Strength

by Daws, Amy

  “Not this time, mongrel,” I say, patting his head before applying one last layer of mascara.

  I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type, like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.

  Still, my dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.

  Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything.

  MY EYES BLINK SLOWLY AGAINST the spotlights, searching for the clock on the far wall of the ballroom that I saw when I came in from the back. I know I have a watch on my wrist because I never go anywhere without it. But for some reason, I feel the need to confirm the time on another clock every place I go.

  To ensure that the time continuum hasn’t failed.

  To ensure that where I’m standing right now is real life.

  To ensure that I am still alive.

  And to ensure the fact that my incessant wish to erase moments from my past still hasn’t come true.

  I know it was crap for me to skip the mingling portion of the fundraising event, but I am too fucking nervous to sit with everyone and visit like it is a normal Friday night. This night is anything but normal. I’ll talk to everyone afterwards. Lord knows I’ll have to. They’ve all been texting me to make sure I’m okay. My mum, my younger sister, Daphney, my brother, Theo, and Leslie. I shoot a quick text back to Leslie to let her know that Marisa was fast asleep when I left her with the sitter at their flat. I ignore all the others.

  Touching the inside of my wrist concealed beneath my dark brown leather cuff, the texture of the ridged scar sends a churning through my stomach. Before I have a chance to close my eyes and slip back to that moment, I hear the master of ceremonies announce my name.

  “And now, a word from one of our generous benefactors, Mr. Hayden Clarke.” The woman’s voice cracks on the end of my name, and I bite back the growing urge to roll my eyes. This woman knows I’m not one of the actual benefactors—my parents are the ones mostly involved. This woman also knows that I’m considered the tragic, wayward son whom everyone watches like a ticking time bomb. They’re all bloody terrified of what I’m about to say.

  Maybe they should be.

  I stride across the shiny wooden stage, adjusting my black Windsor tie and fastening the button on my navy tuxedo jacket. I left it undone on purpose to give my hands something to do. It’s a small attempt at feigning a level of confidence. Power. Intimidation.

  Don’t let them see you shake. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them see you weak. You’re not weak anymore. You’re different. You’re healed.

  The woman’s plump cheeks widen, making me cringe at the fake warmth she’s radiating. She offers me a curt British smile. The British are always polite. Always controlled. And always on guard. Maybe that’s why I always feel oddly around them, like I don’t belong.

  I’ve always hated surface shit.

  That fact alone is probably why last year I fell hopelessly in love with the dark and ominous American dust storm that is Reyna Miracle Miller. Reyna whited out everything around me. She kept me in a dark vortex where I could see nothing but her, and us, and the misery that we lived in every time our bodies connected. The desolation in which I lived in with Rey felt real and right at the time. It felt like home. I was exhausted by the superficial airs that were so common in my family. Reyna was anything but surface. Reyna was dark, and twisted, and sad, and just as fucked-up as me. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

  Ignoring the painful slice I feel in my heart every time I think about Rey, I nod pleasantly at the woman as she steps away from the podium and I fill her space. I squint against the spotlights and see that the ballroom is covered in white linens, low-hanging chandeliers, and splashes of dark purple floral centrepieces on each table. My eyes settle on the table front and centre and land on my mother. Even from up here, I can see how nervous she is. My father is doing a proper job at appearing strong and regal. Next to my mum is Daphney, Theo, and, of course, Leslie. I avoid looking at the table next to them because I know exactly who’s sitting there.

  I know her face better than I should. I used to watch Rey sleep. I could even tell when she was dreaming. Her eyeballs would flicker rapidly behind her lids, and she’d let out gut-wrenching cries that made me beg the universe for some magical power that would grant me a look inside her head. I was desperate to know more than just her physical beauty. She has long dark hair and a curvy bombshell figure, plus an entire sleeve of tattoos on one arm and three black roses on her shoulder and collarbone. I had my suspicions about the meaning behind all her ink, but we never discussed them. We never discussed much. Her grey eyes held millions of secrets that she never shared with me. Our relationship was much more carnal, and I was too frozen in my own misery to ever push for more.

  By the time I was able to admit to myself that I was in love with her, it was too late. Now she’s engaged to my brother’s best mate, Liam Darby, and I’m at a suicide gala giving a bloody survivor speech.

  Fuck me.

  Clearing my throat, I stare into the spotlights and begin the speech I’ve been reciting in my head for months now. “One year ago today, as my watch struck the hour of 11:11, I dragged a blade across both of my wrists.”

  A soft gasp emits from somewhere in the room, and I pause to let my amplified words settle in over the audience. I glance sideways at the announcer standing off stage. Her eyes flare nervously and I clench my jaw to conceal the smirk threatening my lips.

  “It’s quite a laugh, really…Well, not the trying to kill myself part. That was the opposite of comedy. But what’s funny is that when I volunteered to be the keynote speaker for this evening, the charity gave me a list of trigger words. Taboo phrases they advised me not to say. They gave me suitable alternatives for things like kill myself, slitting my wrists, and even blood.”

  My eyes ache to look over at Rey to see her reaction, but I resist. She’s not a part of my life anymore. Her approval isn’t what I need to be healthy. It’s not why I’m doing this.

  “But since I’m a Clarke and this is our benefit, I’m doing this speech my way. So if any of you are afraid of a trigger or whatever sod all word they give for things that are uncomfortable, this is your chance to exit.”

  Chairs shift in the audience as the ballroom full of British tight-arses begin to squirm in their seats. I can just hear the old birds saying silently, “Oh heavens, I want to go, but that might appear rude!”

  “If Madge is staying, I’m bloody well staying, too!”

  “Blimey, Victoria knew I was wearing blue. How could she wear it, too?”

  When I see no one attempting to leave, I continue. “It was this exact night a year ago—this same charity, this same ballroom—that I walked out of, stumbled into a cab pissed out of my mind, and headed through the streets of London. The entire ride, I looked at the driver and thought to myself, ‘He’s got no idea he’s driving a dead man.’

  “I arrived at my brother’s furniture shop, grabbed a small, circular saw blade he used for trim work, and drug it across each one of my wrists.” A faint cough echoes in the distance, and I sigh heavily at the ridiculousness that normal things like coughing still happen while I’m up here revealing the incredible fucking darkness in my soul. “You see, I was at the end of a dark and depressing tunnel that I had been living in for several years.” I pause momentarily to collect myself for my big
moment of truth. The most painful truth that I still struggle with to this day.

  “Four years ago, I was part of a horrific accident that took my sister’s life.” My voice cracks and I frown at the annoying emotions that overcome me. I let my chin hit my chest and suck the insides of my cheeks in between my teeth and bite down. The spongy bounce on my inner cheeks smarts and distracts me enough to continue.

  “I still have difficulty labelling what happened to my sister as an accident. It truly was an accident, but that’s a tough pill to swallow when you were the one behind the wheel. Why did it have to be her? Why did I have to be driving by just as she came around the house? So many ripple effects from all the choices we both made that resulted in that one moment. That’s an incredibly hard result to live with, which is likely why I spiralled out of control for so many years.

  “Booze and pills became my best mates, even landing me in the hospital for several weeks at one point. So when shit really hit the fan in my personal life, slitting my wrists seemed like the answer.”

  I pause again as I recall that one dark night with Reyna when I could feel her slipping away from me. I could feel her leaving me, and I knew I wasn’t good enough to make her stay. I knew her heart wasn’t mine to care for because I was nothing. I wasn’t important enough for her to love fully. That was my breaking point. I had hated myself for so long because of what I did to my sister that when I finally accepted the fact that I couldn’t be loved by even someone as dark and twisted as Rey, it truly was the end.

  “The pain was minimal at first. Just a wincing sort of ache. Then it spread like wildfire to a burning, sweltering rage. I remember this strange twinge in my shoulders as the blood flooded out of my body and hit the concrete floor beneath me. When I looked down at the sea of red around my shiny dress shoes, I forgot about the pain. I forgot about the cause. I forgot about everything leading up to this one incredibly profound moment. This one moment that I chose was permanent. In that one moment, I had finally erased my life forever.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mum clap her hand over her mouth. Her eyes strain against the tears flowing out of them. She’s heard this story before, but I imagine hearing it without any interruption from my therapist is probably a great deal different.

  “But dying that night was all right by me. That was the point, right? The gruesome blade had provided its service. It had yielded my death in a dramatic and manly fashion. I wasn’t sure how long it took to die, though. This was my first proper go at it. My watch still said 11:11 when my blinking started to feel sticky. It felt as though I was one second closer to not opening them ever again. One second closer to my requested death.”

  I clear my throat and push back every shred of emotion attempting to erupt inside of me. Christ, not now, Hayden! Get your shit together. I grip my leather cuffed wrists and touch the face of my watch. “Just when I thought I was about to die, she arrived.” My eyes drift down the stage and land on Leslie. Her auburn hair lies softly around her shoulders, framing her face and accentuating her perfectly sincere smile. Leslie doesn’t smile like the British. She smiles like the beautiful, vulnerable, and quirky American that she is.

  She gives me the tiniest nod, and it’s like I’m transported back to that night all over again. “She wasn’t the woman occupying my thoughts in that moment,” I continue, staring straight into Leslie’s watery green gaze. “She was simply…reality.”

  I break eye contact and look down at my hand that’s now gripping the edge of the podium like I could break it. “You see, I knew I had loads of people who cared about me, but I couldn’t believe any of them. Not one. I was too entrenched in my emotional world of misery and horror. I felt alone, and pointless, and utterly wasted here on this earth. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I wanted nothingness. I wanted fucking oblivion.”

  I snap out of my private reverie when I realise my very blatant curse. My mother shoots me a proper scowl, and I purse my lips to reel myself back in. “Having someone walk in on you just as you’ve thrashed your wrists to ribbons is ten times worse than having someone walk in on you in the loo. It’s horrifying and you curse yourself for not locking the bloody door. Why didn’t I lock the door? Why did she come in at that time?

  “Regardless of the whys, the way she looked at me—the way her terrified gaze met mine—made me realise far too late that I was living in the wrong world. Seeing myself through her eyes made me desperate to take it all back. I wanted to save this poor woman from the absolute pain that my choice was causing her.”

  Leslie shakes her head at me incredulously as we have a silent conversation amongst the several hundred people in the audience. My brother, Theo, moves to wrap a protective arm around her shoulder. He pulls her to him and I see a small tear slip out from beneath his glasses. My heart lurches at the sight. There’s something utterly raw and humbling about witnessing your strong, older brother break down. His love for me after everything that’s happened still floors me. It crushes me in the most vulnerable and real way. The honesty of it is almost too much for me to take.

  Leslie’s eyes don’t flicker to Theo’s, though. They stay locked on mine in a silent chastisement. I quickly continue before she marches on stage and curses me out for apologising for what I put her through, because Leslie Lincoln is just the type to do that.

  “This woman who walked in on me skidded to the floor in an evening gown and scooped me up. She held my head in her lap and my life in her hands as her real, wet tears dripped onto my face.”

  I close my eyes and recall her shaky hands holding my wrists tightly to help stop the flow of blood. Her frantic fumbling to call 999 on her phone. Her crying. Her questioning. Her pain. I laid there lifelessly watching this nearly perfect stranger desperate to save my life.

  “I realised in that moment that reality and emotions can live in entirely different worlds.” I frown, desperate for the audience to understand exactly what I feel so strongly in my heart. “And nothing was more real than what I had just done to this poor innocent person. Watching her cry as she stood above me was more painful than the slits I had carved into my wrists. It was more painful than the pain I felt in my heart leading up to that moment. Living in the world of my misery and wanting to leave it was unrealistic. I was running away. And looking into the eyes of just one person who gave a damn—especially someone who didn’t know me all that well at the time—was such a beautiful reality that I didn’t even know existed.”

  I clench my jaw to stop the tears that like to surface every time I picture Leslie in that one horrendous moment. The agony I put her through is soul-crushing. But it’s also exactly what makes my decision to continue living so incredibly easy. I never want to put that hurt on her face again, or anyone else’s for that matter.

  “I can’t take away the pain that I’ve caused everyone close to me, but I can continue to fight the darkness that I nearly let swallow me whole. And I’m not just doing it for myself. I’m doing it for the person who saved my life…and for the person who lost hers.”

  Flashes of my older sister, Marisa, and her wild blonde hair blast through my thoughts, and my chest does the strange shuddering thing it does every time I think about her.

  “I couldn’t even say my sister’s name a year ago,” I croak and reach down to touch my cuffs again. “But now I’m able to say her name every single day.” I smile, picturing Baby Marisa and her red, peach-fuzzed head and huge round cheeks. “And saying her name feels a hell of a lot better than that blade did across my wrists.”

  I look up and the audience seems completely frozen. No stopping now, Hayden. You’re nearly finished. “Most people would assume I wear these cuffs to hide my scars,” I say, holding both my wrists up. “But the truth is I wear them to band my reality to me. And my new reality…is to live everyday…for Marisa.”

  I pause as an awkward silence stretches across the room. I’m faced with the emotional and uncomfortable looks of an audience unsure whether to applaud or stay silent. T
hey stay silent, which I’m grateful for. This isn’t something to applaud. Not everything needs a pretty fucking bow at the end.

  I walk off the stage without another glance at anyone, willing myself to hold my head high. As soon as I’m concealed behind the curtain, I bend over and take in huge gulps of air. I did it. I fucking did it. I said I could and I did. No one thought I should. Not my mother or my doctor. Not even Leslie. But I proved to them what I was desperate to prove to myself.

  I’m not weak anymore.

  BLOODY HELL.

  Bloody, bleeding, blimey hell.

  I quickly swipe over my cheeks and realise that my face is drenched with tears.

  That’s Hayden Clarke.

  The Hayden Clarke who is Theo’s brother.

  The Hayden Clarke whom I’ve been fantasising about ever since I ran into him two weeks ago. How the bloody hell did I not know anything about his backstory? Leslie never mentioned a thing about what happened to him. She did mention them becoming closer over the last year, but I thought that seemed normal since she is engaged to his brother. I had no idea what was going on in their family.

  Why the hell didn’t I ask what the event was raising money for? Not that it would have changed anything. I was desperate to see Hayden again to know if that initial spark I felt before was real or a figment of my imagination. I never would have suspected that he—Lord, I can’t even finish the thought.

  “Did you know any of that?” Benji leans over and hiccups loudly. The scent of alcohol permeates heavily from his breath.

  I look away and murmur, “Not a drop.”

  Benji better cool it on the booze. The night is still young.

  “Blimey,” he slurs and looks back attentively toward the announcer who’s resumed her post. She informs everyone there will be a small break before the auction portion of the evening begins.

  I look around the table where we’re seated. The dim chandeliers cast a warm glow, doing a proper job of concealing everyone’s emotional distress. Regardless, it’s obvious the entire ballroom is visibly shaken by Hayden’s speech. Reyna suddenly stands up from our table and turns for the exit, her body moving lithely past the occupied seats. Her fiancé, Liam, watches her with a sad look in his eyes.