Durability (The LockDown Series Book 3) (7 page)

I kiss my granddaughter’s hair and hold her close to me for the last time, as I force to keep my tears at bay. I need to be strong right now and take what I deserve. I know I deserve it; it was just a matter of time before someone took the initiative to rid the world of me.

I hear the multiple footsteps in the hall outside, the slamming against my stairs as somebody disappears up them.

I had told the baby that everything would be okay, that she would be fine, before the lounge door was kicked in and I saw death before me, the grim reaper in the form of a large, built, gun-wielding husband.

I can’t recall past the snatching of the child from my arms and the first breaking of my cheek bone. It had splintered in my face, the shards digging violently into my skin, the pain searing through my body.

I don’t show my fear, I don’t show my pain. I take every hit, every punch and forceful strike with acceptance as I mentally count down the minutes I know I have left. I pray to God, pleading for his eternal forgives for every sin I have committed.

‘If you can hear me Lord, know that I have sinned, but I have acknowledged my wrong doings. All I want is to leave this world and be with my wife. To leave my daughter safe and happy. Please allow me to your home and welcome me. Please redeem me of everything I have ever done and encourage me to stay positive and watch over my family from afar.’
I beg him silently as I see that clock ticking away.

SMASH! Another crack to my cheek, the same bone crushing further. I can’t move my face, it is swollen, bleeding and numb. My lips are busted, my eyebrows split and bleeding, my skull caving a little and gushing red paint. My cheeks and jaw are unusable and causing a pain so intense it makes me see stars.

Every hit forces me further to the light, a huge tunnel that leads to a bright white abyss that I hope leads me to heaven, and to the place my soul had fled to when my wife had taken her life.

“Fucking Cunt! I’ll fucking kill you,” I can hear Leighton saying repeatedly through my fog. He is relentless in his attack, never giving up, never lightening, only intensifying his strikes. I am surprised I am not already passed out, but I want to be aware as I take my final breath.

“You ready to die; you ready to leave Abbi alone you sick fucking bastard?!” He shouts again as he clenches my jaw in his hand, the bones sliding and grinding as the broken pieces move.

I feel sick with pain, tears streaming my face uninvited. I blink back the wetness, every drop stinging my open and gashed skin.

He taps the gun against my cheek, and then stands up straight. I breathe out relieved air as I hear his steps move away. The few second rest makes my heart rate settle a little.

“Say your last prayers because I am ending this now,” he says and I force my eyes open to watch as he aims the gun to my head, his hard and cruel face staring at me, our eyes locking. I breathe out and nod my head as I ready myself for the impact.

“Later,” he says malevolently before I hear the pop of the gun. I think of everything I have done, every reason why this is now ending. I deserve it, I want it and I need it. Abbi needs this, to end her endless nightmare of the thought of me.

My heart is broken, my spirit and soul lost and abandoned but I will find them all again. I will watch from afar as my daughter grows to be the amazing woman I know she will be, and my beautiful granddaughter breaking guys' hearts. They will be fine; I will make sure of it.

I accept my fate and I am aware of myself for mere seconds before everything turns black. The white light is fading in the distance and I push myself through the thick mist as I grasp onto the final remnants of humanity.

This is the vine God is offering me, a tiny slither of hope that I can clasp onto. I grip to the tiny wisp of white in the darkness and feel myself speed through into the beautiful brightness, I hope and pray will end my torture.

“I’m here angel, I’m here.” I speak aloud, smiling as everything clears and I spot the one thing I have been missing. My soul, my other half and my everything. My Penny.

Fogginess is what I can feel. A pounding within my skull that is more than unbearable. Angel is nowhere to be seen, just a softness below my back that shields the aching pain that is deep inside me.

“She’s coming round,” I hear somebody say as I move my head side to side, trying to force my lids to open and allow my eyes the gift of sight. “Remove the tube now,” he says again and I nearly puke as I feel that horrible sensation of the rubber sliding against my tonsils. “Bowl,” he orders for the final time as my body propels me up, vomit rising and spewing into the cardboard container. “And she’s back.”

“Ergh,” I say, feeling worse than I ever have before. I blink hard as the bright lights around me morph into a duller glare.

“I think you’ll be okay now, Mrs Lock,” he says to me as my hazy brain regains a little consciousness.

“What happened?” I croak out. This amount of anaesthetic cannot be good on a person. I feel
hazy, confused and somewhat frightened of what had just happened. I thought after escaping hell, I wouldn’t see my angel again.

“Your wound re-opened. The veins we had stitched up burst and you lost a lot of blood. You were talking about random things. Was quite funny to watch, Mrs Lock, but I’m afraid you may have annoyed your husband a little.” I lay back on the bed sighing. I have recollections of the things I said to him, the disregard I had towards my daughter’s safety. But it is all lies, all false words created by the lack of oxygen my body was receiving.

“I need to see him,” I say sadly, hoping he hadn’t been too angry with me.

“We’ve tried to call him but we aren’t getting an answer. I’m sure he’ll come here soon sweetheart, you just focus on getting yourself better okay?” he tells me as he helps me to sit up to drink some water.

“Why would I have said those horrible things to him?” I ask the doctor. I know roughly why, Angel had explained it simply to me.

“You had a bad internal bleed Abigail and it meant that your brain was losing oxygen and making you a little delirious. You weren’t able to control rational thinking therefore, not seeing the things he was. Once he comes back and we explain it to him, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.” He smiles kindly at me.

“Yeah, I’m sure he will.” I relax into the bed and stare to the ceiling. I know I am going to be bored as hell now until he comes back to me.

I lay in my bed for the rest of the day, the lightness from outside the windows changing to a dark blue that brings along a chill and darkness I haven’t felt for a long time. Not since having Leighton in my life.

“No, please no,” I say to myself as I bring my legs up and beg for those images and dreams not to return. I can’t bear to live if they infest themselves within my head like they once had. I barely made it through last time; I don’t think my emotional sanity can take on more images.

I read the clock on the side of my bed, 23:52. It is nearly midnight and Leighton hasn’t returned. I have no idea where he is, where my daughter is, if she is even safe. I wish I knew what was going on so I can at least sleep contently.

I close my eyes after convincing myself sleep is the best thing to do right now. It is true when they say the only time you heal is when you allow yourself to shut down for a few hours so your systems can do their job and repair the damage.

My body is pumped with drugs, every drip of morphine rushing my system makes it easier for my body to shut down.

I close my eyes and succumb to the desperate need to recuperate. Regardless of the many hours my body has been sedated, it hasn’t helped with the exhaustion my body is suffering. The physical pain is bad, but in some ways it is far more bearable than the darkness I can feel surrounding every tiny crevice of my hospital room.

Please not again.

I open the front door, fiddling desperately with my key to get inside. School has been hard, stressful but somewhat a reprieve from the torment I know I am about to face. I can smell him, everything that reminds me of the animal I reside with. The cannabis, the alcohol and pure stench of his body as he neglects everything about himself. It lingers, distastefully in the hallways of my home. No, correct that, this was a house, just a simple mix of bricks and cement, just about held together.

“Abigail!” I hear my father shout from the lounge. My breathing is already accelerating, my heart rate spiking fiercely as I walk through the door frame, cracked and peeling away from the plastered walls. “I’m hungry. Make me some food,” he demands of me, looking up from his knelt position by his favourite glass table.

I look down in disgust, but masking it perfectly. Four rows of white powder line the dirty glass, my father’s face pressed firmly to them as he snorts through a thoroughly used tube of paper.

I am nine years old and I know I am not like the other children at school. My clothes have holes and marks on them, they hang loosely around my body as every day I lose more weight. Bruises and red blisters scar my skin where my class friends have temporary tattoos, pressed with water by their loving parents. I know I will never experience the feeling of posing with a picture of my favourite cartoon character. Disney princesses are something I know not of, they are a fantasy, a myth I assume my friends have made up.

It has been five years since my mother took her life, yes I know that she killed herself. It haunts me with my every breath. When I am awake I see her everywhere and when I sleep I dream of her. I barely remember her or any of the time I had with her. All I do remember are those intense blue eyes, the ones that harbour the same depth as my own. I could have sworn she loved
me,
once upon a time. Hell, I would love to think even my dad loved me once. But why would she leave me, why would she abandon her only child, leaving me with this man if she loved me at all?

“Ok.” I reply, scared of what the consequences will be if I refuse. Feeling the soreness against my back I can quickly estimate the repercussions, knowing they will be dire.

“Quit with the attitude, Abigail. You’re acting fucking spoilt. If it wasn’t for you, your mother would still be here, so be grateful for that.” I know it is my fault she has left, that I made her sad. My dad has reminded me every day since she died. If only I could go back in time, make her life with me easier. I would tell my infant self to not cry so much, to not drive her crazy.

“Sorry,” I tell him, trembling on the spot at his words. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.” I am like a robot, going through the autopilot motions of barely living and surviving in this house. An empty shell is all that stands in my place, and even at nine years old I can tell how little I am breathing and how little the blood that pumps my veins contains pure, real life.

“You better be kid.” His dark eyes penetrate me as I cower by the door. Even at a foot nothing, bent over the table, his body intimidates me to no end.

I just nod once and leave the room. I leave my bag by the door, not bothering to take it upstairs, it will only delay the time in which I can cook for him and then hide away. If I get his dinner to him late he will tan my backside.