CHAPTER ONE
EBONY
Touched by death and being railed relentlessly by it are two very different things—I should know; I’ve experienced them both with an unfiltered clarity, getting a glimpse into the depravity that exists in this world should have broken me, and yet here I sit, pulling at the frayed sleeve of my cardigan, in this cab, willingly travelling back into the belly of the beast without a handcuff or court mandate in sight.
I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
Let’s go back to the town where everything fell apart - said no sane person ever. So why did I take the live in scholarship at the renowned Hells Haven University? A place I’ve been trying so hard to outrun for the past six years?
Simple. They were the only ones who offered me a shot at a future better than the one I’d already given up on. It’s not like I’ve got opportunities being handed to me on a silver platter.
The train passes us by fast enough that it’s just a blur of colours. The beeping alarm rings out, and the barrier lifts, the driver picking up speed the closer we get to the motorway.
I’ve been pinching myself since the day the letter arrived just to be sure it’s not another trick of my exhausted mind. Years of lugging around trauma have left my imagination broken, battered, and bleeding somewhere in the back of my brain. At this point, my grip on reality isn’t just slipping, it’s six feet deep in the ground, unlikely to ever rise again. I’d consider myself a pandora’s box of useless information but my therapist has assured me that it’s justhormonal intrigue, thankfully she has drugs for that.
Did you know that with the right accelerant, it takes precisely one hour and twenty-two minutes for a fire to consume a grown man and reduce him to a pile of ash and bone? The fact that I know that should unsettle me, but it doesn’t. I watched the flames smother my secrets, reducing them and the truth of that day to tittering judgemental whispers in our small coastal town. For six months, I had to bear witness to the downfall of my character, finally waving goodbye to the first place I had ever found a semblance of comfort. I had hoped my traumas would die alongside Nathaniel Turner that day, but the reality of my devastating existence from then on only proved that even from the grave, I’d never truly be free of him.
I increase the volume on my phone and rest my head back against the seat.
The sombre voice filling my ears is calm with a friendly authoritativeness to it. Yet another self-help book suggested to me by my therapist Joy. A woman who hassworn off all men, lives in a yurt, and owns twelve cats shouldn’t be dolling out life advice, in my opinion, but then there is an irony to our polar opposite brands of crazy. The universe certainly likes to keep things interesting, and Joy Chambers is certainly interesting.
‘You are not your past. You are not ruled by your suffering. You are the leader of your healing journey.’
Right. Leader. Sure. Like an emotionally unstable life coach powered by insomnia and spite who got their degree via a coupon cut out of the back of a cereal box. Anyone willing to be led by me deserves the therapy bills that are sure to follow.
‘If it no longer serves you, let it go.’The voice attempts to soothe me, but it fails miserably. I’ve been clinging to my trauma for so long now, it’s practically my comfort blanket. I don’t know who I am without it.
The breathy laugh the narrator tags on shouldn’t aggravate me, but it does. I can’t handle that much whimsy this early in the day.‘Healing is a journey. It isn’t straightforward. If it was, we’d all be doing it.’
No fucking kidding.
My life is like a rollercoaster powered by my traumatised inner child randomly pushing buttons at the first sign of every inconvenience. It’s a ride I’m forced to repeat every damn day, whether I like it or not. The fact that I’m still here, buckling up for the shitshow with even a modicum of spirit should count for something though, right?
‘What doesn’t kill you only mak—’ I swipe at the screen and delete the audiobook, sick to the back teeth of hearing that exact line repeated time after time. It’s likethese people have never actually experienced what they preach about, just regurgitating the same bullshit over and over again. It doesn’t make you stronger, it makes you internalise your loneliness, it makes you rough around the edges and unable to detect true human emotion, or at least that’s what it did to me.
He could have killed me, if I hadn’t fought back. Maybe that would have been the best outcome for everyone.
Unplugging my earphones, I shove them back into my bag. I close my eyes and sigh as the wind rushes through the window and hits my face. That panicked split second where your lungs can’t regulate a solid inhale reminding me that I’m alive.
Raised in a cult, under suspicion of arson since I was sixteen, and left to rot in the care system aren’t exactly what the reputable alumni at Hells Haven University are looking for in their promising student body—and yet here I am, with all my worldly possessions crammed into a battered suitcase that is older than I am, with the fancy paper invitation secured between my fingers as though I fear it growing wings and flying away.
Leaving behind everything I know was an easy choice to make, but sitting here, my life summed up with a handful of useless objects and haunted by the memories of my past, it serves as a cruel reminder that I haven’t made my mark on the world yet.
Poor little Ebony. Always the victim.
Who needs enemies when your own brain is against you?
I want more; I need more.
More courage, more opportunities. Just more.
A work in progress.
“No one to see you off?” the cab driver notes with far too much glee in his tone. I know he’s only making small talk; I’ve not exactly been a chatty passenger.
Surprisingly—to no-one ever—highlighting my lack of a support system isn’t warming me any.
“Just little old me,” I reply softly with a sad smile. Hoping that will be the end of our interaction. My gut reaction to flip him off and sulk at the reminder that I’m all alone in this world fades the longer he holds my gaze. The bags under his eyes, his mussed hair, the empty coffee cups littering the dashboard—this man doesn’t need nor deserve my snark. It doesn’t stop the reality of my situation from slicing at me though.
