Chapter One
Quinn - Present Day
“Die, bitch, die!” Stomp.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Stomp.
“You ruined fucking everything!” Stomp.
“Maybe this will be enough to keep you away…” Stomp.
The world goes black. I’m unable to function. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Another foot to my chest winds me beyond comprehension, and before I know it, blood splutters from my mouth as I try desperately to swallow the oxygen I need to survive.
This isn’t what I was expecting. I was supposed to meet my brother after work.
He sent me a text, telling me we needed to talk; that he had something to tell me.
And like the dutiful big sister I have always been—despite the fact that he’s always been a shitty little brother—I dropped everything to be there.
But there’s no one here. I’ve lost hours of time.
I have vague recollections littering my mind, but no concrete images.
Words that are automatically making sentences, but no knowledge as to whether the events actually happened, or whether I’m quite literally losing my mind.
I’m standing on the corner of the street, darkness littering the skies, rain drenching my skin, with no idea where I am, and my clothes ripped; my hands and knees scraped.
It’s obvious something happened, but what?
I pat down my body, wincing, hissing at the sting from the cuts on my hands that I hadn’t even noticed, feeling for my phone.
It’s in my pocket, so it’s obvious I wasn’t mugged.
Before I give myself time to spiral, I pull it out and tap into WhatsApp, scrolling until I find my conversation with Millie, my best friend since forever, and the one person I know I can rely on.
It’s not until this moment that I realise how long it’s been since we’ve spoken.
Actually, it’s been weeks. How did that happen?
Me: Help me, please. I need you.
I attach a picture of some of my injuries and my torn clothes so she can see the urgency in my message.
I see the two ticks to show it’s delivered, then the blue ones to indicate it’s been read.
And then the profile picture and the dreaded bubbles that show someone is typing start bobbing along the screen—it’s usually my least favourite part of texting. Nowadays, they can see when you’re replying; they know when you’re online, everything is trackable.
And then they stop.
Then they start again.
And then they stop—and that’s how it’s left.
No reply, no phone call, no coming to my rescue in the way I would have for her.
The screen is shaking in my hand because of the adrenaline coursing through my body, causing me to shiver.
It’s becoming clear that I’m losing touch with reality, losing time. What was seconds or minutes is quickly becoming hours or weeks.
And I have nowhere to turn.