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

by James, Victoria L.

  Most other girls would be running for their lives; they usually do. One look from Lori and they’re gone, but this girl just looks over her shoulder, snorting out a humourless laugh before turning back to me and adopting a face full of pity.

  “You can call off the wolves, Isabel-, oops, I mean Moffy. It’s not my fault Matt said you were shit in bed.”

  My head seems to roll forward just once as the wind gets knocked out of me. Before I have time to register what’s happening, my knees begin to tremble, my toes tingle like crazy and my shoulders start to bounce over and over again. My breathing is short, sharp and fucking intense. No… I’m not going to let this happen. I’m not going to lose control over one comment.

  One comment that means nothing to me,

  One comment that will mean nothing to me when we wake up on the morning,

  I have to let it go.

  I have to.

  But I can’t.

  I can almost feel my father’s chants flowing through my blood. Go get her, baby girl. Watching me lose it was the only time he ever looked at me with any hint of pride.

  I try to push the feelings back. I try to squash them before they have chance to over take me, but it’s just too late. Making the biggest error of my life, I slowly turn my head to look at her, the sight of her smug face staring back at me tipping me over the edge completely.

  The slow, red mist creeps around the corners of my eyes, swirling in a taunting motion before eclipsing my vision altogether.

  The last thing I really remember is charging towards her with my arm swinging in the air, using more power than ever before. My whole world turns black and all I can think about is connecting my fist with as many body parts as I possibly can. Each time I feel flesh beneath my knuckles, I grow even stronger, wilder and more dangerous. I’m completely out of control. Something else has taken over my body as I lean over something… someone… anything, and continue to pour it all out.

  The smell of blood tinges the air around me and I soak it up like I’m a damn wild animal. The blackness never weakens and it never fades to a grey, not once. Not until it’s all too late.

  Sometime later, I’m pulled back by two doormen. My body is pulsing with a raw energy that just can’t seem to get out fast enough. I kick and scream and shake my hair around like a crazed lunatic until a firm hand grips my chin once again and I’m forced into a state of calm.

  When I eventually wake, my eyes flickering open to take in my victory, my whole world seems to turn upside down in an instant.

  Katy Palmer lays on the floor, completely out cold.

  But so does Paris.

  My Paris…

  Lori is crouched beside them, staring at me like she doesn’t know who the hell I am. Her eyes are wide with terror as she scrambles on her hands and knees to get to our friend in a hurry, holding the side of her own head as she does. Her face is creased in pain with every move she makes.

  My breathing gets wilder as I try to understand what’s going on. Who got to them? Who the fuck hurt my friends? I want to know. I need to know so I can go again and kill them.

  Lori slides a palm under Paris’ neck. I try desperately to shrug the guys off me but their hands just hold me tighter in place like I’m some fucking dangerous prisoner they’ve just captured and refuse to let go.

  “Lori…” I breathe out in a panic, frantically scanning the room for any sign of who did this.

  She lifts her head as slowly as she can, looking up at me through shocked, saddened eyes before she shakes her head in disbelief and whispers back…

  “Moffy, what have you done?”

  Thirteen

  May 2003

  A night in the cells isn’t as bad as I expect it to be. When the police showed up at the bar, I didn’t even fight against the accusations that were thrown my way by those who witnessed my behaviour.

  I welcome the cold, bone aching isolation that I feel in the police station. It distracts my mind and eases the pain that tears through me whenever I close my eyes and see Paris laid out on the floor. Time stood still while Lori tried everything she could to coax her back to consciousness. My heart felt like it stopped and a small part of me wished for it to do exactly that.

  A mild concussion and several cuts and bruises, they tell me.

  The same for Palmer…

  Both of them came around within minutes. The relief of seeing the two of them eventually sitting up caused my knees to buckle as the door men held on to me and dragged me back to standing.

  Apparently, Paris is refusing outright to press charges, even though I begged for her to do so as I was hauled away. I deserve to be punished. The fact I wasn't in control simply isn't a good enough excuse. If I could do that to my best friend, I’m clearly not to be trusted with anyone else.

  Katy, however, is taking great pleasure in holding me accountable. I’m to be charged with grievous bodily harm and will be notified of a solicitor should I need representation. I don’t. Guilty is guilty. I have no argument for my actions, but I somehow get one sent to me, anyway. I have a feeling that is my friend's doing more than anything else. They’re pleading innocence on my behalf, the only thing in question being whether my actions were with intent or not.

  Who even cares? I know I don’t.

  I’m numb.

  Once released from the cells, I don’t call anyone to let them know, but Paris and Lori are both there waiting for me anyway. From what I can tell, they've spent over fourteen hours giving the police the biggest grilling of their lives. If I didn't know better, I would guess that they actually released me early just to be rid of the pair of them.

  I should be thankful for their forgiveness. I should be down on bended knees, grovelling with apologies and telling them that nothing like that will ever happen again, but I can't bring myself to do anything but stare at them, swallow down the tears and stay mute.

  The dried blood on their faces, the bruises on their arms, the way their hair is matted together, doused in drinks and whatever else had been lying on the floor... They wear all those battle scars because of my actions. Because of who I am.

  The moment they both wrap their arms around me, I shrug them off as gently as I can. I don't want to be around them, or anyone else, ever again. All I need, all I deserve is the same isolation I felt in the prison cell.

  I catch their confused expressions from the corner of my eye as I turn to leave the station, my one bandaged hand pressed against the wired glass panel while my other holds the two lapels of my jacket together. Pausing in my step, I lower my chin to my chest and speak quietly.

  “I... I can't say sorry enough. I know that doesn't right my wrong. If I could explain the shame and disgust I feel, then I would. But I can't. So, please, I'm begging you both. Don't argue with me about this. Don't give me your pledge of trust and friendship speech, because I can't hear it. Not now. Not after what I've done. I let you down. I just need to be alone. I'm sorry.”

  The warm spring air wraps itself around my cold body the moment I step outside, and I welcome the pleasurable sensation for just the briefest of moments before I chastise and remind myself that I don't deserve to feel anything other than pain.

  As I walk home at a slow, torturous pace, I try to battle the inner demons in my mind. By the time I reach our apartment, strip bare and climb into a bitterly cold, self-punishment shower, I have made several inner resolutions.

  I’m to become a recluse, to throw myself into my final exams and to concentrate on building a future alone. I can't put Paris through anything like that again. In smothering her with my protectiveness, fate has somehow messed with my plans and forced me to realise that I am the only one who can hurt her.

  From now on, I will be there for her at her call. I will cement my position as the sensible one in our pairing. I will go to anger management classes and seek help from anyone who is kind enough to be around me. I will remove myself from all dangerous situations. No more bars. No more partying. No more socialising with anyone
other than the ones who I've already allowed in and selfishly can't let go.

  I will avoid anything that I don't trust myself around: odious women, cat calling men, sports... especially boxing… old photographs of my past, exes, ex’s fiancées. Anything that provokes or sparks a negative reaction from me has to go.

  So that's what I do. I stay indoors for the final few weeks of our university life, my body usually curled up in the corner of a bed, a text book in hand, with the curtains closed on the world and Paris' soothing voice occasionally drifting through the air, whenever she comes home.

  I study some and eat little. I pour myself into focusing on how to change and how to build a life around the fact that I will, more than likely, have a criminal record for the rest of my life, and yet still need a job and an income.

  Some days my thoughts are just too much for me to handle. The panic and fear sets in and I’m transported back to that night in the bar, in a flash. Those days, I spend crying in the dark of the quiet room, too scared to move in case I simply burst with unexplainable emotion. And it’s in one of those moments of misery, when my thoughts are so consuming, I feel like I’m going to burst, that I manage to surprise myself with the beginning of a new chapter in my life. Out of nowhere, I start to write.

  My pen dances on the paper, effortlessly releasing words without much thought. Before I know it, university life is over. All my exams are done and I have at least twenty notebooks filled with stories. Ones I never intended or even remember putting down onto paper. Where have they come from? How have I produced such worlds that I’ve never even experienced? The more I write, the more I read them back in complete wonder. I’m not convinced I’m any good, but the release I feel when I let myself get lost in my creative thoughts is like nothing I have ever experienced before in my life.

  That's when it becomes my passion. That's when, as we all head home to enjoy the summer before graduation, I sag with relief at the thought that there is an outlet available, one that will eventually save me from the darkness within myself that constantly threatens to pull me under.

  Maybe there is a shred of hope still left out there in the world for me.

  Maybe, just maybe, the game isn't quite over just yet.

  Fourteen

  Graduation Day, 2003

  I never thought this day would arrive. We’ve done it. Me, Paris, Lori, we’ve made it through university life by the skin of our teeth. We should be ecstatic today, all of us together and revelling in the fact that we achieved such a lot, against all the odds. Over the years, we have been presented with life challenges none of us could ever have expected, but we made it through every single one of them, mainly because we had each other to hold on to the entire time. We should be with one another, drinking over-priced cocktails and reliving all the hilarious moments we shared since we met almost three years previously.

  So, why aren’t we?

  I’ve been pacing the living room of my new tiny apartment in the middle of Manchester for the last hour and a half. My black graduation robe still hangs limply off my body and that awful square hat taunts me from the sofa. I can’t seem to stop staring at it in frustration.

  I’m annoyed at myself for allowing this to happen, and even though both my friends will argue that I’m not to blame for our unusual separation on one of the biggest days of our lives, I can’t help but think I am. Since the night of my arrest, I’ve withdrawn from them more and more with each passing day. I want to tell them that it’s all for their benefit, but the truth is, I’m not sure I can convince myself that that’s the case anymore.

  Slamming myself down on the sofa, I sit and stare at the phone on the table next to me. One call is all I would have to make and I know either one of them would come running. Or at least I hope they would. Lori seems lost in her own world, too, at the moment and Paris has been floating through life in a haze for the last three years. Maybe they need time away from me; maybe they need to be alone to find themselves as much as I do.

  But it’s graduation day. We only get this once, and I need to be with my friends.

  Reaching for the receiver on the phone, I slide the whole thing around and slowly start to dial the number of Lillian Hemsworth’s house. It’s where Paris has gone home to live, despite me secretly hoping she might ask to live with me. It’s why I bought it, after all, for the two of us to enjoy. But that night in the club seemed to change everything between us and we’re adults now. I know I need to let her go. I can’t keep my best friend fourteen years old forever, despite wishing I could.

  “Mrs Hemsworth? Hi, it’s Moffy.”

  Her sharp inhale of breath catches in her throat. “Isabella?”

  “Hey.” I smile softly, trying not to react to the use of my birth name.

  “How are you?” The caution in her voice is worrying. I’ve spoken to her numerous times over the last few months and never has she sounded so… unsure. My paranoia immediately kicks in, and I panic about her knowing what I did to her daughter.

  “I’m good, thank you. Is… Is she there, please?”

  “She left a while ago, Isabella. She went out on the bike,” she says, almost disapprovingly.

  “Oh.”

  “Do you want me to tell her to call you back when she gets home?”

  Closing my eyes, I nod once, forgetting Lillian can’t see me before I clear my throat and try to sound as bright as I can. “Absolutely. No rush. I know it’s graduation day and you guys will probably want to spend it as a… family.” My last word trails off into a whisper at the thought of what their family is now and which vital member is missing.

  “Right,” she whispers back.

  “I’ll leave you in peace, Mrs Hemsworth. I’ll try and call around one day soon to see you. I really miss you.”

  This time it’s her who falters, her breathy tone almost inaudible when she speaks. “I miss you, too. Congratulations on your graduation. Your father would be proud.”

  Clasping a quick hand to my mouth to stifle the impending sobs, I scrunch my face tightly together, knowing immediately that she is referring to Dandy. Managing to whimper out a rushed goodbye, I place the receiver back down, turn in my seat and wait in deathly silence for what feels like hours.

  The next thing I know, I wake up in a cold, dark room, the faint glow of the moonlight drifting through the windows, casting eerie shadows around my barren apartment. My neck aches from the angle I’ve been laid on it as I try to turn and look at the flashing, red numbers on the clock that sits on my small fireplace. It’s almost one in the morning. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t moved. I haven’t even taken off my robe. I haven't celebrated. I haven't even seen a single second of the night.

  Most importantly, I haven’t heard back from Paris, either.

  *******

  “What do you mean, she hasn’t come home?” I ask in a sleepy voice. How I managed to wait until daylight to call and check on her, I’ll never know.

  “It means what it means. She hasn’t been home. Her bed hasn’t been slept in; she hasn’t even had the decency to make a phone call.”

  “That’s not possible. She always phones to check in, even when she goes away. She’s so particular about us all staying in touch.”

  “Clearly not,” Lillian says, her anger evident.

  “Something isn’t right. Have you tried calli-”

  “Yes, Isabella. I’ve tried every number I have,” she snaps, cutting me off. “But quite frankly, I am sick and tired of Paris and her constant need for attention.”

  “Wh… Attention? Mrs Hemsworth, she could be in trouble.”

  “Most likely, knowing her. She has been seeking it out since her father died…” Her voice trails off as she covers the phone with her hand, her muffled mutterings nonsensical as she temporarily puts me down to whisper something to her new husband. A slow build up of fury starts to creep up my body and by the time she starts talking again, I’m shaking in frustration over the way she speaks about her daughter.

  “I can’
t believe you just said that,” I eventually whisper.

  “What? The truth! She isn’t the only one who lost him, Moffy, and neither were you. I did, too. But you both seem to forget this. Life goes on. It has to. Cancer is a cruel, cruel poison none of us will ever be able to beat. What we have to do now, what Daniel would have wanted us to do, is move on. Live our lives and stop with this incessant need for attention over his death.”

  I try to move my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a snort of disbelief at the way she is talking so bluntly about the one thing that has destroyed her daughter’s life more than anything ever has or will do again.

  “You both need to move on.”

  “I wish it was that easy.”

  “Life isn’t easy. You’ll both learn that soon enough. Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, maybe it’s what needs to happen for her to finally grieve. My guess is she will be home before the end of the day, full of tears and sorry excuses.”

  I have no idea who this woman is at the other end of the phone, but I know for certain it isn’t the Lillian Hemsworth that was married to Dandy, and it certainly isn’t the woman I lived with before leaving for university. From what I can see, grief has turned a good-hearted woman into a slab of ice cold stone. If that’s the path she’s telling me to go down, too, I’d rather end the relationship here and now.

  “If you hear from her, please call me straight away. That’s all I’m asking,” I manage to croak out, sounding much calmer than I feel. Unable to carry on any further, I end the call without giving her chance to as much as think about answering and then I begin to pace again.

  For the first time since I was four years old, I have no idea where my best friend is. The worry that tears through me is overwhelming. I feel nauseous, and my stomach is cramping from sheer anxiety alone.

  Paris may be Lillian’s daughter, but I’m the one person that knows her better than she knows herself. The connection we have isn’t easily explained, but when something isn’t right in her world, I feel the ground beneath my own feet shake a little, too. Her energy is linked with mine and mine with hers. It doesn’t make sense to anyone else out there, but it makes sense to us, and that’s all that matters. It’s all I need to know.