nothing in return except for me to ‘breathe’. You’ve been a God send.

  And to my Wonderland partner in crime and co-creator of all the madness, I have to thank my real life Goose. We’ve been on quite a ride to get this far and I can’t wait to see your chapter take off after this. I’ll be taking up the wingman seat for that one and I know you’re going to smash it. Danger zone time!

  Big thanks also goes to Claire and Wendy at Bare Naked Words book blog (www.barenakedwords.co.uk ) who have guided me through the whole release process and supported us all from the very beginning.

  And most importantly… to my CPCCH unit.

  I love you guys more than life itself.

  Time to see what I’ve been up to.

  Hope you all enjoy.

  Dedicated to…

  Everyone who chose to support me, instead of laugh, when once upon a time, not too long ago, I told them that I would quite like to write myself a book.

  And to all our Wonderlanders. I hope this ends up being worth the wait.

  Prologue

  Sometime in 1992

  She’s giving me that look again; the one that makes my feet shuffle and my hands rise to tuck my straggly, long, blonde hair behind my ears. In her eyes, it's a simple question to answer. It doesn’t require any thought, or at least it shouldn’t from a ten year-old girl like me.

  “Are you okay?” she repeats quietly, taking a step forward as her eyebrows do that thing where they pull together so much she gets wrinkles on her forehead. I know I shouldn’t be focusing on that of all things, but I always find myself looking for silly distractions like this when I know I’m about to lie to someone.

  “Yes,” I choke out, and I hate how desperate my voice seems when it somehow gets caught in my throat, all croaky and broken, like someone is trying to strangle me so the words I need to say won't fall out.

  “You don’t look okay, Isabella.”

  “I’m fine, Paris,” I reply with a tight smile, immediately dropping my hands to my side and forcing myself to stand taller, the same way my dad taught me to do the moment I was old enough to walk. As a fighter in every aspect of his life, he despises any sign of weakness from anyone around him, especially me.

  Glancing up nervously, I let my eyes fall back on to the face of my best friend. We’re the exact opposites in every way; my blonde hair to her brown and her green eyes to my blue. Her family has money, mine have nothing. I like to write words down that I daren’t speak aloud, whilst Paris has no fear of saying anything, to anyone, at anytime. She likes to go out, ride bikes and chase the boys around the playground. I like to stay indoors, read a lot, and follow the rules. There’s not a single thing that we do the same way, but we’ve been inseparable since we were four years old. No-one understands it.

  Not even us.

  Stepping forward, she reaches for one of my hands and starts to swing it around in between us like it’s a skipping rope and someone is about to jump over our fingers. “You know, if you don’t like living with your mum and dad anymore, you can always come and share my parents. I don’t mind. I’ve always wanted a proper sister.” Paris’ eyes light up at the idea she’s just had, whereas mine crease tighter together as a stabbing pain hits me right where I think my heart lives.

  “My mum needs me,” is all I can force myself to reply as I swing our arms faster and faster, just for something to do.

  “For what?”

  The sun seems to come out of the other side of a dark cloud and shine itself upon us as soon as she speaks. Squinting even harder, I stupidly try to look up at that big ball of light and immediately throw my other arm across my face. My voice is all croaky again when I speak, my vision dark except for that big, yellow glow that won’t go away, even when my eyes are closed. “I’m her anchor.”

  “Her wanker?”

  Unable to stop myself from looking up, still struggling against the pain that’s floating around in the back of my head and making my eyes fill with water, I turn to her and frown. “You just swore.”

  “You did it first,” she replies, holding back a giggle.

  “No, no I didn’t. I said anchor… anchor!”

  “Like one of those things on a boat?” Her little button nose turns up at the end, something she only ever does when she’s confused.

  “I guess so.” I have no idea why my mum tells me I’m
her anchor. I don’t know what it means, but every time she says it, it makes me feel needed and useful. I like that feeling so much, I just pretend to understand.

  “Oh, okay then. Well, wanker would have made more sense.”

  “Paris!” I gasp, looking over my shoulder to see if any of the teachers are around in the playground. The school bell went ten minutes ago and most of the other kids and parents have already left, but we’ve been stood under one of our favourite willow trees, out near the field, since we put our coats on. As much as we hate school already, we never seem to want to say goodbye to one another at the end of the day. “Stop saying that. If someone hears you, they’ll tell your dad.”

  “So?” She shrugs and snorts, sounding a little bit like a human pig. “My dad is cool like that. He knows I’m growing up. I’m ten now, Izzy. That means I’m not in single numbers anymore, which means I can say naughty words and watch grown up things on television. Oh, like last weekend, he let me watch a film that had the word bullshit in it.” She nods once before digging into her jacket pocket, pulling out a strawberry lip-balm then applying it to her lips. She’s been doing that a lot lately. Apparently it’s what all grown up women do.

  “He did?” I ask, wide eyed.

  “Yep,” Paris smacks her lips together, holds the pink stick out to me and waits for me to shake my head in refusal before shoving it back into the pocket it came from, “it was called Top Gun and it was amazing. You’d love it, what with your love for planes and all things tomboyish.”

  “Top gun,” I whisper quietly to myself. The words roll around on my tongue repeatedly.

  “Yeah, hey, if you want to come back to mine now, we can watch it. My dad won’t mind. Will yours?”

  It’s moments like this that make me realise how different we are. Paris’ dad seems so relaxed and easy-going. I envy her freedom. I envy her carefree attitude to everything around her. I wish she knew just how much I wanted her life, if only for one day. Just one day to have a taste of what it must be like to not worry or be scared of what is waiting for you when you go home.

  I would normally turn down her invitation to go back to hers and watch a film, based on the fact that my parents will worry, which will lead to stress, which will lead to arguments, which will lead to the same thing it usually does. But suddenly, I really want to go.

  “No, he won’t mind,” I lie.

  “Really? You’re going to come to mine?”

  Without thinking about the consequences of my actions, I nod back at her, silently telling her that I would like nothing more than to follow her home so we can watch the plane movie with the bad words in it.

  Jumping up and down on the spot, she throws her arms around me and grins. “This is going to be so much fun,” she sings before pulling back and gripping hold of my shoulders. “I’ll even let you be Maverick.”

  “Maverick?” My face scrunches up in confusion.

  “Yeah, he’s the main pilot guy. Goose is his wingman. He’s funny.” Her laughter is so enthusiastic, I can’t help but join in, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “But I’m not the main guy.”

  “Now you are.”

  “No, you should be Maverick. I can be the wingman.”

  “Bullshit!” she shouts out, throwing her head back before threading her arm through mine and guiding us down the pathway, out of the school grounds. “You can be the lead for once. Consider this your story.”

  “Can’t it be both of ours?” I ask, looking at the side of her face, unable to ignore the excited feeling I’m getting that’s making my heart pound a little harder.

  “I guess so, but only for a little bit. You should know that Goose dies.”

  “What?” I stop myself from taking another step, holding us both back. “Why does he die?”

  Tugging on my arm and rolling her eyes, she flicks her hair over her shoulder with her free hand and talks sarcastically. “We all die in the end, Mav. My daddy says that’s why you have to live each day as though it’s your last…or something like that. I dunno. He talks a lot of rubbish around the dinner table. He calls himself the owl because he says he’s wise. I think he’s an owl because when he’s really, really mad at me, he’s able to do that non-blinking thing that makes me apologise quicker than I want to. Uch, I hate that.” My feet practically fall over themselves as her pace picks up enough for the both of us and she starts to charge forward. “Anyway, don’t feel bad for Goose. His best friend is by his side his whole life, even when he kicks it, just like I’ll be by yours.”

  “Forever?”

  “Forever!”

  “You’ll never stop being my best friend? Not even if someone better comes along and tries to take you away from me?”

  Paris giggles even louder, pushing a hand into my stomach and tickling wildly to catch me off guard. It works. It works every time she does it. I hate that she knows how to make me laugh when I’m trying to talk seriously. “Oh, Maverick, I’m your Goose now. You’re stuck with me for life.”

  And with those few words, growing up and living life seems more exciting than it ever has done before. I only hope that she means it, because, if some time in the future she changes her mind, I don’t who I will turn to or what I will do. She’s the only one that’s ever understood me.

  Something deep down in my heart tells me she’s the only one that ever will.

  One

  18th September, 1997

  One moment I'm lost in a dream, unaware of the real world that surrounds me. The next, I'm lying in total darkness while small fragments of reality seep through my mind in slow, jerky movements. My eyes scrunch tight together, my neck straining to lift my head as a sliver of uninvited light filters through the bedroom.

  Giving in and dropping back down to the pillow, I allow myself a few seconds to get my senses in check and try to swallow down the fear that has suddenly erupted in the very depths of my stomach.

  There is no point in me fighting it for long. I know what's coming. I listen intently as the balls of her feet pad across the carpeted floor. It doesn't take long for the mattress to dip as my mother's dainty frame slowly climbs on board. Her body trembles and her breathing hitches on every third breath.

  Sliding down at a torturous pace, she tugs on the duvet and holds it weakly against her chest; one hand clinging to it for dear life while the other hand grips the side of the bed for support. This is what she does every time it happens.

  Apparently, being near me helps her. It helps reduce whatever pain she is in. I've never had the heart to tell her it multiplies my own pain more than I can ever even begin to explain.

  Neither one of us speak. Even though she feels me move to make space for her, I know she hopes I have drifted back to sleep.

  As I seem to do every time this happens, I lie for a while and contemplate letting her soak up the silence. As she winces quietly beside me, the pain of her injuries confirm what I already know, and I feel a soul-seeping tiredness claw away at my skin.

  “Where are you hurting?” I ask in a breathless whisper, my eyes creeping open to take in the faint outline of her body.

  She doesn't answer, but my pillow moves beneath me as her head shakes weakly from side to side. I hear the tears choke in her throat as she tries to be brave and swallow them down.

  Reaching out to her as tenderly as I can, the tips of my fingers hang limp in the air before I close my eyes and force myself forward to make contact with the sensitive skin around her wrists. It's the same place I always begin my silent inspection of her small, trembling body, slowly trailing my hand up to the inner curve of her elbow, pausing briefly only to wait for any sign of her retracting from the pain

  When she doesn’t, I shuffle closer, inhaling through my nostrils as they flare in muted rage.

  I run a hand along her ribs, applying a small amount of pressure to see if she flinches, but all she can do is shake silently, the sounds of her tears almost audible to me as I grit my teeth together, close my ey
es and try to stop my own chin from trembling. My gulp is loud - so fucking loud I want to kick myself for letting her hear it. I have to get it together. She doesn't need to see me weak in these moments; she needs me to be strong for the both of us.

  For her.

  Especially for her.

  Holding my breath, I eventually lead my hand to her face, my fingers turning to air as I spread them out and place a feather light touch upon her left cheek. An unexpected small smile creeps along one side of my own face as I realise this side of her body is clear. No words will ever be able to describe the relief I always feel when I brush upon her unblemished skin this way.

  “No arms. No ribs. No damage on the left,” I breathe out. “We're almost there.”

  Her tears fall harder against my palm as I lift my hand away and begin to repeat the action on her right side.

  The second my touch falls underneath her right eye, my whole body freezes with a gut-crippling, sense of fear. The heated swelling beneath my fingertips feels like it has the ability to burn me. My mother flinches hard, causing my hand to jerk and pull back. The hissing as she sucks in the air through her teeth seems to blare around the room like a siren in the street. Fuck! How have I just got that all so wrong?

  “I'm sorry!”

  “Please, Isabella,” she begs quietly.

  “Please, what?”

  “This is my fault, no-one else's.”

  I've never growled much in my life, but the low groan of frustration that leaves my throat definitely sounds more animal than human.

  “Don’t defend him, Mum.”

  “I’m not,” she gasps, her voice filled with sadness and defeat.

  “Sshh. Try not to speak. Stay as still as you can,” I say softly, my fingers instantly returning to the right side to finish their inspection. “I'll be more careful, I promise.”