Pure Illusion
Authors: Michelle M. Watson
This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by
electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems, without the permission in writing from author. The only exception is
by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Copyright©2013
Michelle Watson
Pure Illusion (Web of Deception #1)
Michelle Watson
To
the lonely ones that ever felt unworthy.
You
are cherished more than you know.
To
the irrational ones who opt to think outside the box.
Keep
it up, you are inspirational.
To
the rebels that defy the world’s perception.
Stay
focused, we need you.
To the scared ones.
Move
forward, we love you.
To the dreamers.
Don’t
ever wake up.
Illusion
: a false mental image
produced by misinterpretation of things that actually exist.
7:00P.M.,
October, 31
st
People
never truly know you until you die, that’s when your soul really is free of
limitations and heavy confines that living cause. Once your soul leaves your
body it unfolds to reveal your true nature, whether it may be a deceitful web
of nasty little secrets or an honorary existence as pure as gold.
I
can’t say I’m astonished or even surprised to be here, witnessing my very own
funeral. To be honest, I expected it. But, it still pains me to see them all
hurt, especially my older sister, Isabel. We made a blood oath long ago and
promised one another that we would never take our own lives, only because our
parents took that exact route. But what she doesn’t know is that I didn’t
renege on something that meant everything to us. I didn’t commit suicide. My
killer is amongst the small somber crowd that is dressed in funeral black and
holding towering umbrellas over their heads to keep them dry from the
never-ending rain as they all gather around and watch my polished mahogany
casket lower into the wet, runny, muddy earth.
There
are a few shining stars among the sea of black, though. The people I sincerely
and wholeheartedly cared about and loved with every facet of my being. Those
special stars of mine have on a rainbow symbol somewhere on them, whether it’s
a bracelet, earrings, or in Hero’s case, a bowtie. They wear it to represent
me, not just because I was a proud gay, but because I loved rainbows. I always
thought of the colorful, vivid arch in the sky as a bridge, a bridge that leads
to a happier and brighter place.
A
bridge was how I died. My killer shoved me off The Suicide Bridge, the tone of
steel with a 210-foot drop to jagged rocks and rushing rapids. Besides the
abundance of wild cherry trees, meadows, rivers, and cliffs, it’s the biggest
attraction we have in Cherry Creek, North Carolina. Countless souls willingly
took the leap of death off The Suicide Bridge, and I wasn’t one of them.
It’s
kind of ironic though, right?
My
poor sister, she’s too blinded by the thick cloud of misery and grief to ever
see all the beauty and danger that surrounds her.
Hunter
Knight stands a few feet away, fidgeting with the thin multicolored rope
bracelet around his left wrist. He likes to wear meaningful things on his left
side because it’s close to his heart, a heart that I thought iced-over long
ago. But I guess I was wrong, because here he stands, intently staring at
Isabel as if she might instantly vanish at any second. He looks guilty. Hunter
Knight should feel guilty; he caused Isabel so much anguish throughout her
life, so much heartache, so much sadness. Isabel isn’t aware of Hunter, though.
I don’t know whether he’s more harm or aid to her at this point. She’s going to
need help—a boatload.
I
run my fingers through her long hair and then wrap my arm around her waist,
pulling her close and leaning my head on her shoulder.
I
love you Isabel.
Her
body begins to shake.
I
am very sorry you’re hurting.
Tears
pool in her eyes.
But
I need you to wake up, beautiful girl.
She
tries to hold them in to keep them from falling.
Wake
up and seek the truth.
A
stream slides down her cheeks.
With
the truth you can move on and so can I.
Her
fists ball up and clench at her sides.
This
is reverie, beautiful girl. Everything you thought you knew isn’t what it
seems.
Isabel’s
throat constricts and she cannot catch her breath.
I
need you to break out of the illusion and see reality for what it is.
Wake
up.
Wake
up.
Wake
up.
BREATHE!
Through
the tears, she inhales a deep breath.
Known
and unknown hazards and threats lurk within the shadows of the golden path that
leads to the end of the rainbow. All that you see and don’t see are set
purposely to question your intuition. Remember within this world of reverie
trust your two eyes and heartbeat.
Beyond
the paved asphalt roads and proud American waving flags from the porches of
neat rows of identical colonial brick houses and further past the lush green
lawns and churches, something sinister harbors within Bayham County. The
darkness may rest within the moss-covered oaks of the small southern town of
Cherry Creek, North Carolina.
Lights Out
Today
is the last day of the rest of my life. I’ve lost the fight to live and the
struggle of breathing every day is just too much to bear. This emptiness within
me can’t be filled with anything that has sustaining power. I wish seeing the
sunrise every morning was enough, enough to make me change my mind, enough to
keep me here. But it’s not. Even when the brightest star shines its halo on me,
my eyes see nothing. My eyes are as vacant as my soul; every ounce of my being
feels stripped, bare, and left exposed to the harsh elements of life.
Fragile.
Talk
of me, Isabel Charm Waters, will spread like wildfire. I’m proving everyone is
this small-town of Cherry Creek, North Carolina, right. I’m the little weak
girl that would snap at any moment after my brother’s horrific suicide.
His
name was Tyler Casimir Waters.
I
watch idly as Tyler’s brown teddy bear floats face down on top of the surface
of the murky water, near the end of the tub. The bath I’ve ran for myself has
gone cold, as cold as the blood slowly pumping in my veins. With as much energy
that I can muster, I try to reach for it but my arms are too numb and heavy to
lift. Giving up, I sink further back into the tub, allowing my muscles to
unclench and relax. The water is overlapping my nose. I can feel my heart
beating. It should be wild and deafening but it’s so slow; a mellow melody of
death. Once the song ends though, there will be no replay or encore of any
kind, just silence.
All
I want is silence.
My
eyes shift to the empty bottle of sleeping pills on the bathtub countertop.
Suicide doesn’t happen like it does in the movies. It isn’t instant, lights
out, unless, of course, you’re brave enough to pull a trigger and blast a
bullet through your brain.
You
have to wait for the blackness to swallow you whole. The worst part is waiting
on death to happen. The peace you want is there, within arm’s reach, but it’s
taking its leisurely time to put you out of your misery. Even when you stoop to
this level of desperation, you still don’t get the satisfaction of getting what
you desire when you desire it the most.
Please
just take me.
I’m
ready.
I’m
ready.
I’m
ready.
Closing
my heavy lids, I begin to drift away, my heart faintly thudding in my chest.
It’s a fading tempo that I can’t keep tabs with.
Black.
Then reality.
Silence.
Then the sound of a weakening heart and
labored breaths.
Nothing.
Then a fragmented view of everything.
A
voice calls to me as I float in and out of consciousness.
It’s
a real voice.
“Isabel!”
That
voice.
That
voice wants me to live.
“Isabel!”
The
voice gets closer as I drift further.
“Isabel!
Please, please, please open your eyes.”
I’m
so sorry
.
Darkness.
Then
the heat of someone’s fingers wrapped fully around my upper arms as they settle
behind me in the tub. The heat is burning my skin. My body slumps against
someone’s solid frame. Whoever’s behind me has an intense fire within. Their
flame is scorching me. “Isabel, baby, open your eyes.” That voice sounds as
hopeless as I feel.
I’m
sorry.
I’m
so sorry.
I’m
just tired.
Stillness and then movement.
Warm
fingers are forced down my throat; searing vomit sprays everywhere, on me, on
my unidentified angel.
Everything
comes back and hits me like a freight train and it is pure agony.
The
oxygen I’m tussling to inhale whistles through my chest and scalds my deflated
lungs. Salt from fresh tears fill my slack mouth as I whisper incoherent
things, as I release my secrets and tell someone my every fear, my every dream,
my every tragedy. My body can’t stop shaking around the pleasant warmth that
surrounds me.
A
soft kiss on my left shoulder is want I get in return; that kiss burns right
through the layers of skin and soaks into my bones.
Except
that kiss is more than just a kiss. It’s a kiss of promise, a kiss that sets my
soul ablaze.
“Isabel,
I have to get you out this tub.”
That
voice!
I
know that voice.
Please
let it be anyone other than that voice.
Realization
seeps through the thick haze that blankets my brain and my eyes move to the
long, lean pant legs on either side of me and down to grey Vans sneakers that
are by my feet, at the end of the tub that’s filled with Tyler’s teddy, dirty
water, chunky, foamy white vomit.
I
burst into tears at this hopeless situation.
It’s
him.
Why
did it have to be
him
?
The
next thing I know, I’m hauled up into strong arms and carried away into my
room. I keep my eyes close tight, refusing to witness any of it, refusing to accept
him as my savior.
He
gingerly lays me down on my bed, then moves somewhere within the confines of my
bedroom. He’s back with a towel.
My
heart is erratic as he swipes the fuzzy material down the length of my body. He
dries every nook and cranny: my hair, my armpits,
my
belly. But when he wipes between my legs, I inhale sharply, a surge of desire
strikes me and leaves my flesh tingly. I feel my body respond to him; I’m
getting wet.
Aroused.
His movements are gentle but
very certain and precise. It still doesn’t stop my tears and countless pathetic
whispers of protest.
He
ignores me as he rummages through my chest of drawers. A short moment later,
delicate cotton is dragged up my ankles. “Lift your hips,” he orders, firmly
moving them up my legs.
Obeying
but still crying, I do.
After
he puts my panties on, he slides some loose jeans up my legs and zips and
buttons them. Then I hear him searching through my drawers again. “Can you sit
up?”
I
don’t answer him.
“Isabel?”
Nothing
comes out.
His
weight sinks in the mattress as he sits beside me. He lifts me towards his lap
and tugs on my bra, strapping all the hooks it in place, putting my shirt,
socks, shoes, and jacket on me after.
What
is he doing here?
He’s
the reason I have scars up my arms.
He’s
half the reason I want to die.
“Please
leave,” I murmur, eyes still closed tight, voice hoarse and raw.
“No,”
he says after a heartbeat. He places the hood of my jacket over my head after
zipping it up, and then he sweeps me in his arms like a wounded pet. “I’m
taking you home with me.”
“Please
leave,” I repeat numbly.
“No,
Isabel. I’m not leaving you. I’ve done enough of that already.”
Warmth
I shouldn’t feel spreads too quickly, eating away at the ice in my chest.
“Please
leav—”
“No!
Stop speaking. Just let me care of you. Please.”
Swallowing
thickly, I press my lips together as he carries me through the house, outside
in the cold rain and into his truck. His truck smells of spicy cinnamon mint
and cologne and something magical that’s all Hunter.
Hunter
Knight.
The
beautiful boy with the blond hair and crystal-clear blue eyes and sun kissed
skin.
Hunter
Knight.
The
boy I loved since third grade.
Hunter
Knight.
The boy who mercilessly smashed my
fragmented heart into dust.
Hunter
Knight.
The blackness that clouded my light.
He
straps me in and then slams the door.
The
door to the driver side opens. He glides in, bringing the engine to life.
“Please get the bear,” I say to the window.
“What?”
“The
bear—get the bear from the tub.
Please
.”
He
doesn’t sigh or give any impression that he’s losing patience, though I don’t
know the exact expression on his face because my eyes are still clamped shut.
The door swings open; the hinges make a loud squeaking noise because of old
rust. I hear foots steps splash against the rain puddles as he heads towards my
empty house. Then I hear nothing but the sound of the rain heavily drumming
steadily against the roof of his red Chevy truck.
A
moment later, Hunter returns, slamming the truck door behind him. He tosses a
plastic bag that contains Tyler’s soggy bear on my lap and drives off.