Abigail

I’ve been in my apartment three months already without so much as waving to a neighbour, but today feels different. I’ve seen her in the communal hallway before – an older woman with short blonde hair. Up until now I’ve always hung back and kept my distance.

She’s fishing her keys from her handbag with her shopping on the floor when I step outside and pull my door closed behind me. She looks my way and smiles, and I smile back.

And then I say it.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” she says. She pushes her key in the lock. “I’m Sarah.”

“Abigail,” I tell her.

She smiles. And then she’s gone.

It’s strange how the tiniest little actions can feel so significant. There’s a strange tickle in my chest as I head downstairs and step out onto Church Street.

Sarah. A neighbour. A neighbour with a name.

And with that my fate feels sealed – I really do live here.

I take a deep breath as I head into High Town, walking with purpose. Walking like I belong here.

Maybe for now I do.

Today the world looks a little bit different. I feel a tiny shift in the universe. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. A sliver of life amongst the numbness.

A ribbon of excitement.

I’d almost forgotten what excitement felt like.

There is one thing to be said for having no life but misery for months on end. My bank balance is healthy, even on a massive pay cut. My apartment is smaller than the one I left behind. My diet here has been minimal and basic, without the added cost of social dining racking up over the weeks.

Strangely enough, if I’m honest with myself, there is something to be said for a minimal existence. I miss so much, but I don’t miss things. I don’t miss my overflowing wardrobe, or the entire rainbow collection of nail varnishes displayed on a rack. I don’t miss the drawers full of old paperwork and junk mail and odds and ends. I don’t even miss the scatter cushions I’d compulsively update every season.

I arrived here with nothing but the bare bones for starting over. Right now that seems okay.

Bare bones can surely be the building blocks for something new.

I find myself walking past the homewares stores I’d have squealed over once upon a time. I skirt by a stationery shop that would have been an Aladdin’s Cave to me back in Hampshire. I don’t know where I’m going, or what I’m looking for, but I keep on walking, keep on heading somewhere.

Anywhere.

And for the first time in an age I notice the people. Walking, talking, checking their phones, oblivious to the world around them, just as I was.

I notice the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery on the corner.

I notice the way the sun breaks through a lazy streak of clouds.

The way the cobbles turn to tarmac under my heels as I take a left at the end of the street.

The sound of the pedestrian crossing bleeping up ahead.

The way it feels to breathe.

And I smile.

I smile because a stranger asked a simple question, and then he heard me.

I smile because someone found me in the darkness and didn’t try to switch the light on.

I smile because a man who calls himself Phoenix Burning offered me something I’ve never had.

And then my smile is all gone.

I guess it’s the way the guy’s hair blows from his eyes. The way his nose is Roman and his eyes are blue. The way he moves, so familiar. So much like Stephen.

I guess it’s the way he’s looking at her – the girl at his side. Looking at her the way I thought Stephen looked at me.

I guess it’s the pushchair – the one I’d picked out for myself.

Their baby is wearing white knitted booties. His eyes are tight shut. His fingers so small.

They pass by so closely I can smell her perfume.

It smells like everything I ever wanted.

It hits the back of my throat and then it chokes me. I’m retching in broad daylight on a crowded street, with a womb full of hurt that pains when I breathe.

And I’m alone.

Lost.

Reeling.

I back into a solid wall before my spine buckles. I close my eyes to everything around me before the light pricks my tears.

Lullabies at the top of my lungs, a hand on my belly as I drive through the night with tears running down my cheeks.

I’m battling an ocean of pain with my bare hands because of tiny toes in a pair of white booties. And I’ve been here before. So many times.

A baby-cry on the train cutting me like glass. A new-born sleep suit discarded in the wrong aisle of the supermarket. A man holding his little boy’s tiny hand as they cross the road.

The looks passing between my ex-colleagues as they try to find the words to tell me Stephen was the one to clear my desk. That he hadn’t even asked after me. Not once.

I feel like I’m bleeding out all over again, but today I fight the ocean and I win.

I open my eyes before the tears fall. I take a deep breath, push myself from the wall and force my legs to keep walking. I walk until I get to the river and I follow it for miles, through the meadows and out the other side, until the sunny afternoon turns into a warm evening and my heels are blistered. Until I notice the sky is pink and that I’ve never really listened to a duck quack, not properly. Not like now.

And then, finally, when I know the bare walls of my apartment won’t break me, I go home and wait for my monster.

 

* * *

 

Phoenix

 

People used to think we were twins, Jake and me. They wouldn’t think it now.

He’s lost weight. A lot of weight.

His broad shoulders look sunken. His arms look lean and wiry. His eyes are darker than ever as he slams his truck door behind him and I slam mine.

We meet in no man’s land. In the middle of the car park we used to pull into every morning. The tower is a black hulk looking over us, the burned-out roof jagged in the shadows.

I contemplate the odds that he’s going to charge me down before we’ve even said a word. That we’ll end up grappling on the cracked tarmac while Mariana’s ghost screams. Or laughs.

The seven months since we last faced off haven’t been kind to either of us, that’s for sure, but today he keeps his fists in check. At least for now.

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a cigarette. I don’t move an inch as he lights up. He takes two long drags before he jabs a finger in my direction.

“Take the fucking offer.”

“Fuck the fucking offer.” My voice is calmer than I feel.

He gestures to the maw of concrete and rubble behind us. The doors are warped and gaping. The ground still littered with broken window glass. “What fucking good is it to you? She’s fucking dead! Let this fucking place die with her!”

“I’m not selling.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

I don’t have an answer to that. I don’t fucking need an answer to that. I stare past him to the darkness inside.

I can still feel the heat. Still smell the stench as the pallets went up. Still hear my choking screams as I bellowed her name.

“The business is almost back on its feet. If I was gonna sell I’d have done it a long time ago, when we fucking needed it,” I tell him.

“Nobody fucking wanted it then.”

I shake my head. “Think what you want, Jake. There’s always some fucking vulture looking to make a quick buck. It would’ve sold.”

His shoulder lands square against mine. “It’s Ash.”

I turn my face to his. “I’m the one who lost her.”

I recognise the rage in his glare almost as much as I recognise the pain behind it. His emptiness stirs mine. Grief bubbles in my gut.

“She was mine,” he hisses. “You fucking know she was. I’m the one who fucking lost her.”

My fists clench on instinct, a whisper away from pounding my hate into the sack of shit who shares the same fucking blood as me.

I’m one man battling a fucking storm, shaking my fists at the fucking lightning. I’ve been here before, so many fucking times.

But tonight I am victorious.

Because of her.

Because of a stranger.

Because I feel alive.

I step away. I loosen my fists. The grief stops bubbling.

“I’m not selling,” I say, calmly. “I’m going to redevelop.”

“Redevelop? What the fuck?”

“You heard me.”

He looks like I jabbed him in the jaw. Part of me wishes I had.

I notice how tired he looks, even in the half-light. I notice how much longer his beard is now than mine.

And in this one long moment, I wonder if it’s really grief that’s still crippling my older brother, or whether it’s guilt.

“Why were you really here?” I ask him. “What was she doing in that storeroom on her own?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t fucking know. I came here to work, she was already–”

I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Enough of the fucking bullshit. You tell me the truth, and I’ll talk about fucking selling.”

My heart pounds but I stand firm. My pulse is in my temples, but I don’t move a muscle.

Not until he does.

“Sell this fucking place, or I’m selling my shares,” he says, and he’s already retreating to his truck.

It’s so tempting to go after him, but I don’t.

Cameron and I had a great time feeding the ducks today. I’m not going to be explaining to my boy why Daddy’s got torn-up knuckles in the morning, not for anything.

“Don’t be a fucking dick,” I shout as Jake starts the truck up, but he doesn’t even look back.

I watch until his taillights turn the corner at the end of the drive, and then I take a breath.

I lean against my truck and allow myself a minute, just me and this burned-out hole, and Mariana’s secrets. The ones she took with her.

And then finally, when I know I’m calm enough to look Serena in the eye without tearing her a new one for bringing Jake into my shit, I go home.

 

* * *

 

Abigail

 

I’ve been staring at my inbox for an hour when the circle next to his name finally blinks and turns green.

I chew my thumbnail as the tick appears against my message. He’s reading. Right now.

It’s almost midnight and I’ve allowed myself a couple of glasses of wine to finish up my Saturday evening. It’s made me brave. Brave enough to wait online so boldly for him to arrive.

I can see the ending line of my last message, bold as brass on the tab.

Please give me what I need.

I may have cringed if it wasn’t for the alcohol.

I wait with tickling nerves, feeling like my broken soul is on parade while a total stranger reads about my nightmares. I wonder what he’s thinking.

If he’s hard.

If he wants this even half as much as I want this.

My pussy is aching, my belly fluttery with crazy fantasies. I’m already playing with myself when the typing icon shows on screen.

My breath is ragged when the message pings.

I enjoyed reading about your dreams.

I’d be lying if I told you they didn’t make me hard. I’d be lying if I told you this conversation hasn’t woken something deep.

I’d be dishonest to claim I’m not planning on fucking you like a beast while you beg me to stop.

You’re toying with a monster. If you’re not careful, I’ll bite you hard.

Be very sure you’re ready for that.

My reply is easy.

I’ve been sure forever.

I rub my clit as he carries on typing.

Tell me what your monster does to you when you think of him late at night. Tell me how you need to be broken. How you need to be hurt. Used. Taken.

And then I’ll tell you what you’re going to be given.

My pussy throbs when I take my fingers away to type.

I don’t hold back. Not a single thing.

The monster always catches me from behind. He’s strong. Strong enough to pick me up as my legs flail. I’d scream if his hand wasn’t over my mouth.

He tells me to stay quiet. Tells me he’ll hurt me if I cry out.

I’m tempted to scream just so he’ll make it worse for me.

Sometimes he forces me onto the ground, sometimes he drops me to my feet and throws me against a wall, his body pressed tight to mine.

And then he whispers. He always whispers.

He tells me that maybe he’ll let me enjoy it if I don’t fight him.

Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this. My clit is thrumming hard. My thighs clenching.

I wait for a response before I carry on.

His reply is just two simple words. All the encouragement I need.

Go on.

I go on.

He pins me tight and tugs my skirt up. He tears my knickers down and pushes his fingers inside me. It’s always rough enough to make me cry out.

I’m never ready for him.

I never want to be ready for him.

It always hurts and he always makes me take it.

He grabs my tits so hard it takes my breath. He tells me that I’m a dirty little bitch who asked for this.

Who wants this.

And I am.

I am a dirty little bitch who wants this.

I tug my bra down until my tits spill over the cups. I pinch my nipples until I moan.

I don’t need to wait long for another message.

You’re a dirty little bitch who’s going to get what’s coming to you.

My response is instant.

Please.

Please make this real.

Oh fuck, please.

I tug on my nipples and pretend that it’s him. I’m desperate for a response as I stare at that screen. Squirming on the bedsheets as my clit begs for release.

It throbs as I get the ping.

If you’ve any sense you’ll stop this right now.

Walk away before you’re in too deep.

I don’t know quite what he means until a photo icon flashes up.

My heart is in my throat as I click to open.

And fuck.

Fuck.

I’m sober in a beat, shuffling up to sitting as I maximise the image.

No.

It can’t be.

There’s no way. Just no way. He can’t really…

I can’t stop staring. My mouth is open wide.

And he’s right.

Oh my God, he’s right.

If I had any sense I’d stop this right now.