Chapter Thirty-Seven
Harley - Present Day
What they don’t prepare you for when you’re training is how it will feel when you see someone you care for going through treatment. In fact, they teach you NOT to treat the people you love. But I’m learning thick and fast that where my little magpie is concerned. the rules don’t apply.
Sitting opposite Quinn and watching her gradually, properly relax is thought-provoking.
How long has she been walking around with her shoulders hunched over trying to shrink herself from view?
How many years has she spent thinking she’s unworthy of the space she takes up?
It boils my blood that people have had the audacity to treat her this way.
I want to string every single one of them up and use them as fairy lights for our first Christmas together. Maybe even tie her up in them.
I mean her first Christmas as a free woman, of course.
Stop judging me. I can feel your eyes burning into me through the pages as you roll them at my bullshit.
Just let me live in the land of delusion for a few more days.
I need to get to the other side of this, and then I can ravage her body within an inch of her life and then bring her back from the brink once again.
Eww. I’m a cheesy cunt. What the fuck?
Gone is the man who didn’t need a woman.
The independent man who put his work first. I’ve dated here and there, but in my adult life I’ve never really experienced love.
As a kid, however, that’s a different story.
And if I’m honest, she ruined me for everyone else.
I’ve spent years trying to track her down on social media or hoping to bump into her, now I’m back in town.
But we never used each other’s real names, and we weren’t in the same class, so I don’t even know her full name.
My entire school career, I was the subject of bullies, so it’s not like I can dial up an old school friend and dig for information. And we don’t do yearbooks in the UK.
Class photos, yes. But when your parents leave you as an orphan at the age of twelve, the last thing you think about is rescuing the photos before you’re yeeted onto the street to fend for yourself.
But then there was Quinn, and that girl from when I was a kid, all but vanished from my memory. Some may say that makes me fickle, but when the girl of my dreams lands in my lap, I say I’d be a fucking idiot to turn that away.
I’m nervous for this treatment. Nervous about what I’m going to hear. Nervous about what she’s going to remember. Terrified that I may do more damage than good. But this is genuinely the best way I think we can help her.
“Quinn, can you hear me?” She nods slowly. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel lighter. I feel like I’m floating. Like I’m looking at myself from above. But I’m ready.”
“What’s the safe word, Quinn?”
“Magpie.”
“Good girl. If at any point you want to stop, just say it and we’ll end the session. Okay. What’s the first memory that comes to mind when you think of your mum and Eric?”
“Her attempted suicide.”
“Tell me about it. Take yourself back to that moment and talk me through it. What did you see, feel, hear? Who was there with you? What did you take away from that moment?
Quinn - Present Day
I take a deep breath. Reaching for Ted’s ears, I close my eyes. “Okay. Here goes.”
Quinn - Age 11 - 17 years ago
“Mum? Mum, where are you? I’m hungry!” I’ve been at school all day, I forgot my lunch, the bullies were in full force, and I’m over my life.
Dramatic? Maybe. Justified? Yes.
It’s one of the very rare days I didn’t have to pick up my little brother Eric, which I’m grateful for.
I love my little brother, but some days I wonder if he was born a psychopath.
The older he gets, the more violent, but he’s like a Jekyll and Hyde character, selective about who he shows it in front of.
He’s an angel in my mother's eyes and a typical boy in my dad’s.
Between her having me and getting pregnant with Eric, she suffered a loss at ten weeks.
I don’t really know much about it, because I was young, but the pregnancy just didn’t take.
It must have been devastating, but she covered it up, and I only found out because I found a scan picture in the bin.
Overnight, my mother became depressed and mean.
It didn’t matter what I did; nothing was ever good enough.
All she wanted to do was spend money, sleep, and cry.
And then when the tears ran dry, the anger came in full force.
“Muuuuum!!!!” There’s no answer. Silence.
Nothing but the ticking of the clock and the calls of the kids playing in the park behind our house.
Usually, when I say I’m hungry, there’s a sarcastic response, “You’re always hungry,” or “Maybe you should eat less and lose some weight.” There’s always some kind of fat-shaming remark designed to make me embarrassed by my body or the way I look.
At the age of eleven, I’m what most would call blessed with puppy fat.
Or big bones. “Leave her alone, Andrea. She’s just big-boned,” or “The girl’s just hit her puppy fat stage; it will melt off when she’s older.
” The funny thing is, my mum is a size twenty-four, and has struggled with her weight since after she had me.
She’s hidden all evidence of herself before and after her pregnancy, and refuses to take any photographs.
I ruined her body, made her fat, yada, yada, yada.
My boobs have been blooming since I was ten and a half, and I have yet to start my period, but the cramps I suffer from tell me that it won’t be long.
My body spends three weeks out of the month bloated, inflamed and exhausted.
I live in belts or elasticated waists because she refuses to buy me any clothes in my actual size, always trying to convince me I’m bigger than I am and buying a size or two up for me to ‘grow into’.
Unfortunately for me, it warped my body image, and when I look in the mirror, I have the inability to see what everyone else sees. All I see is a body full of fat cells swollen beyond belief.
I don’t see my blue eyes that sparkle in the sun and change colour based on my mood and the weather.
I don’t see my long, curly, virgin ginger hair, which she refuses to teach me how to style for fear it will make me look better.
I don’t see the waist that pulls my body into an apple shape that many bigger girls would kill for, and I definitely don’t see the way my angled cheekbones accentuate my face.
Nope. I don’t see any of that. And neither she nor my dad does anything to help combat my body dysmorphia, nor are they aware that the backhanded compliments I receive are the very words that send me into a tailspin, hunting the bathroom for a razor blade to feel some temporary relief.
And to be honest, she wouldn’t care. She’d probably teach me the correct way to cut so she wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.
As for my dad, at this point, I don’t think anything will shock him into action.
We live in a quiet cul-de-sac, in a tiny town that isn’t actually a town but more a city because of the landmarks that it contains—and I only know that because I recently learnt it at school.
The silence is eerie. She’d normally be waiting on the sofa to swoon over Eric about the latest terrible picture he wants hung on the fridge.
Yes, I know, I’m bitter. Do you blame me?
As you walk through the front door of our house, you’re in a hallway.
It’s square, big enough to remove your shoes—god forbid your shoes touch my mother's carpet, you’ll die—but it leads to the stairs, and on the right is a doorway to the front room—or the lounge if you’re from the posher part of town, which is decorated like all the different facets of my mother's personality spewed up in one place.
On the other side of the front room is a door to the kitchen and dining room.
It’s an open space, decorated with white walls, an orange-ish lino floor, and cream tiles.
The cupboards are stained wood, and curtains decorate the windows.
Of course, the crockery matches the decor.
There’s a door to the back garden, which is a pretty decent size.
A few of my brother’s toys are scattered across the lawn, but not many, and two rabbit hutches.
We only need one nowadays since I woke up one day and mine was dead.
Dad said he died from the cold weather, but it was summer, so I don’t believe him.
I think it was Eric. The remaining rabbit, Horatio, is my dad's—not that he ever looks after him; it’s usually me.
When you first go up the stairs, directly in front of you is the door to the bathroom; the basket of washing stands in the corner, neat and tidy, of course, because we would never risk the wrath.
We have one bathroom in the entire house, which makes mornings interesting.
It has a bath as well as a shower, though, so some would consider us rich in choice.
Past the bathroom is my bedroom door. I’m a typical girl, so it’s all decorated accordingly.
I’ve already got foundation and mascara on my carpet from my experimenting with makeup I secretly bought with birthday money.
Not that anyone knows because I’m a pro at hiding from consequences.
I’ve had to learn that lesson hard and fast. Next door to me is my parents' room, and I don’t want to talk about what I hear happening in there at night—mostly arguing, thankfully, because eww sex.
I don’t need any more psychotic siblings, thank you very much.
I’m a reader, so everything I know about sex I’ve learnt myself, mainly from Flowers In The Attic by Virginia Andrews or a priest and a novice getting it on in The Long Road Home by Danielle Steel.
That one had my cheeks blushing, let me tell you.
The internet is a newer addition to our house and is only allowed for homework because you can’t use the house phone at the same time.
But I’m a sly, silent researcher. There are no birds and the bees chats in our house. Not for me, anyway.
In between our doors is the stairway to Hell. Or Eric’s bedroom, if you want to be accurate. He is the Devil, after all. I don’t go up there anymore, not after the last time. But I’ll tell you about that later.
I sit on the bottom step to remove my shoes, hang my coat up, and step onto the soft carpet that covers the stairs, my hunger forgotten and an inexplicable anxiety building in my body.
I always forget that the fourth step creaks, and I’m reminded as I step onto it.
Not that I need to be creeping around, but something feels off.
As I get to the top of the steps, I notice that the bathroom door is shut.
Usually, when I don’t have to pick up Eric, he’s already here when I get home, and I can hear them conspiring like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but there’s not so much as a cackle.
I put my ear to the door as I go past, but it’s quiet, like no one is in there, so I make my way to my parents' room.
The door is shut, which is strange, and as I push down the handle of the door, the metal is strikingly cold to the touch.
Nothing could have ever possibly prepared me for the scene laid out in front of me.
Eric is lying in bed, sleeping. But as I walk closer, I can see tablets sprawled across the bedside table as if they’ve tumbled from the brown plastic pot that’s balancing on its side. His face is sweaty, but as I reach out and touch his face, his skin is cool to the touch.
“ERIC!” I scream. My legs shudder beneath me, threatening to give out, but all I’m focused on is my baby brother in my parents' bed, unconscious. I’m frozen; my hand feels glued to the bedroom door, and in this moment, I have no idea what to do.
“MUM!” I bawl like a baby. “Mum, please, help me!” My voice shatters, the feeling of broken glass grating against my throat.
If he’s here, then she must be. I put my cheek to his mouth like I’ve seen them do on Mum’s soap operas and hold my breath to see if he’s breathing.
It feels like hours, but it's probably barely even a second before I hear his breaths. They’re soft and shallow, short and sharp, like he’s gasping inside.
To the side of him on the other bedside table, I notice a note. Scrambling, I grab it.
Kirk,
I just can’t live this life anymore.
And I can’t leave without Eric; he’s my baby, the baby I longed for, the baby I dreamed about.
You'll be okay; you have Quinn. I just don’t love her like I love him.
Just looking at her repulses me. I just want it to be Eric and me.
Please, don’t come into the bathroom, call the paramedics, and let them be the ones to find me.
You don’t deserve to live with that image forever. It’s the least I can do for you.
I wish I could say I’m sorry, but in reality, I’m not.
Andrea.
I don’t even think twice; I run to the bathroom to open the door, but it’s locked. I bash my shoulder into it, crying as the pain from the impact ricochets down my arm. I scream, and bang, and scream, and bang, until someone answers me.
“Quinn?” I hear my best friend's voice, and my sobs increase to the point of hyperventilating. I can’t get my breath in deep enough.
My chest feels tight, pins and needles rush up and down my arm, and I could swear I’m about to die.
She rushes up the stairs to me, and I hold out the now screwed-up note in my hand.
She opens it up, and her eyes go wide. “I’ll be right back, Quinn. DO NOT go into the bathroom.”
“It’s l-locked, M-millie. I can’t save her.
” She runs, her feet pounding the stairs as she descends, and within minutes she’s back, her parents racing behind her.
Manda, her mum, is on the phone to the ambulance service, and her dad, Scott, has his toolbag by his side—I’m assuming to get into the bathroom.
“Quinn, come with me, baby girl. Let Scott look after your mum.” My cries have quietened, almost like I’m in disbelief that my mother just tried to kill herself and take my little brother with her. The only thought racing through my mind, though, is why didn’t she want to take me?