Revival

by Rebecca Sherwin

  And then she fell in the apartment and I knew. I knew something was very wrong.

  She needed to cry and I didn’t want her to cry on anyone but me. I took her in my arms and let her release the pain onto me. I would have stayed like that and held her forever if it helped, but it didn’t.

  “Make me forget,” she pleaded, looking into my eyes as the tears continued to stream from hers. “Make me forget.”

  I wiped every tear away, whispering words of comfort as I watched the tension leave her and the torturous, confusing desire move in. I knew that look in her eyes; I understood her body language. I understood the need and what it meant to be able to forget yourself for a while.

  I took her face in my hands, my lips found hers and I couldn’t tear myself away, no matter how much my mind was screaming at me to stop.

  Skye fell asleep on me; a tortured, restless sleep that made her sigh and whimper and talk.

  I stroked my hand through her hair, so that even in sleep, she knew she wasn’t alone.

  “I need you,” she breathed. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t,” I whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear me but hoping it would give her some sort of subconscious serenity. “I’m right here, Skye.”

  “I love you.”

  My hand froze, my body went numb and I fell cold.

  It was over.

  There was no other option.

  I couldn’t take her down with me. She might hurt for a while, but she’d survive and soon forget about Cut Throat Curtis.

  I had no choice.

  I had to let her go.

  I shifted on the sofa and Skye moved with me; her body melded with mine and she nuzzled into my chest. She felt like heaven and smelled like bliss. Heaven and bliss and us. It was the last time I would allow myself to indulge in the beauty of Skye Jones, and I relished in it as I watched her open her eyes, blinking slowly until her golden orbs focused on me.

  I choked on a breath when I opened my mouth to speak. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with much needed oxygen; it burned with the scent of Skye but I tried again.

  “What would you say if I told you I could give you a new life?” I asked, looking into her eyes. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn. Captured. Painfully enraptured – she got me every time.

  I’d been keeping another secret from her; one that could have saved her a long time ago.

  I climbed from the sofa, trying with everything I had to not fall back down, hold her to me and never let go. I used every ounce of control I had left and trudged to the bedroom. I knelt on the floor by the bed and reached underneath. The gut-wrenching ache knocked the wind out of me as I pulled the bag out; Skye had been sleeping on this for weeks, unaware that I had added another cloud to the shit storm.

  I froze on the spot when I grabbed the handle. The doubt struck and I stood and pulled on some boxers until I had steadied my thoughts. It had to be done. I couldn’t entertain the idea that we could do it. I wouldn’t allow it. I grabbed the bag again, refocused and left the room.

  The second I saw that look in her eyes, the one that told me she knew it was coming, I died. It was a slow, numb death that made me regret every step I’d ever taken to get to this point. The point where I voluntarily broke the heart of the girl I loved.

  She left the flat and closed the door behind her. I fell to the floor and vowed I would never feel again. I had promised myself time and time again that I wouldn’t allow it to happen, but this time I knew…I had nothing left.

  Chapter Twelve

  Did drinking solve the problems? No. Did it make the pain go away? No.

  It made everything worse.

  I was about to have my judgement seriously clouded and it would soon come back to bite me.

  December 21st, 2004

  I fell from the club. I’d been asked nicely for the “final time” to leave without causing trouble. That happened a lot nowadays. The staff knew me; I was the ‘regular’ who often drank himself into oblivion and had to be escorted home.

  I stumbled across the road, ignoring the horn from the car that narrowly missed me. I shouted a slurred expletive and tried to gesticulate in his direction, but needed my hand to steady me as I fell to my usual bench. I always sat there before I made the call.

  I slumped backwards on the seat and threw my head back, watching the night sky spin above me as I took deep breaths.

  I should have known after all these months that alcohol was pointless – I had learned to replace hope with realism, and pleasure with pain. Any kind. But all the alcohol accomplished was to remind me that I did have hope. I would have given up a long time ago if I didn’t. I wanted pleasure – I craved intimacy and companionship like everyone else. I just drank enough to blur the lines; I could pretend that a quick, raw fuck with a stranger was enough. It wasn’t. The more escapism I had, the more I needed, until it wasn’t escapism anymore; it was just another realm of the hell I was prisoner in.

  I continued to look up at the circling stars and a few clouds that interrupted an otherwise clear sky. It was cold; bitter and icy, like me. I sat and wondered, like I did most nights, how I got to this point in my life – a twenty-six year-old nobody with nothing. I knew, deep down, that I was the master of my own demise. I knew I continued to fuck myself over because I refused to let go. How could I? Everything I had ever tried to be, I had failed at; a son, an adopted nephew-son, a fighter, a friend, a lover. A man.

  I grunted, feeling more sorry for myself than I ever had – hating every second of it – and fumbled in my pocket for my phone. Two numbers. I had just two numbers to choose from. I didn’t have friends; I just had two options, the people on either end both guaranteed to give me a bollocking for being in a state. Again.

  I illuminated one number, then the next, then back to the first. Geoff or Lois. I couldn’t decide who to disappoint next.

  “Need a hand?” A sultry voice asked.

  I looked up to see Rochelle, one of the barmaids, in front of me. She was standing like a girl – the memories of Skye standing just like that came flooding back; memories that made my cock twitch and my cold heart hurt.

  “Nah,” I groaned, knowing I wouldn’t slur one syllable words.

  “You sure?” She raised two perfectly waxed eyebrows and her sweet Australian accent successfully distracted me.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you are or maybe you aren’t?”

  I shrugged. I could use a lay.

  “Sure, I could use a hand.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other; my eyes fell on the waistband of her black trousers. I knew where I wanted my hand to be.

  Rochelle said nothing; she simply adjusted the strap of her bag, gave me a nod and turned on her heel. I stood from the bench and followed behind her.

  I think she thought she was helping. I think she thought she was saving me – the poor pathetic drunk who just needed a friend. I was beyond help, there was nothing that would save me, and I didn’t want a friend. The alcohol had worn off but I pretended it hadn’t. She wouldn’t know that; I was the master of deception. The cab ride to her flat was short, silent of my part while she played psychiatrist.

  “What’s wrong, Curtis?” She repeated over and over again.

  Silence was all that greeted her. We climbed out of the cab; I paid the driver, followed Rochelle up the steps to the converted house and we continued in silence up two flights of stairs. I knew I should have backed out; I should have chosen one of the two options and got the hell out of there, but I didn’t. Option three was being handed to me on a platter and I planned on feasting on its delights.

  Rochelle opened the door into her unlit apartment. She switched on the lights and I followed her inside.

  Our fate was sealed.

  Maybe she was the idiot. She busied herself plumping up the sofa and smoothing out the throw that was slung over the back. It’d be strewn across her living room in t-minus ten seconds – I wondered if she ever stood a
chance. I broke noses for a living, but I broke hearts in my free time. I could already hear Rochelle’s little heart breaking; the sound of the nucleus of her soul crumbling, shattering, disintegrating into nothing. She turned to face me, I could make out the dark green shade of her eyes in the orange ambient of the room.

  She smiled sweetly, but kept her eyes on mine. I took a step forward and she took one back.

  “Water and paracetamol. Take them before you sleep and you’ll be spared a hangover.”

  I looked at her throat as she worked on a swallow and her tongue dipped out and moistened her dry lips. My throat suddenly dried, imagining how she tasted. I licked my lips.

  “I don’t suffer from hangovers.”

  “Never?” Her eyes narrowed to small slits of scepticism.

  “Never.”

  I took another step forward. She took another back. And again. I approached her, stalking her like a predator, resisting the urge to circle her and go for the jugular. I could see it thumping beneath her golden skin; I imagined it pounding against my tongue as she surrendered to me. The back of her legs hit the windowsill and she jumped as the slats of the blind clattered against her back. She was momentarily distracted and I went in for the kill, trapping her with my hands on the wall either side of the narrow window.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I asked, dropping my voice so it vibrated from my throat and covered her neck in goosebumps.

  “I thought you needed help.”

  “With what?”

  The confident girl from Down Under had evaporated in the grasp of Cut Throat Curtis and was replaced by a timid Aussie girl, unsure of her next move. Or mine.

  “You said you needed a hand.”

  “I do.”

  I took hold of her wrist and brought it between us, clenching my jaw when she wrapped her hand around me and stroked slowly. She licked her damn lips again as her eyes dropped to where her hand coaxed me to harden further. I had to taste her. Crashing my lips to hers, I edged her further back until she slid onto the windowsill and wrapped her legs around me. She parted her lips; her tongue sneaked out and met mine. She beat me to it and it took me by surprise. Her hand gripped tighter, her other hand worked to undo my belt and still she tasted, explored and teased. She tasted sweet, like the lipgloss on her lips that left mine sticky when she dragged her mouth over my jaw and down to my neck.

  “Is this the kind of hand you were hoping for?” she whispered, her words rolling from her tongue and coating my neck in warmth.

  Her hands slid into my boxers, she tugged so they fell to my feet and she curled both hands around me.

  “Yeah,” I groaned, my knees quivered and my cock twitched in her hold.

  “So you do need help.”

  “Shut up,” I growled. “I don’t need words.”

  “Perhaps actions will speak louder.”

  It was like slow motion; like time had stopped, and I felt the control slip away. She pushed me, I lost my balance because my feet were tangled in my jeans and boxers, and I fell to the floor.

  Rochelle stood over me as I leaned up on my forearms and prepared to get up.

  “What the fuck?”

  One foot landed on my thigh, dangerously close – close enough to stop me in my tracks.

  Rochelle shook her head and mouthed, “No words.”

  A sultry smile spread across her lips; she crossed her arms in front of her, grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt and pulled.

  I felt the haze move in, watching as Rochelle took off her bra. I wanted to rear up and throw her to the nearest surface, but I was a deep breath away from a big toe in the scrotum – at this point it didn’t sound too bad. I needed release.

  She stepped away and I was entranced as she shimmied out of her trousers. Her hip bones protruded from beneath the waistband of the black lace that clung to her. Her legs were smooth, tight and golden, and I imagined them hooked over my shoulders as I feasted from her.

  She dropped to the floor with her knees either side of my thighs.

  “I’ve got you,” she purred, grasping me in her small hands and greedily working my shaft.

  My hips bucked as I reached down, swiping my fingertip over the wet patch on her pants. She opened her mouth, offering me her tongue and I let her taste the sticky heat coating my fingertip. She sucked hard, wrapping her tongue around the digit and nipped the end. I shuddered and she grasped my balls, rolling them under her palm.

  What happened to the shy, intimidated girl? This one was fierce, aggressive, in control. No – I banished the thoughts. Why should I give a fuck?

  “Suck it,” I demanded, laying my head back and closing my eyes.

  I felt my mind slip away from me; I set it free and found my escape as Rochelle squeezed, sucked and licked. I let myself go, spilling into her mouth and kept my eyes closed as I drifted further away.

  I opened my eyes wondering how I’d let myself fall asleep. I was still on the floor of Rochelle’s apartment, sprawled out on the carpet, my flaccid dick laid back on my stomach; the residue of my explosion made my skin tight, I could smell cherries and it made me feel sick. Rochelle was gone. I couldn’t remember anything. The last thing I remembered was her spitting what I gave her back out and spreading it down my shaft until I clasped her wrist and told her to stop. And then the darkness. And cold. The air gushed in through the now open window and the broken slats of her blind. Damn it, I’d have to replace that.

  I got up off the floor and shakily pulled my clothes on. I hated not remembering things. I hated not knowing if I’d succeeded in keeping up the act.

  “Water.”

  Rochelle made me jump and I turned to see her place a glass of water on the sideboard.

  “Uh…thanks,” I mumbled, scraping my hands through my hair.

  She’d changed into pyjamas. A pair of shorts that barely covered what curves she had, and a white t-shirt that was transparent enough for me to see the little brown buds begging for attention. My dick twitched to life so I counted to five before I got any closer to her. I thought I’d break her. I hoped I hadn’t. Emotional pain I could deal with but I never wanted to physically hurt a woman. I grabbed the glass and guzzled the lot.

  “Uh…”

  I didn’t know what to say; I never fell asleep. They always did. How was I supposed to sneak out with her watching me?

  “It’s just water.”

  “I know. I just-”

  She laughed. What?

  “You thought I expected you to stay?” She laughed again. “Oh no. Your cab is on the way.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at her, wondering if her blasé attitude was a defence mechanism.

  “You expected me to beg you not to leave? No, honey, you can go. You fuck women and you leave, I know your game. This time I blew your mind and now I’m telling you to leave.”

  She walked to the door and opened it wide, waiting for me to leave. I moved to the door and faced her once in the hallway.

  “Did we – I mean-”

  “Don’t worry.” She winked. “I got mine.”

  She shut the door in my face.

  What the fuck?

  I contemplated banging on the door; I had no idea why I wanted to, but I did. Badly. God damn it.

  I made my way out of her building after checking she hadn’t robbed me, and climbed into the back of the cab.

  I was confused. That had never happened to me before. I was the one in control of everything. I never got taken control of. How had she gotten hers? I didn’t remember. Is that what it felt like to be taken advantage of? If I was capable of emotion, it might have hurt. Was she trying to teach me a lesson? Christ only knew, but she’d screwed with my head. I couldn’t afford to be any more fucked up. I’d have to be more careful in future.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To swim in stagnant water or to take a leap and risk drowning…that was the question.

  December 22nd, 2004

  I got out of the cab and sneaked into the hou
se. I’d moved back in with Lois when Geoff shut down the gym. I relied on that building, on Geoff and all the boys in it, to give me some sort of sanity. I didn’t know what to do with myself when he shut up shop.

  I crept along the hallway and began climbing the stairs.

  “Where have you been?”

  I huffed and stepped back down. I walked into the lounge, where only the corner lamp next to Lois’ reader chair was on.

  “Phil.”

  “Where have you been?” He repeated.

  “Out.”

  “I can see that,” he stood from the armchair and walked towards me. “You stink.”

  “Yeah,” I grunted.

  Phil. Good old Uncle Phil was an asshole. Always had been. He was always sniffing around, asking what I was doing or where I was going.

  “Was she good?” He asked, sniffing again.

  “What?”

  “A girl has to be good if she’s worth throwing your life away for.”

  “Except I’m not doing that.”

  “Don’t forget where you came from, boy.” He stepped closer, until his vodka-scented breath brought the remains of the vodka I’d had to the back of my throat. “You’re an embarrassment.”

  “To who?” I tried to stay calm, but I wanted to hit him. I imagined the sound of his nose crunching under my fist,

  “To your aunt. To me.”

  “Why would I give a fuck about embarrassing you?”

  “I’m the one who raised you. You’re a disgrace.”

  I snorted.

  “That’s funny. Goodnight, Phil.”

  It took everything I had to walk away. I knew I was a disgrace, but who the hell did he think he was? He couldn’t stake claims on any credit for my upbringing. He refused to adopt me; it was no surprise that he was embarrassed by me – he always had been. It was Lois who raised me; he just paid for me. It was Lois who went to all the parent-teacher meetings, Lois who cheered at the end of school plays, even though I’d hidden at the back, refusing to play a part because I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. It was Lois who had patched me up after fights, Lois who fought to keep me in school. It was Lois who went with me to councillors and social workers, Lois who arranged things with Geoff, Lois who came to my fights, alone and afraid, just to support me.