Morgan
I rotate in circles. I'm in bushland with no idea how I came to be here. I’ve bare feet, and I’m stripped down to a pair of boy-legged knickers and a singlet.
Bruises, cuts, bites, and grazes mark my entire body, and the numbers one through to five, are inked inside my inner arm, with a line crossed through “one”.
Two large gashes gape across my shins, and my feet are a filthy black.
I’m holding a mobile phone, a phone that’s not mine. I stumble forward, then rock backwards. How did I get here?
As I manoeuvre in a circle, pain rips through my brain and beats behind my eyebrows making me dip my head and brace it between my palms. Why do I hurt so bad?
Heat scorches my skin, skin I can tell has already burned. Blisters rise on the tops of my legs. I seek shade, and as I shuffle, I wobble as I would after way too many glasses of wine. Have I been drinking?
I press my back up against a smooth palm tree trunk that shelters me with its leaves. I look at the screen of the phone I have clasped in my fist as if my life depends on me doing so. It’s blank. I swipe my finger over it and the screen lights. I open the contacts. There are none to be found. I move to the gallery and see nothing apart from a document icon. I press download and stare in wait. An arrow pointing downwards travels in a repetitive pattern. I continue to wait. The screen goes white before the document opens.
Dear Morgan,
I received your letter, and I’m sorry you feel this way. I know things have been hard for me, and I wish I weren’t such a burden on all the people I care deeply for, but I am. I know you need space to live the life you’ve made for yourself with Reid, and after this letter, you won’t hear from me again.
There’s so much pain buried deep inside me ... it’s a living hell from which I can’t seem to escape. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s only a nightmare, and if I try hard enough I’ll wake up, I don’t. Morgan, I never wake up, no matter how much I beg.
There’s so much I wish I could destroy inside my mind. There’s an evil that lurks inside me, and it's one I struggle to contain. There are so many things I wish were different for me, one of those things being you. I guess you were the glue that was holding all my broken pieces together, but over time you couldn’t stick with me anymore. I understand why, I do. I’m sorry I couldn’t be all you deserved.
You mean well—I know it’s why you’ve continued to write to me for so long. At first, it was a relief after you moved away. I missed you intensely. I pined for you like a child who’d lost his very first puppy. That probably sounds psychotic, right? But from the very beginning, when I met you, I knew you were someone special. I also knew you’d always stay true to your word. You have for as long as you can, and I thank you for doing so.
I was in love with you, Morgan. It wasn’t lusting, or puppy love, like you said. It was a deep, all-consuming, heart-stopping love, but for you, it wasn’t those things. In the end, you couldn’t fall as hard for me as I had for you, and that’s always been my fault.
I tried to hide my darkness. Keep its venom secured away in an airtight jar, but it wasn’t bullet-proof, and bit by bit that jar got shot to shit, and parts of me, I didn’t want you to know existed, escaped. It tarnished what we had. Neither you nor I are responsible.
As the days keep passing, I’ve realised that time itself cannot heal my wounds because my wounds grow deeper with each ticking minute. I want to be at peace. I want to find my order, and I’ve figured out how I can.
I need to say goodbye to you, Morgan.
I need to let you go.
I’m letting you go, my rose.
Please continue to blossom like the perfect flower you are. Remember that twelve long-stemmed roses will never be enough for a beauty like you. You will always be one more, one more perfectly cut bud, better than all the other women who walk this damned earth. It’s the reason why I always gave you thirteen of them, instead of the traditional dozen.
Before I let you go, promise me you’ll always remember that in your eyes the sun rises, in your smile it sets, and that your grace and beauty are so deep down beyond your skin it means you were angel-sent. I’d rather fly with angels than stay wrapped up in my nightmare.
Morgan, a soldier goes to war and fights for the freedom of his country. I will instead go to war with myself and fight for only yours.
I’m giving you my final gift, Morgan.
Your freedom.
I never deserved you, but I was blessed to have you.
Sleep tight, Red. I will love you from beyond my grave.
Forever yours, Falcon x
“Falcon.” I remember this letter, but it’s not a blue-inked handwritten letter like I know it to be. This is a photocopy, a photographed version. Why do I have only this on my phone?
Suddenly, it’s like a shooting star explodes into vibrant fireworks before me. Pinks, blues, purples, greens—they fill my vision. As these colours blur, then form into the brightest rainbow I’ve ever laid eyes on, my life flashes behind my closed eyes, one clip after the other. It plays out quickly, so quickly that when I see myself running, fighting—when I look at blue eyes that change to green—when I hear the eerie whistle that means danger—I remember. I remember where I am, how I came to be here, and what I’m fighting so hard for.
I cry so forcefully my shoulders shake.
Four hearts beat for me—my own, my husband’s, my son’s and my daughter’s. I need to survive, and now I have a chance because I know who has me—Falcon Sampson. The man whom I couldn’t love like I wished I could. A man who’d shown me a darkness I never wanted to see. A man who’d frightened me, but not in a way that had me fearing for my life; he made me fear for his. I guess I’d been wrong; I guess my life was always on the line.
Thirteen long-stemmed roses filled the pictures behind the mirror. The song that played from the small boom box was one that reminded me of home with Reid and the kids, but was also one I’d shared with Falcon right before this letter came. That song spoke of his kind, yet tortured soul.
They were my hints. Falcon has been telling me who he was all along.
The blue eyes, then the green, the change of voice—it was all a disguise. Falcon had always been a true master of disguise throughout high school.
I sob harder.
If Falcon’s shyness were not so overwhelming for him, then the stage would have been his oyster, and he would have found the bright lights and fame that the universe owed him. The dark side of Falcon, though, would never have allowed him to pursue such a life.
Now, he wants my life.
I wipe my eyes with my free hand and flick them down to the phone as it vibrates.
Unknown Number: Morgan. Let me know you’re okay.
I’m not okay; I’m not okay at all.
I read the previous message.
Unknown Number: Morgan, It’s Detective West. If you need to call, call this number. Only this number. Check for any names, contacts, and photographs on the phone you have. We need any details that can tell us about the person responsible for your disappearance. Then preserve the remainder of the battery. We’re coming for you.
I bash my finger against the keys in response.
Me: It’s Falcon Sampson. He has me. His mother owns a property out past Corbet’s Landing. I’ve never been there, but Falcon told me she did. It must be where I am. I’m somewhere in acres upon acres of bushland around Corbet’s Landing.
My finger shakes as I press down and hit send.
I watch, waiting for the word “sent” to display. It’s taking forever. I look at the service bar. There’s not even one, and the battery only reads six percent.
I walk frantically. I walk in every direction, holding the phone up high, out to one side, then to the other … I’m trying to get enough service to push the message through. One bar appears. I stop dead in my tracks.
The screen goes black.
“Fuck,” I cry.
I’ve no idea if Detective West got my message before the phone went flat, and I’ve no other way to get help.
I drop the phone and run. I run so fast that my once weak legs hold my weight.
Bang!
I can hear myself blood-curdling scream as I shrink to the ground. My head lays to the side. Black boots infringe upon my vision.
“Who am I, Red?” His voice is thick, and one I knew I recognised from the very beginning.
“Falcon Sampson, what have you done?” I whimper.
He laughs. It’s the most psychotic laugh I’ve ever heard, and even though the hairs stand to attention on the back of my neck and my heart leaps into my mouth, I try to get up.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.” He sings this to the same tune as church bells.
“I know it’s you. I saw the letter on your phone.” I sit on my arse, looking up at the black mask covering his face. “No, I saw your letter on your phone.” A shotgun dangles from his shoulder.
Before I have a chance to look away he moves the shotgun, pointing it right at my chest.
“You’re wrong, Morgan.”
Every thought I have jumbles into a twisted knot. “No. No, I’m not.” I shake my head at the same rate as my legs tremble.
He takes two steps toward me. I see him do it, but I don’t hear a sound. “Get on your knees.”
“No,” I shout. “I figured it out. I know it’s you. Take off your mask.”
He laughs. Spittle lands on my cheek.
“I know it’s you.”
“Get on your knees, or I’ll make you.”
Slowly, I twist. The cracking sounds my knees make when I apply pressure to them cause pain that has me sucking air through my clenched teeth.
“Put your hands behind your head.”
“You can’t do this to me, Falcon.”
The gun’s barrel will be against my head. I could be killed execution-style. My stomach turns and my heart thrums so hard that pain shoots into my chest.
He moves as quick as lightning and before I can blink, I’m laid flat on my back as he straddles my waist. His gloved hand hovers above my throat.
“This is your end, you bitch.” His fingers curl around my neck. He squeezes.
I can’t breathe.
“I don’t want to play this game with you anymore, Red.” He smirks.
My eyes are bulging from their sockets, threatening to pop clear out of my head.
“Show me.” I manage to spit out with the last breath I have.
He removes one hand, using the other to keep pressure against my windpipe, and tucks his fingers under the bottom of his mask. Slowly, he begins to peel it away.
Frantically, I suck air into my lungs. I groan as I place my hand on my head where a massive egg protrudes. My eyes flutter open, and as I jump upwards and slide backwards, I realise that I’m alone. I hold my neck and cough repeatedly.
What just happened?
There’s a thick tree trunk straight in front of my line of sight. Did I run into a tree? Did I knock myself clean, cold out?
I think I did.