Chapter Two
Quinn - Present Day
My brother works in a tiny little side-street garage.
He’s always been good with his hands, not academic in the bookish sense like I was, but able to learn anything practical after being shown just once.
It’s his most infuriating quality. The way my brain works when it comes to practical things is that it needs to be shown umpteen times step by step.
And I have the toxic trait that after watching one video on social media, I automatically can do whatever was in that video on my first attempt.
I’m quite simply fucking delulu. He comes home every night, stinking of engine oil, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne bought from the local store.
I can’t quite place the scent, like a mixture of disinfectant and the woods.
It’s quite creepy when you think of it that way, actually.
The two biggest things that tend to be incorporated in murders are what he smells like.
My entire life I’ve said he’s a psychopath; maybe I was unknowingly predicting the future—stranger things have happened.
You’re the psychopath, Quinnyyyy.
I kinda like the one guy he works with, Keelan.
Dane, on the other hand, is quiet and grumpy; he fills me with an anxiety I can’t quite place.
They’re polite and respectful, with genuinely enough sarcastic humour to fuel their own stand-up comedy show.
Keelan and I have a healthy level of banter—much to my brother's disdain—probably bordering on flirtation, to be honest. Dane and I rarely talk, but he and my brother are constant attendees of The Inside Joke Club when I’m around.
They’re conventionally attractive, but not really my type.
Not that I have one, I don’t think. I’m all about the person rather than the canvas.
You wouldn’t be their type if you were the last woman on earth, piggly wig.
As always, I can rely on the voices torturing my mind to remind me I’m worthless and will amount to nothing but the names that people have called me throughout my life. Jokes on them, though, because pigs are intelligent creatures.
“Hey, guys. I brought you coffee!”
“Thanks, Darl, you’re an angel.” Keelan’s voice is smooth like butter and has always filled me with a warmth I can’t separate from attraction or affection. Dane, on the other hand, grunts as always, his eyes raking over my body like I’m a three-course meal on a platter before him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Eric’s voice pierces the silence from behind me. I jump, spilling the hot coffee on my hand.
“I brought you a drink.”
“I don’t want your fucking drink. I don’t want anything from you, Quinn.”
“That’s a bit harsh, bro. She’s just being nice.” Keelan, always the one to fight my corner, pipes up.
“Did I ask for your fucking opinion? She’s my sister, and she’s always around. She needs to get a life. Get her own fucking friends.”
“What did I ever do to you, Eric?”
“You make our lives hell.”
“I can hardly help the fact that I have health issues.” Anxiety starts to build in my body, and I find myself reaching into my bag for an anxiety pill to try and calm me down.
My fingers curl around the metal pill packet, but not wanting to draw attention to it, I pop the tablet into my fingertips and reach for my drink.
I balance the small yellow tablet on the lip of my cup and take one swig, and then another, ensuring enough liquid to help me swallow.
“Health issues are debatable, Quinn. Whatever gets you the most attention is what’s wrong with you.
You think I didn’t just see you take tablets?
You think you’re sly. But to be a good liar, you have to remember the lies you tell, and you never can.
Losing weight would be a start at turning your health around. ”
I feel the blush of embarrassment burn across my cheeks at being caught.
I hid myself taking the medication because of this.
Their behaviour. It doesn’t matter what evidence is put before them; they never believe me.
Gone are the days when a diagnosis got me love and empathy. Now, it just gets me torn apart.
“You disagreeing with a diagnosis doesn’t equal me being a liar. You think I don’t try to lose weight. I’ve tried everything I possibly can, and it just piles back on. Being fat doesn’t make me a bad person.”
“Ok, Quinn, whatever you say, you know where the door is. You two, get back to work.”
He storms off in the direction of his office without so much as a second glance.
“I’m sorry, Quinn. I don’t know why he’s like this when it comes to you.
” Keelan looks torn, like he wants to go after his friend, but feels the need to look after the damaged big sister.
He reaches over to brush my arm before turning back to the car he was working on when I arrived. “Thanks for the coffee, Quinny.”
“It’s been the same for years. At some point, my mum dripped her poison a little too convincingly, and he’s never looked at me the same again. She rewrote history, and that’s all he needs.” My tone is sombre; the sadness taking hold.
“Maybe you should take note of the common denominator and work on yourself. When one person is a constant in the issues in different relationships, it speaks volumes. You, know, if you couldn’t talk and were half the size, you’d be quite the catch.
” Dane, ever the sympathiser, follows his best friend to the office, nudging past me as he does so.
The goosebumps that skitter across my skin’s surface don’t feel nice; it’s almost how I would imagine I would feel in the presence of a predator.
My brother has a dislike for me that I’ve never quite understood.
It started in childhood. We would have moments where we were like your average siblings, photographic evidence of us cuddling or asleep together, but those moments never lasted.
I craved his love; he craved my demise. The first time I ever experienced his violence was a few weeks before an almost-tragedy hit our family, and he was four—sounds terrifying, right?
Your reflection is terrifying.
Realistically, it’s probably more like hatred. He’s the chosen one. The wanted one.
Can you blame them? An abortion would have been kinder—to them.
So, it makes no sense. I’m left to my own devices, and I have been since I was old enough to be left in charge of him.
I’m the eldest. Chosen to help run the house and pay the bills.
I didn’t get the choice of a dream career or something I loved to do as he did.
To inherit a business I loved and was privileged enough to be a part of was something I wasn’t deemed worthy of.
You’re not worthy of anything, you crazy bitch.
I was told I would work in the local bookshop, and that was that.
“Stay local, Quinn,” or “Don’t go too far, Quinn,” and “You never know when your family may need you, Quinn.” Don’t get me wrong, the bookshop is one of my favourite places—a place where I can dream—it’s quaint, quiet, whimsical, almost, but a small shop in a tiny little town is never going to help me shoot for the stars.
I have dreams to write, to create, to paint the faces of people all over the world, enhancing their beauty like I’ve taught myself to do in my darkest moments, so that I could have a moment of relief from the body dysmorphia before it reared its ugly head, just like my ex-husband.