Chapter 6
Chapter Six
MORGAN
M y arm starts to itch. It’s been three days, Ron said it was the healing phase, which unfortunately, I know all too well.
Who knew one little… I can’t remember what it was called, could cause so much damage? Well not that much. But it did leave me with fifteen stitches, done without any local anaesthetic, so that was fun.
Today, the storm is meant to hit and also marks a week since being here.
The bruises are all but gone.
Thank God. People can look at me and see me, not the bruises or split lip left by someone who was meant to love me.
Rhys and I have been arguing over every. Little. Thing.
I don’t get ready quick enough in the mornings.
He drank all the coffee.
I left my boots in the walkway.
He gets annoyed every time I say no to working with him .
I don’t leave him any hot water.
He was breathing.
All standard things.
Because of the storm, we don’t have to be up and working at the crack of dawn today. So, I lay in bed watching the sun slowly light up my room.
I want to be mad about Rhys getting me to work, but honestly, it has been a nice change of pace. Kept my mind busy and all the physical work I’ve done is helping me sleep. I haven’t had a nightmare since that time I stayed at the homestead.
I stay in bed until I smell the coffee being made. And like a zombie being summoned from its grave, I get up and walk to the kitchen.
“Coffee.”
“For fuck sake, Morgan, put some fucking clothes on.”
He says it with conviction, but the way his eyes rake over my body says something else.
“I am wearing clothes.”
“A t-shirt that barely covers your ass, is not clothes.”
“Then don’t look.”
He rolls his eyes and goes outside.
With my warm cup of coffee and the feeling of satisfaction because I’ve already annoyed him, I skip back to my room.
Yes, skip.
Rhys connected me to the homestead internet so I’m able to do some social media stalking. But I haven’t been on for a while, and everything I see feels like a time jump.
The first person to come up on my feed is Tatum Collins—all her posts are rugby fields and her Sydney life.
I continue to scroll, nothing interesting; ads and some pop star announcing a tour.
That is until Noah Sterling—he was into super cars and by looking at this photo and the rest of his page, he is still into them, even racing them.
Well, that’s enough social media for today.
Just as I go to close the app, I see Dorothy Willmot.
She has a photo of a blank canvas and when I swipe to see the next photo, it’s the start of a tree.
Her page leads me to Arrianna Woods, daughter of Kerry-Anne Woods—the woman Shane found comfort in when Charlotte vanished.
Arrianna and I weren’t close, but we’d still say hi and chat in class.
But when I accidentally caught Shane and her mother in the back of his patrol car, I couldn’t look at her.
Maybe I should have told her, but I was fifteen when I caught Shane and Kerry-Anne, I didn’t know any better.
Not to mention I was worried Damon would find out and beat the fuck out of my brother.
He was the one person who was always in my corner. I couldn’t do that to him.
I don’t want to see any more of my old classmates living their best lives, while I’m stuck here, in bum fuck Western Australia, putting my life back together.
But I’m a sucker for punishment, so I quickly look at Sadie Cooper’s profile.
Her dad is the Chief of Police for Barrenridge, and apparently as corrupt as they come.
She doesn’t appear to post much, and a part of me is relieved, but another part wonders why.
My finger hovers over one more name, but I decide against it.
I heard Nash Stone was playing basketball in America, but I don’t look at his profile.
I don’t want to risk seeing anything to do with Paige.
My high school best friend and Nash’s half-brother's wife. When I moved to the city with Ethan, he slowly cut me off from her. I didn’t notice until I felt like it was too late.
And by then, he had started hitting me which added even more phone checks, so for the sake of both of us I never tried.
I’m free now though. I can reach out and apologise. Reconnect. God, don’t be a wuss, just look her up, message her.
But I don’t. Instead, I look up the station.
See if they have a website or social media.
They should. Showcase everything they have here.
The caravan park and great fishing spots, according to Ron, the man who stitched me.
He is a sweet man. Taking his time, not moving too fast so I suspect someone told him “I’m jumpy”.
Maybe it was Brent. He has been kind enough to let me stay, even after freaking Molly out.
She’s so sweet. Telling me her Daddy scares away the monsters in her nightmares. And that’s how I found myself jealous of a five-year-old. For having someone fighting her monsters, let alone it being her dad.
I eventually find a social media page for the station, which leads me to a website. It’s basic as hell. Maybe I can talk to Brent to see if I can tweak it a little. Put my marketing degree to use. Because I’m definitely not made for this much physical labour.
But the physical labour is helping keep my mind busy, so it can’t be that bad? While I’m looking through the website, I do find my mind starts to wander, and in the wrong direction. I don’t want to think of him anymore. I want to be free of him. Truly free. It feels like I never will.
When I feel myself being dragged into a memory of pain and torment, I get up and search for my sketchpad.
Flipping through the pages, I find myself racing my own thoughts.
The memory starts to close in just as I find a clean page.
Images of his angry pursed lips, his eyes flashing with hate, then his hand cocked back ready to swing.
I can feel the sting of the impact as if he is here.
Picking up a random pencil, I draw a clean line down the page. Purple, I picked up purple. I zone into what I am drawing. Line here, shading there. As my mind busies with the image forming in front of me, the memory fades.
I hadn’t realised my heart was racing, until now that it’s slowing down. My breathing is even. I won this round, but as the last part of memory fades, it promises to return.
Sitting back, I look down at the drawing and take in what I just drew.
And staying on a cattle station has already warped my subconscious because I am staring down at a cow skull.
The point of the horns. The long stretch of the face.
Every break and dent highlighted. The deep lines of purple tapering off to soft shading.
For something that was a source of distraction, to ward off dark memories, I’m proud of the result.
I hold it up and examine it closer, “Could be better, maybe, if I?—”
“Could be better? That’s amazing Morgan.”
“What are you doing?”
“I just saw you take control of whatever was trying to take hold of you.” There is pride in Rhys’s voice.
“You’re spying on me?”
“What? No! I heard noises coming from your room, and thought I’d see if you were okay. And you were, I watched those ghosts fade. I watched you fight them.”
I sigh. “They’ll be back.”
Rhys steps into my room and I don’t protest. Feeling raw and exposed, the memory and feeling of panic lingers. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really. ”
“Ok.” And he turns to leave.
But I think I want company, even if it’s fucking Rhys. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Wait...”
He stops and looks at me. His eyes follow as I stand and walk past him into the loungeroom, hoping he will follow. I flop on the couch and wait for Rhys. The couch dips and I take a deep breath and, “He still plagues my mind.”
Rhys doesn’t say anything, I look at him, and he gives me a small nod, encouraging me to carry on.
“He didn’t start off like this. He was so sweet in school. Holding the door open for me. Walking me to classes. He always saved me from the shit at home and never talked about it unless I brought it up. I thought I was going to marry this man.”
I let out a dry chuckle. How na?ve was I?
“Even when we moved to Sydney, he was still sweet. But looking back on it, things started to change slowly. Just small things. Things I didn’t notice until it was too late.
I was doing everything. Studying, working, cooking, and cleaning.
When I asked for help, he’d turn it around on me.
If I tried to express how I was feeling, he’d get defensive.
Then the criticism started. Followed by the belittling.
I never did anything right, always doing it wrong.
But then our final scores came in. We both passed, both getting our degrees, but I scored higher. That was the first time he hit me.”
I take in a shaky breath and risk looking at Rhys who hasn’t spoken or moved. When I look at him, he is tense, jaw clenched and working overtime.
“Carry on.”
I don’t know if I should. He looks like he’s about to snap. I hesitate. I want to purge all this out, but not if he is going to react like this.
How can I minimise this? How can I tell him without being blamed?
He must see me worry or hear my thoughts. “You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to, but I think it’ll be good for you. Get it all off your chest.”
And with that, I take a deep breath, and I purge myself. The first black eye up to the last blooded lip. Everything. Well, almost everything.
When I finish, the tears I was holding back finally fall, and Rhys wraps me in his arms. Feeling safe, my cries turn into heavy sobs. Crying for the girl I used to me, and for the girl he created. I can’t and won’t let him define me.
Once the tears dry up, I think Rhys will let me go, but he doesn’t. So, I let myself enjoy being held without the fear of the next blow. After some time, I pull my head up off his chest and wipe where my tears once landed.
I wipe at his shirt, “Sorry for crying all over you.”
“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than normal.
When I look at him, I catch him already looking at me.
Our gazes lock. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
His hand lightly trails down the length of my jaw until it’s at my chin.
His thumb runs along the bottom of my lip.
My breathing hitches. Rhys then cups my cheek, and without thinking I lean up as he leans down.
His breath fans over my lips. We’re centimetres away from our lips connecting, when a loud boom echoes around the house.
Jumping, I place a hand over my chest. “Fuck, I guess that storm is hitting.”
I look back at Rhys, and what just almost happened dawns on us at the same time. We both leap off the couch putting some distance between us.
“That, ah fuck, that shouldn’t have happened.” Rhys rubs his hand over the back of his neck.
“Couldn’t agree more.”
We do some awkward dance where we each don’t know where to walk. Do we walk past each other? Do we use the couch as a buffer? What do we do?
As if hearing my inner thoughts, “Let’s just act like nothing happened.”
“Works for me.”
Then he walks the long way around, avoiding me entirely. Once he exits the loungeroom in the direction of his bedroom, I walk through the kitchen and outside.
The smell of rain hits me first. I take a deep breath in. Fresh rain will always be the best smell. I watch as it turns the red dust into red mud.
Thunderclaps overhead as lightning strikes off in the distance. I’m used to storms, but those are dulled by the city. This, being out here, miles away from any civilisation, the storm is in its most natural form, not dancing around buildings and being dulled by planes of glass.
I have the strange urge to go dance in the rain, and when I see Molly running around in her gum boots, I follow her.
“Morgan!” She squeals and jumps into my arms. She’s soaked, immediately wetting the front of my shirt. “I love the rain.”
She wriggles in my hold; I give one quick small squeeze before placing her down.
My heart once again aches for what could have been.
I watch her being carefree playing in the rain and Molly’s small hand wraps around mine.
Together, we laugh, dance and jump in puddles until we can’t anymore. Mud is covering every inch of us.
I’ve never felt so free.