Chapter Nine
Quinn - Present Day
My Immortal – Evanescence
Snapping back to reality, I shiver due to the temperature drop.
How do I know when it’s time?
Do I wait for a sign?
Is it my decision?
Do I let Herpes decide?
Like, how the fuck do I know the appropriate time to jump to my death? I’ve spent my entire life fantasising over this moment, so how is it that now I’m here, I don’t know what to do? Decisions cause me a paralysis I don’t think I could ever find the words to describe.
I attempt to stand on the side of the rickety bridge, nervous as to whether it will hold under my weight.
I realise that up until this moment I’ve barely described myself to you other than my hair or my eyes.
And that’s intentional, because while you may be reading my words, what if I describe myself in a way that repulses you?
Or a way that isn’t accurate, that deceives you into thinking I’m something I’m not, and then you hate me forever?
The wood cracks beneath me, and I still.
My breaths are paused as I wait to see if this is the universe giving me a sign that I don’t have to make the decision.
The wind has picked up, adding to the chill in the air, and it’s a lot darker now.
I can barely make out where the top of the lake begins, and the plummet to my death ends.
Thoughts race through my mind. Will anyone miss me?
Will people cry? What if no one comes to my funeral?
What about my books? Rational as always, Quinn.
You’re boring me now; get on with it.
“Oh, fuck off, Herpes.”
“Who the fuck is Herpes? And why would anyone call their child that? And while I’m getting the questions out there, why, may I ask, are you standing on the edge like you’re contemplating ending your life?”
Startled, I go to turn to see who is talking, but I lose my balance before I can see him, and almost in slow motion, I start to fall.
Stones crumble from under my feet, falling to their death, and I could swear I hear the wood snap.
A hand reaches out and grabs me by the back of my jumper, steadying me.
“Jesus Christ, woman, I was only asking a question. No need to actually jump.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t help but giggle.
My sense of humour has always been dark, but it tends to get frowned upon by the people around me.
It’s inappropriate and offensive, apparently.
Boo-fucking-hoo. My heart is racing ten to the dozen, my brain imploding from the spark of electricity his touch has caused to shoot through my body, and his voice is causing a reaction to my pussy I never even knew was possible. All without seeing his face.
Fuck me, he must be magic.
“If I let you go, can you at least sit down so you’re safer and promise not to jump until you hear me out?
It’s the least you deserve for the impending trauma you’re likely to inflict on me if you jump and I have to spend the rest of my life riddled with guilt at the fact that I’m a therapist who couldn’t save a suicidal girl from offing herself. ”
“You’re a therapist?”
“That’s what you’re taking from the entire conversation so far?”
“Well… For a start, you’re not wrong. I was planning on jumping.
I’ve been planning this for most of my life, actually, so it’s really rude of you to cause the interruption.
Secondly, if I jump and you feel guilty, how does that affect me?
I’ll be dead. So it sounds like a you problem.
” His grip on my jumper tightens, and I can feel myself being pulled back even further from the edge.
“You hope…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you obviously haven’t thought this through very clearly. First of all, you’re on the side of the bridge that leads to water and not the motorway, which tells me you don’t actually want to guarantee your death—”
“Not true. I just didn’t want to inflict the trauma of my decisions on anyone who was driving.”
“But you would inflict the trauma on handsome old me? Charming.”
“I still have my back to you. How do I know you’re handsome? You could be butt-fucking-ugly, and you still wouldn’t be able to stop me. What’s next?”
“What do you mean?” There’s a part of me that wants to turn around and bless myself with the face of the man that made me belly laugh for the first time since Tommo.
But there’s another part of me that knows how much the universe fucking hates me, and he will probably be the spitting image of my ex-husband or akin to my dad, so I stand here, still on the edge of the bridge, his hand entwined in the excess material of my jumper and engage the sassy side of my personality.
This boy has no idea what he’s got coming.
“Well, you said firstly, that implies there’s a second point coming. But, if you don’t mind, could you kindly get on with it? I’m fucking tired, and I just want to be done.”
“Oh, yeah, fair point. You’ll have to forgive me for being distracted by your suicidal traits.
Secondly, if you jump from here into that water, which is about 20ft away, you’re definitely going to break your ribs—ouch—the chances are your organs will tear, you’ll still be conscious, and then because you can’t breathe through the pain, you’ll more than likely drown, which is a fucking inhumane way to die.
And there’s no guarantee that would even work, so you’ll be in agony, floating in the water, waiting for some poor soul to find you before you become fish food, and therefore inflicting the trauma you say you so desperately don’t want to inflict onto someone else. ”
“Is it time for you to leave yet?”
“Oooohhh, she’s spicy. I like it. Turn around and sit down and I’ll think about it.”
I sigh. Clearly having lost the battle—at least for now—and using the grip he still has on my jumper, I step one foot back, balancing myself with my arms as I do.
“There you go. One more step and you’ll be back on level ground.”
“Don’t remind me.”
My feet meet the floor, and I take what feels like my first breath since I first heard his voice.
In all of the romance books I’ve read, I never understood what writers meant when they described a man’s voice as buttery, until now.
Smooth like butter is an understatement.
I want him to melt me down to liquid and whisk me back to life.
Still baffled by the feelings pulsating through my pussy and the goosebumps spreading across my skin, I turn to look at the man who just rudely interrupted my suicide mission.
My breath is stolen. I’m finished. Finito. Death has come upon me, and it was not self-inflicted. I’m unable to form a coherent sentence just by the look of him.
“What are you doing up here, anyway?” I ask.
“I was visiting my parents in the cemetery.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Ermmm, thanks?”
“Well, isn’t that what everyone says?”
“I suppose. It’s been a long time, so I suppose I don’t expect to hear it anymore. Now, back to you, want to tell me why you’re standing on the side of a derelict bridge looking like the whole world is against you?”
“Because it is…”