Veiled Obsessions

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

EBONY

Touched by death and being railed relentlessly by it are two very different things—I should know; I’ve experienced them both with an unfiltered clarity, getting a glimpse into the depravity that exists in this world should have broken me, and yet here I sit, pulling at the frayed sleeve of my cardigan, in this cab, willingly travelling back into the belly of the beast without a handcuff or court mandate in sight.

I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.

Let’s go back to the town where everything fell apart - said no sane person ever. So why did I take the live in scholarship at the renowned Hells Haven University? A place I’ve been trying so hard to outrun for the past six years?

Simple. They were the only ones who offered me a shot at a future better than the one I’d already given up on. It’s not like I’ve got opportunities being handed to me on a silver platter.

The train passes us by fast enough that it’s just a blur of colours. The beeping alarm rings out, and the barrier lifts, the driver picking up speed the closer we get to the motorway.

I’ve been pinching myself since the day the letter arrived just to be sure it’s not another trick of my exhausted mind.

Years of lugging around trauma have left my imagination broken, battered, and bleeding somewhere in the back of my brain.

At this point, my grip on reality isn’t just slipping, it’s six feet deep in the ground, unlikely to ever rise again.

I’d consider myself a pandora’s box of useless information but my therapist has assured me that it’s just hormonal intrigue, thankfully she has drugs for that.

Did you know that with the right accelerant, it takes precisely one hour and twenty-two minutes for a fire to consume a grown man and reduce him to a pile of ash and bone?

The fact that I know that should unsettle me, but it doesn’t.

I watched the flames smother my secrets, reducing them and the truth of that day to tittering judgemental whispers in our small coastal town.

For six months, I had to bear witness to the downfall of my character, finally waving goodbye to the first place I had ever found a semblance of comfort.

I had hoped my traumas would die alongside Nathaniel Turner that day, but the reality of my devastating existence from then on only proved that even from the grave, I’d never truly be free of him.

I increase the volume on my phone and rest my head back against the seat.

The sombre voice filling my ears is calm with a friendly authoritativeness to it.

Yet another self-help book suggested to me by my therapist Joy.

A woman who has sworn off all men, lives in a yurt, and owns twelve cats shouldn’t be dolling out life advice, in my opinion, but then there is an irony to our polar opposite brands of crazy.

The universe certainly likes to keep things interesting, and Joy Chambers is certainly interesting.

‘You are not your past. You are not ruled by your suffering. You are the leader of your healing journey.’

Right. Leader. Sure. Like an emotionally unstable life coach powered by insomnia and spite who got their degree via a coupon cut out of the back of a cereal box. Anyone willing to be led by me deserves the therapy bills that are sure to follow.

‘If it no longer serves you, let it go.’ The voice attempts to soothe me, but it fails miserably. I’ve been clinging to my trauma for so long now, it’s practically my comfort blanket. I don’t know who I am without it.

The breathy laugh the narrator tags on shouldn’t aggravate me, but it does. I can’t handle that much whimsy this early in the day. ‘Healing is a journey. It isn’t straightforward. If it was, we’d all be doing it.’

No fucking kidding.

My life is like a rollercoaster powered by my traumatised inner child randomly pushing buttons at the first sign of every inconvenience.

It’s a ride I’m forced to repeat every damn day, whether I like it or not.

The fact that I’m still here, buckling up for the shitshow with even a modicum of spirit should count for something though, right?

‘What doesn’t kill you only mak—’ I swipe at the screen and delete the audiobook, sick to the back teeth of hearing that exact line repeated time after time.

It’s like these people have never actually experienced what they preach about, just regurgitating the same bullshit over and over again.

It doesn’t make you stronger, it makes you internalise your loneliness, it makes you rough around the edges and unable to detect true human emotion, or at least that’s what it did to me.

He could have killed me, if I hadn’t fought back. Maybe that would have been the best outcome for everyone.

Unplugging my earphones, I shove them back into my bag. I close my eyes and sigh as the wind rushes through the window and hits my face. That panicked split second where your lungs can’t regulate a solid inhale reminding me that I’m alive.

Raised in a cult, under suspicion of arson since I was sixteen, and left to rot in the care system aren’t exactly what the reputable alumni at Hells Haven University are looking for in their promising student body—and yet here I am, with all my worldly possessions crammed into a battered suitcase that is older than I am, with the fancy paper invitation secured between my fingers as though I fear it growing wings and flying away.

Leaving behind everything I know was an easy choice to make, but sitting here, my life summed up with a handful of useless objects and haunted by the memories of my past, it serves as a cruel reminder that I haven’t made my mark on the world yet.

Poor little Ebony. Always the victim.

Who needs enemies when your own brain is against you?

I want more; I need more.

More courage, more opportunities. Just more.

A work in progress.

“No one to see you off?” the cab driver notes with far too much glee in his tone. I know he’s only making small talk; I’ve not exactly been a chatty passenger.

Surprisingly—to no-one ever—highlighting my lack of a support system isn’t warming me any.

“Just little old me,” I reply softly with a sad smile.

Hoping that will be the end of our interaction.

My gut reaction to flip him off and sulk at the reminder that I’m all alone in this world fades the longer he holds my gaze.

The bags under his eyes, his mussed hair, the empty coffee cups littering the dashboard—this man doesn’t need nor deserve my snark.

It doesn’t stop the reality of my situation from slicing at me though.

No family, no friends waving from the curb outside my shitty one-bedroom accommodation in the shared home—just me, a beat-up suitcase, a rucksack that has seen better days, and a university acceptance letter that feels more like a dare than a promise of a new life.

I should be excited—grateful that the universe had decided to take a break from royally fucking me on the regular.

But all I feel is the crippling nerves that seem to feed my imposter syndrome.

Who am I to think I deserve more from this life?

A sliver of myself—the part I rarely admit even exists—wonders whether this place, this change, if it might give me something I’ve never had before.

Something akin to belonging, something stable where I’m not always sucked into an eternal mishmash of fight or flight mode.

The driver turns up the volume on the radio, and I settle back in my seat, swiping at the screen when my phone chimes with a text message.

Caroline: Text me when you get there, so I know you weren’t murdered on route. Or worse, enrolled in some shitty psyche class. You’re too far gone. You aren’t meant to understand the mind.

So I do have one constant presence in my life, but the jury’s still out whether this particular presence enriches it though.

Ebony: Your support astounds me. I’m not even out of the city yet. The emotional ambush I’m about to walk into, and I’ve got your voice in my head.

I can imagine the smile on Caroline’s face as a picture of a cute bunny with a thumbs-up pings in my inbox

Ebony: All the unresolved grief is just melting away.

I debate what emoji will best convey my sarcasm, but a new message comes in before I can decide.

Caroline: That’s my brave little disaster. You remember your meds? The last time you detoxed against doctor’s orders, they found you monologuing at the ducks in the park.

Caroline: We can’t all pull off crazy. It’s not a good look for you, love.

Ebony: Flushed the meds. I’ve decided I’m switching them out for a more holistic approach. Thought I’d raw-dog the trauma for dramatic effect. Unhinged is the new pretty, you know.

Caroline: Charming. That’s how your mother coped too. If only she had more crystals in her life, totally would have rethought that whole mass suicide thing.

Ebony: I think that had more to do with the years of playing mother earth to a cult of degenerates and less to do with her aligning her chakras, but what do I know? Maybe feng shui is the cure to all madness.

Caroline: I slipped you a care package. The pie slice is questionable and probably expired, but the thought was there. Everything else is self-explanatory—or they should be at your age.

I pull out the manila parcel decorated with marker hearts and flowers from my backpack, emptying out the contents into my lap.

Condoms, the number for a local sexual health clinic, a miniature bottle of tequila, a pocket-size can of deep heat, the branding crossed out with sharpie and the words rapist repellent scrawled across it.

The final parting gift from my case worker is a mini book of mindfulness with a note scribbled onto the front page above the italicised Live, Laugh, Love that makes me almost throw up in my mouth.

A little positivity never hurt anyone—also great roach potential should you find yourself stuck.

Caroline x0x