Figure 8
Authors: Elle McKenzie
Elle McKenzie
© Copyright 2015 Elle McKenzie
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organisations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Cover design by JC Clarke
Formatting by Jo Matthews
For all the people who have ever suffered with depression or any other mental illness, know you’re not alone.
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No one ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have tried trying to write one.
Robert Bryne
Where do I start? I have been contemplating publishing this story for over two years. I have written and re-written the manuscript several times since the idea first came to me. I am an avid reader, so I guess I need to first of all thank all the wonderful authors in this genre for giving me the motivation to actually do it.
To my husband, my rock, you have stood by me through thick and thin. You have encouraged me and pushed me towards my dream and I don’t think I would be here today without you. I love you.
To my kids, always dream big. You can do whatever you want in life, nothing should ever hold you back. You will always be my babies and I will always love you with all my heart.
To my Mum, thank you for everything you do for me. Thank you for supporting me with this book and for reading it, even though I cringed knowing you were reading all my sex scenes.
To my best friend Belinda, you have been there for me when I’ve needed you. You can be my biggest critic at times, but I know you do it because you love me and want me to succeed. I will forever be grateful to you for everything you have done. Not just your editing skills but also your friendship.
To Marian and Sian, your encouragement, friendship and time have been invaluable. I don’t think this book would be here today without you both. You have pushed me and told me that I am good enough, when I was ready to give it all up. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you Michele for your invaluable notes.
To the beautiful B.L Wilde, you are amazing. I am so proud to call you my friend and I can’t wait to join you on this author journey. Thank you for all your help and guidance.
And lastly thank you to each and every person who has purchased this book. To the readers, this can never be possible without all of you.
I am a British author and this book has been written in British English. It contains a lot of British colloquialisms and British spellings. If you need any help with any of the words or phrases please feel free to message me on Facebook (links provided at the back of the book). I won’t bite, I promise ;-)
s
Damon
I had been on shift for nine long hours already, exhausted wasn’t the word. I love my job, of course I love my job, I hadn’t spent all those years studying for nothing. However my heart is in my private practice, not in a dingy South Manchester hospital. I had moved to England four years ago, I didn’t do it because of the job or the money; I did it because of her.
I had given up working at the hospital six months ago. However, I made the biggest mistake ever when the head of the psychiatry department begged me to stay on call for emergencies only and of course I said ‘yes.’ Now I am asked to cover shifts all of the time. The National Health Service is in crisis and I got into this job to help people, so I refuse to turn them down when someone needs me.
I had just sat down in the canteen, my first break in almost five hours. Blowing on my steaming hot coffee, I glance around at the people coming in and out. Relatives of loved ones, patients and staff, all these people going about their own business. Not one of them pays any attention to me, whilst I people watch. I watch transfixed, as a couple joyfully sits in the corner nursing their new-born baby. On the other side of the canteen, a woman with tear-stained cheeks sits clutching her cup of coffee, as if it’s her lifeline. There are so many people with so many stories to tell. I of course had my own story to tell, but I couldn’t tell it to anyone here. I couldn’t even tell it to her, the one person who I wish I could tell.
In my profession I see a lot of broken people, people who are so far gone that even I struggle to bring them back from that ledge. I lost one of those people last year and it devastated me, so much so that I almost quit this whole thing. My background got me into this profession, my upbringing wasn’t exactly stable, but it made who I am today. I am a strong person and I want to help people who aren’t like me, people who aren’t strong enough to deal with their shitty lives. Hell, even people without shitty lives end up in my office. But I vow to help each one of them, to get them through the hell inside their minds and to help them to become a stronger person. I failed with that patient and after I realised that they were too far gone for me to have any effect on the outcome, I decided that I would spend the rest of my career making sure that it would never happen again.
I down the last of my coffee and stand to throw the plastic cup in the trash. Yes, I know it’s called a bin. I have tried for the past four years to get rid of the Americanism’s that I grew up with. I want to try and blend in with the crowd here in England. The problem is that it’s almost impossible to forget my background. However much I try to change my accent, as soon as I open my mouth some smart ass always has to point out that I am in fact American. Well, no shit Sherlock.
My pager goes off, I un-clip it from my belt noting that it’s the ER calling.
Okay yes, it’s the A&E.
I throw the cup into the bin and head out of the doors towards the lifts.
See I got ‘lifts’ right.
When my pager went off to say I was needed in A&E, I never in my wildest dreams imagined that it would be her. Belinda, the blonde nurse who I had shared a forgettable night with not too long ago, handed me the manila folder containing the hospital notes. I thanked her and she smiled, fluttering her annoyingly long lashes at me.
“You’re very welcome, Damon. So what are you doing this weekend?” She had perched her butt on the desk in front of me, purposely revealing her white stockings. My balls tightened at the sight. Don’t judge me, I am still a hot-blooded male, who wouldn’t get hard at that sight! I mean I did have her tied to my bed, whilst fucking her senseless not too long ago. However I know that was a mistake I am going to regret for a while.
“Washing my hair,” I reply with a sarcastic tone. She stands up with a huff and walks away. I glance down at the folder. My heart hammers in my chest, my lungs close up and I feel light headed when I see the name on the front. ‘Isabelle Marie Riley’ I wonder if I stare at the name long enough it will change? I open it and start reading through the notes. Guilt overpowers me and I head towards the restroom. Once inside I enter one of the cubicles, shutting the door behind me and punching it hard.
Ouch, you dick that hurt like hell.
I try to compose myself but I feel like hell. I feel responsible. I should have contacted her years ago, instead of letting it get to this point. I should have manned up and just grown a set of balls instead of hiding in the background, watching. But how could I contact her without giving myself away! She can’t know who I am.
I pull myself together, splash a bit of water on my face and then pat it off lightly with a paper towel. I sigh deeply and open the door to leave. When I go back out into the corridor, Belinda is leaving her room. Something pounds inside my heart; I don’t know what it is. I do know that I don’t like Belinda being near Isabelle though.
I take a deep breath and walk towards her door. My lungs do that thing where they forget to release, and I let out a slight gasp as I enter the room and see her. She looks so ill. She has lost several pounds since the first time I saw her, and she was already too thin then. She has dark circles around her beautiful blue eyes and her gown is splattered black from the charcoal that they gave to her to absorb the drugs in her system. I need to sort my head out. I need to speak to her like I would any ordinary patient. My head is spinning and I feel nauseated. I pull my chest in, breathe out and straighten my back. I put a blank expression on my face, hoping that she won’t see through my façade. My heart is racing but I manage to steady it. Feeling anything but calm I mentally go through everything I need to say and do. The only difference is that when I ask her what her story is, I will already know.
I have known it all along.
Isabelle
The last thing I remember is a feeling of self-loathing. Lying on my bathroom floor, Linkin Park’s ‘Easier To Run’ playing loudly from my iPod in the bedroom. A tear slips down my cheek as I swallow down the very last pill.
How has my life gotten this bad? I just want to see her one last time, to hug her and tell her how much I love her. To let her know that I need her in my life. I miss her so much, it hurts so badly.
I just hope this will work.
As I drift in and out of consciousness I can hear noises around me, lots of raised voices and beeping in the distance. I feel the cold air hit my face and it shocks me, I feel movement before the warm air returns.
“Female, mid-twenties, found unresponsive, possible overdose.” It goes quiet again as the fog clouds my head.
Everything is dark, but there is a small light in the distance. I squint my eyes and see a man standing in the light. I think it is a man because it doesn’t look feminine. He holds out his hand and I start to move forward. Something tells me to go to this man; he will protect me and look after me. I get closer and closer, but I still can’t see his face, it’s covered by the shadows. I hear him say my name then something jolts me backwards and everything is white again.
The voices are back, but this time they’re hushed. Again, I hear a beeping coming from somewhere. I swallow but my throat screams at me to stop.
“Andrew, I am so sorry. I should have seen the signs, I should have been there.” It’s Jenny and she is crying
.
I don’t want her to cry.
Please don’t cry Jen, I am so sorry.
That damn fog clouds my head once again and I can’t fight it anymore.
I am dancing in the garden at our house in North America. I am four years old. The house is a big old house, painted white with a big beautiful front porch spanning the entire front of the house. There is a big old oak tree in the centre of the meticulously cut grass, attached to one of the large branches is a rope swing. A white picket fence lines the outskirts of the garden with a small gate leading to a gravel path that goes all the way up to the front porch. On the porch there are plant boxes with what seems like hundreds of pretty pink and white flowers.
My mother is sitting on a wooden bench drinking a cup of English tea and reading a book. I’m not sure what the book was, but my dad once told me she was an old romantic and loved British novels. My mom was a beautiful woman; I adored her and wanted to be just like her. She had long dark brown hair flowing all the way down to the bottom of her back; it had a lovely wave to it. She had huge long lashes and beautiful emerald eyes. She was always slim and never seemed to put on any weight even though she cooked us huge family meals every night. She worked hard as a machinist in a sewing factory in the local city, it was a thankless job, but she insisted on working to provide for our family.
We lived on the outskirts of a vast woodland, it was always peaceful and quiet around but also lonely for me as a child. My parents met when my dad was twenty-three and my mom was twenty-two. My dad, who is British, was travelling America after finishing college. They fell in love immediately. It truly was love at first sight. My mother found out she was pregnant eight months into their relationship and my dad couldn’t have been happier. He found himself a job in a local hardware shop and they planned to get married before I was born. They rented the house off my grandparents who had moved into a trailer, as the house was just too big for the two of them. My grandmother, a large bubbly American woman with short greying hair and alluring blue eyes, had kept the garden pristine and she often visited to make sure my mother was keeping on top of it.
It was a beautiful day; the sky was a soft shade of light blue with not a cloud in sight.
“Isabelle, be careful you don’t fall sweetheart,” my mother calls. There is a mound of bricks stacked up just outside of the garage, which I had climbed on top of. My dad used to use the bricks for chopping wood in the winter.
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” I sing. Ouch! I throw myself off the wall. Mommy comes running over from where she is sitting on the porch, she kisses my knee better and soothes me in her modulated tone. She always knew how to make me feel better again.
“Hush now Isabelle, you’re okay. Mommy is here. Let’s smack the naughty ground for hurting you.” I start laughing now as she scolds the floor and starts smacking it lightly.
Those bloody voices are back. I’m starting to think I’m having a psychotic episode. I open my eyes, squinting at the light that is peeking in through the window. When my eyes adjust to the brightness I look around, screwing up my nose.
Well if this is heaven, can you please send me back down to Earth?
The room I find myself in is a dreary cream colour - if cream is actually classed as a colour! The curtains are stained with - I don’t even want to know what they’re stained with - and there is minimal furniture. The bed is hard and unwelcoming and the entire place smells of bleach.
I was expecting fluffy clouds and angels with wings. Instead, I get hell in a hospital room.
I go to sit up when I hear someone entering the room.
“Ahh Miss Riley, you’re awake. Please don’t try and speak too much, your throat will be a little sore from the tube that we placed down it.”
A little sore! It feels like you put a cactus down it.
“Your father has just stepped outside to take a phone call, I will go and fetch him for you.” Oh crap my dad is here! I don’t know why but I suddenly have a mental breakdown. My plan didn’t work. I didn’t see my mom. Or did I? I smile slightly, as I remember the dream I had of her, she made my bump all better. A tear starts to fall down my cheek as I think about it.
She made me better.
“Isabelle, sweetheart!!” My dad comes barrelling into the room just as I am having my ‘moment’. He is a stocky man, about 6 feet tall and has a baldhead. He has deep brown eyes, which look darker now, almost black. He has on jeans and a t-shirt and he looks like he hasn’t slept a wink all night. His face changes from angry, to relief, when he sees the tears staining my cheeks. “You scared me so bad Isabelle, what were you thinking?” My heart clenches at his words, as the guilt overpowers me.
“I…I,” I can’t get the damn words out and the tears are coming down like Niagara Falls.
“Oh baby, please don’t cry. It’s okay; I am here with you now. I am with you my baby girl. Everything will be okay. I promise you.” I look up at my dad and I feel like I am a child again. A stabbing sensation flows through my thudding heart as I think about what I have put him through, all the pain and anguish I have caused him. He is here, alive, yet I am trying to be with the one person who isn’t here and will never be here again.
“Dad, I am so, so sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I just… I just didn’t think.” I try to hold back the treacherous tears but they defeat me. I wince when I swallow. My throat is raw and burning.
This is the price you pay Izzy. Suck it up.
Dad, seeing me wince, turns around and grabs a jug of water from the table. He fills the little plastic cup and pops a straw in it, then hands it to me. I take it, giving him a thankful smile.
“It’s alright honey, you’re safe now that’s all that matters.” I take a small sip of the water.
Jesus Christ that hurts.
He turns around again and bends down. “Jennifer, has packed you some fresh clothes and brought your handbag.” He stands up and places them on the chair next to the bed. “She thought you might need it.” He shifts uncomfortably on his feet and I know there is something wrong.
“What’s wrong Dad?” Apart from the obvious!
“Oh, it’s nothing sweetheart. Don’t you worry about anything, I just want you to concentrate on getting yourself well again.” He gives me a wry smile and I feel so bad. I watch as he pulls his vibrating phone out of his pocket. He presses a button to silence it then places it on the table beside me.
“Who’s calling you?”
“It’s just work, nothing for you to worry about.”
“Dad, if you need to go to work, please don’t worry about leaving me.” I watch as his eyes drop to the floor. “I don’t want you to lose your job over me. I promise I am okay and I won’t do anything silly while I am in here. Please just go to work.” I feel so badly, he’s had no sleep and now he has to go to work. I sense his reluctance, but he finally nods his head, picks his phone back up and collects his coat from the chair.
You are such a selfish bitch Iz.
“I am so sorry Daddy.”
“Hush please, it’s okay.” He strokes the back of my head, hugging me tightly. I relax into his chest. It’s been so long since he has done this. He pulls away and grabs a hold of my face, holding my gaze. “Listen here. Please don’t ever do this again. Come and talk to me, I am always here. You’re my baby girl, I don’t want to lose you. It would kill me.” He leans in and kisses my forehead, then stands and pulls away.
“I promise Dad I won’t. I will call you soon, I want to get out of here.”
“Not until you’re better though okay?” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can always ask Carolyn to come and sit with you, if you want me to?” Oh hell no, that really will make me wish I had succeeded.
“No you’re okay Dad, I wouldn’t want to put anyone out. I am fine, please don’t worry about me.” He nods his head and slowly turns. He heads out of the room, turning one last time and winking before he leaves for good. I feel like someone has shot me through the heart. I didn’t think about anyone else when I was being so selfish. It pains me to think about how worried he must have been all night. I lie back down with the intentions of having a little nap, but the bed is so hard and unwelcoming and the sheets are thin and stiff.
How anal are you really Isabelle! You try to kill yourself and all you’re bothered about is the damn bedding.
I really am a twat!
I am scared and shivering, the fear etched firmly on my face.
It’s dark but there is a crack of light coming from somewhere. I can’t tell where it is though.
I can’t move, I can’t get down.
I have an incredible fear of heights.
I am paralysed with that fear.
I am on the top loop of a solid number 8 – why an 8?
I am about thirty foot high above the ground.
It’s thick enough for me to walk about on.
I shout for help but no one comes.
I am alone.
I shout louder and louder, but I soon realise that no one is going to come for me.
No one will help me.
I have to get out of this situation by myself but I don’t know how to.
I can’t think
I’m so scared.
I try to climb down but I slip.
I’m falling.
I wake up, sweat is pouring from me. I feel frightened and lost. As I try to gather my bearings, I remember that I am in the hospital. I try to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that has plagued me for years. I don’t understand them, I don’t know what they mean, but it's always the same thing. Always a number 8. I hear voices outside the door, a man and a woman. The door opens and in walks the blonde nurse that was here earlier. She is young; probably the same age as me, she has blonde hair tied back in a bun. She has a kind smile and a warm presence. I like her.