Survival (Twisted Book 1)

by Rebecca Sherwin

  I didn’t remember the drive that led me to where I was; I could have killed someone. I could have run myself off the road because I was in a trance, unable to deal with my own erratic mental state

  Things had begun to spiral and that’s why I flipped. They’d been spiralling slowly for weeks, waiting for the tailspin. It was the mother of tailspins.

  I suddenly remembered walking out of the house after putting the phone down on Thomas. I didn’t like him going away; I was afraid he wouldn’t come back. He was right; he told me every time I snapped at him…it was an irrational fear, but I couldn’t help it. He couldn’t be there. The clock was ticking, I could feel it. I didn’t know what it was counting down to but I felt each grain of sand as they fell.

  We still hadn’t conceived, my job was falling to shit because I was overworked and under-stimulated and I felt like we were stuck in our life; I wanted to take his hand and run from work, from home, from the guilt that I couldn’t give him a child. Everything was perfect before we let people in and started planning the future. So I did run, only without Thomas and I couldn’t, as I stood on the dark street alone, bring myself to answer his call.

  One foot found its way in front of the other and a walk began; a walk with only one direction planned out, until I was standing in front of a black door and pounding my fist on the cracked paint.

  “Password,” a voice boomed from behind the door.

  The only evidence of life was that voice and it sent a shiver down my spine.

  I opened my mouth and let the gut-wrenching words roll from my tongue.

  “Row, row, row your boat.”

  The door opened with a creak and I froze. My heart broke clean in half like my life had the last time I stepped over that threshold. The hallway smelled how I remembered it; like cheap air freshener and sweat. I remembered climbing the stairs before, with a mere percentage of the pain I felt in this moment. Why was I there? I should have been able to let Thomas be, but I just couldn’t. Not there. Why did I continue to punish myself? That’s what I was doing, with every step I took out into the open space, so full of bodies I couldn’t see the walls…just the ring.

  And the cage.

  The cage my precious brother died in.

  I stood at the top and looked down on the crowds. I remembered the fear of the unknown I felt all those years ago.

  It froze me to the spot.

  It stopped all hopes of oxygen entering my lungs.

  Willing my body to turn proved pointless when the lights dropped, the crowds cheered and the music started as the MC entered through the door of the cage and into the ring.

  “And noooww!” He announced, but his voice was lost to the white noise in my head.

  I was nineteen again.

  I was terrified.

  But, like before, I was not alone.

  I saw him.

  Thomas was there with Chaz and Joel, and I saw his photographer and journalist next to them. He was working and I was in the tunnel of torment I’d been trying to ignore for so long.

  He had his phone to his ear and the buzzing of mine continued. He clenched the hand that wasn’t gripping his phone and chewed on his bottom lip; mine trembled as my heart sank and I ached to go to him. I wanted to be wrapped in his warm embrace; the only place I felt safe, but I couldn’t move.

  All thoughts of safety and surrender left my mind when the fighters made their way to the ring and all I could remember was the flash of green from Oliver’s mouthguard, but no helmet. He would’ve lived without a few teeth. It was the punch to the back of the head that killed him.

  The bell rang and my eyes fixated on the two men in the ring. Punches. Kicks. Grappling.

  Cheers erupting from the crowds.

  Pain.

  Crippling pain.

  Memories.

  Blood boiling, stomach roiling memories.

  Thomas.

  I looked over to find him looking at me. He’d spotted me in a crowd of hundreds. Chaz waved; he must have thought I was meeting them there. That wasn’t the plan. There was no plan.

  Thomas stood and I backed away as he pushed through the sea of people. Another punch. Another cheer. Another step back.

  My back collided with the front of someone and I turned to see a stoic bouncer with him arms folded, his eyes glued to the fight instead of looking at me. Keeping his gaze on the action, he reached out with one hand and shoved me backwards. I stumbled.

  “Get your hands off her.”

  “No touching,” the bouncer growled.

  “Does she look aggressive to you?”

  Thomas took a step towards him. Bad idea. He was probably an ex backstreet boxer; most of the bouncers in the circuit were…or used to be. Judging by the looks of things, it hadn’t changed much since the last time I was there.

  “No touching.”

  “Thomas, please,” I begged, as he continued to square up to him. “Please, let’s just go.”

  “No exit during fights.”

  The bouncer grunted and folded his steroid-enhanced arms. His co-bonehead laughed. They were goading Thomas. I knew they were allowed to use blunt force if ‘necessary’, which meant they could taunt him until he made the first move and wouldn’t hesitate to kick the shit out of him.

  “Open the doors.”

  I wretched at the sound. I had no control; my body quivered, my heart hammered; my skin fell cold as the voice wafted over my skin and froze me to the core. It had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be happening.

  The bouncer nodded obediently, like I’d seen many others do before him and clicked the door open with a sneer.

  I took off, running through the corridors until I was outside, sucking in the crisp air and gasping for more.

  “Skye?”

  Thomas. God, I was fucked. Catastrophically. Anyone who needed a quick fix of insanity could’ve jumped into my mind at that moment and had the ride of their life.

  Standing up straight, I saw Thomas pulling on his coat. I hadn’t even taken mine off. I was sweating; my entire body was on fire, yet my skin prickled with goosebumps.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was the truth, more or less. I didn’t know why I was there; I just knew that I had to be.

  “Give me your keys,” I handed them to him and caught sight of my trembling hands. I was a mess; I could only imagine what I looked like. “Get in the car.”

  He opened my door and I fell in, shakily pulling my seat belt over me as he made his way round to the other side.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “At the hotel.”

  He put the key in the ignition and the purr of the usually quiet engine echoed around the car as he pulled off.

  Forty Six

  I should have seen it coming. Impossible. I’d always been too wrapped up in the storm that tormented me. But I should have seen it.

  March 19th, 2011.

  “You’ve got to talk to me, Skye,” he gripped the wheel with white-knuckle force. “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know,” how was I supposed to talk to him when I didn’t know what was going on? “I’m sorry.”

  “You reacted like that because I was there? I told you I was working. How did you know where to find me?”

  “That place…” I took a shaky breath. “That’s where Oliver died.”

  “Oliver was a fighter.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a realisation. Everything had just clicked into place.

  “Yes,” I bowed my head and picked at a piece of cotton on my jeans.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?!” I flinched. He was so angry. His voice was guttural, shaky, and the vein in his neck thumped with pulse racing frustration. “What the hell were you doing there?”

  “I don’t know!” I cried. The tears fell and I couldn’t stop them. I wanted him to understand the chaos in my mind, but even I couldn’t
make sense of it. “I didn’t want you there…where Oliver died.”

  “This can't happen,” He ground his teeth and continued to drive, pulling out onto the M25 and speeding up. “We can't fall apart because you’re losing your mind.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. You don’t think I can feel the tension too? I honestly don’t know how I get there, but I panicked. That doesn’t mean we’re falling apart.”

  “I just don’t know what’s going on with you. Why would you not tell me something like that?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re not falling apart. It was just easier to shut it out.”

  I could see his anger had eased, but his frustration just grew. I could feel it bouncing back off him and keeping me on edge. I knew he just wanted to shake some sense into me; I did too. But I knew it wouldn’t work.

  “I just don’t get it,” he switched lanes and turned on the cold air. We were both seething. We were both angry. With me. “Why did you go in? Why didn’t you turn around and go home? Why didn’t you answer the damn phone and tell me you needed me?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know I wasn’t okay. I just needed to get to you.”

  “You didn’t see the look in your eyes. I did. I saw it and you’ve kept that from me for years.”

  “I’m sorry.” I had hurt him. I had kept something from him. We had always spoken. Always. He told me everything and I had denied him the most important truth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Damn it, Skye, that’s not good enough!”

  He slammed his hands on the wheel and turned his head to look at me.

  “Thomas!”

  Forty Seven

  Life. You blood sucking, soul destroying piece of shit…Take mine, I don’t need it.

  March 19th, 2011.

  Glass. There was glass everywhere. I opened my eyes to see it covering my lap in little glittering clusters. It was in my hair. I lifted my fingers to my hair to comb it out. Warmth. I looked at my fingers. Blood.

  Thomas.

  I turned to him. He was quiet, slumped over the steering wheel.

  “Thomas?”

  I pulled him back and his head fell against the headrest. Blood poured from his nose; it ran down his jaw as it trickled from his ear.

  He was wheezing, struggling to breathe as he turned his head and looked at me.

  “Skye.”

  The words gurgled from his lips as he reached for me and wiped my own blood away with his thumb.

  “Ssh,” I choked. “We’re going to be okay.”

  There was a bang on my window. Someone had stopped to help us. Headlights shone into the car from every direction.

  “Help is on the way,” someone’s muffled voice came through the window and seeped into the non-existent windscreen.

  I could feel the cold air rushing in through the hole, but I didn’t take my eyes off Thomas.

  “Skye,” blood spat from his mouth as he coughed and took my hand.

  “Don’t talk. Help is coming.”

  He shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and tears streamed from them. He was in so much pain.

  “I love you…I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I whimpered. I tried with everything I had to hold it in. “Don’t you dare apologise and don’t tell me you love me again until we’re in the hospital. We’re going to be okay.”

  He coughed again and winced as blood fell from his mouth and soaked into his shirt. He was paling. His temperature was dropping. I felt it as his grip on me loosened.

  “Squeeze, Thomas. Squeeze my hand.”

  I felt the twitch. He was trying.

  “Just tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you. I love you with everything I have and all that I am. And I will continue to love you when we get out of this mess.”

  “Tell my parents,” he choked. Each breath was getting harder. “Tell them I love them. Tell Ava I’m sorry and…and hug the boys.”

  “You can do it yourself,” I used my teeth to pull my ring from my finger and slid it onto his blood stained little finger. “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

  I could barely see his face through the tears that blurred my vision, but I kept my eyes on his.

  “I’ll never leave you.”

  His other hand reached for me. I reached for him. We were stuck. The tears poured until I could taste the salt and the metallic taste of blood.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  I tried to let go of his hand to feel for a bleed – I could try to stop it – but he squeezed my hand and tried to shake his head.

  “It doesn’t,” another cough. More blood. “The only thing I feel is how much I love you.” He tried to take a deep breath. He couldn’t. I saw it then; he was suffocating. “You made…you made my life. You…you completed it.”

  “No,” I sobbed. “Don’t you dare.”

  I saw the flashing lights.

  So many lights.

  So much noise.

  “They’re here, Thomas. They’re going to save you,” I gripped his hand with both of mine and kissed it over and over. I prayed my pulse would kick start his. I could feel it fading.

  “Don’t leave me, Thomas.”

  He wheezed, “Never.”

  “Stay with me. Baby, fight with me. Please.”

  “Always.”

  The doors were wrenched from the car and strangers burst through our bubble.

  “We’re going to get you out,” one of them said.

  “Save her,” Thomas sobbed and used all his might to breathe. More blood coated his chin. “Get her out…Save her!”

  Someone strapped something around my neck. Hands slid under my body and pulled.

  “No!” I screamed and gripped Thomas’ forearm. “No! Please! Don’t!”

  I held onto Thomas until I was torn from him and pulled from the wreckage.

  Through the sirens and whirring tools and voices, all I heard was Thomas tell me he loved me.

  Forty Eight

  No words. I had no words.

  March, 2012.

  I pulled the patchwork blanket, the one we had bought for our future baby, around my shoulders as I stared out of the window. Buster rested his head on my lap and I dropped my hand to his head.

  One year. It had been one year since I died in the passenger seat of my car.

  The blood pumped through my veins.

  The oxygen made its way into my lungs because I had no choice but to let it.

  But I had died one year ago with the man who owned my heart.

  I didn’t want to live without Thomas.

  I quit my job and completed an online course in proofreading. I worked from home, accepting files from strangers and taking their money for changing punctuation marks and correcting syntax errors, and then I emailed the file back. There was no interaction, no personal relationships, no coffee meetings to discuss my changes. I switched off the night Thomas died and my last ounce of self-worth was used up when I passed his message onto his family, remembering the terrified expression on his face as he spoke it. He wasn’t ready to die. He was afraid of death because we hadn’t done everything we wanted to do. He was afraid of dying because it shouldn’t have been him losing his life with every beat of his heart that allowed more blood into his lung. His rib had broken upon impact with the central reservation and pierced his lung. He drowned in his own blood. The internal bleeding was so severe by the time he got to hospital, that there was nothing they could do.

  It was my fault. If I hadn’t lost my mind and gone searching for the past when I had everything I ever needed in my present, Thomas would have still been alive, blowing raspberries on my neck while I tried to work, or combing his fingers through my hair as we laid in the sun.

  But he wasn’t. He was gone and I was a prisoner in our house, surrounded by ghosts and the reminders of what could have been. They say the good die you
ng, but I didn’t believe it. The good deserve to live. The good deserve the precious gift of life they’ve been given. Thomas deserved to live, and it was my fault he couldn’t.

  Beth came by every weekend and Jack came with her to do things around the house that Thomas would have done. He mowed the lawn and fixed whatever had broken while Beth cleaned. A few months after the funeral I went to the DIY store and bought new door handles with locks. I had Jack fit them and when they’d gone, I walked around the house; I said goodbye to the games room, the wet room, the office and our bedroom before shutting and locking each door.

  I slept on the sofa or in the spare room and I worked from the lounge while listening to the playlist Thomas had made me.

  Even after a year, Jen, Amanda and Penelope still stopped by. They took it in shifts to bring me food and watch me eat it. They took such pride in the meals they brought, but it could have been anything. I ate it to keep me alive, but I couldn’t taste anything.

  Sometimes they’d all come together, the girls and Beth, and talk about their days, just to get me to interact. I stared off into space and shut them out; I didn’t want the sound of their voices to erase the memory of Thomas’.

  When they left, I’d switch on his phone and watch the videos we’d made; silly videos of us singing to each other, or arguments that quickly turned into a tickle fight because we couldn’t stand to be mad at each other. I couldn’t bring myself to watch our intimate videos. I craved his hands on me, or linked with mine as we made love. I craved his smell. I craved how I smelled after we’d been together. I just missed him; it didn’t even cover how I felt but that’s all I had.

  I couldn’t breathe when I thought about living out the rest of my days without him. I wasn’t living; I just existed. But I didn’t want to. Every time my breath halted and the pain and regret overpowered my will to live, I hoped the venomous guilt I deserved to wallow in would stop my heart and allow me to slip away and find my beloved.

  Maybe the good did die young. If they did, I would spend long years alone and I deserved every heartbreaking, soul crushing minute of it.