Survival (Twisted Book 1)

Copyright © 2014

Rebecca R Sherwin

All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places, events and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.

I had the perfect life. No, really, I did.

I had everything I ever wanted.

I had a good job that paid the bills with enough money spare to eat out regularly and go on quarterly holidays in the sun.

I had a four bedroom detached house, a stone’s throw from the countryside and just a ten minute drive to the city.

I had a car; I traded it in for a new model every two years. Before it needed an inspection or service, I had a shiny brand new one sitting on my double driveway.

I had a Rottweiler called Buster. Cliché, I know, but he was the final step. The one before you took the plunge and had a baby.

And I had the perfect man. We were happy and we were in love.

See? My life had finally fallen into place.

But little did I know that in my blissful state of ignorance, I was taking everything for granted. I didn’t know my time in possession of perfection was running out.

I had no idea I was about to have everything ripped away from me. Again.

I didn’t see it coming.

My name is Skye
, and this is my story.

There has to be a way out. There has to be.

Almost autumn, 2002.

“Skye!”

My mother banged her fist on my bedroom door like she did every morning. Every. Morning.

I groaned and opened my eyes. I was in my third ‘snooze’ phase of the new day and I was not happy about being woken up before the fourth. Alarm clocks had snooze buttons for a reason.

“Skye!” she called again, and banged. Again. “If I have to listen to that alarm once more, you’ll be investing in a new one!”

I groaned again and cursed. I did that a lot at home; I didn’t want to be there. I hadn’t for a long time; not since my father left to live with his new girlfriend and my life turned to shit. It was a day I would never forget. My mother stood by the kitchen window with her arms folded, looking out at the other houses in the cul-de-sac. My father packed his things and we watched from the sofa as he filled his car and pulled off the driveway. There was no conversation; we didn’t get an explanation. He just said goodbye, in a voice that sounded nothing like the one he used when he told us he was proud of us, and he left.

We had a nice house when he lived with us. I had my own room with a big bay window. It’s funny how you notice the little things when they’re gone.

Living in a family home soon changed. My mother had never had a job and didn’t even pretend to try and get one when he walked out. She let the government pay for everything and as a result, we had to move – to a two bedroom flat in a tower block.

It wasn’t so bad, if you ignored the pounding music from the neighbours on one side and the suspicious smell of what the couple on the other side were smoking. Oh, and the old lady downstairs. She would bash the ceiling with her broom because she forgot she lived in a third floor flat provided by the council, instead of the bungalow she lived in with her husband before he died. She was nice enough, if you caught her on a good day, when she actually remembered her own name and what year it was.

I didn’t hate my father; I didn’t blame him for leaving. I only envied him for being able to escape. And I wished he had taken us with him…
Us. My twin brother, Oliver, and me. I just wished he had run away with us both in tow.

My mother didn’t care that we shared a room. I’m sure, at nineteen, it was illegal. The council didn’t care and our mother didn’t care enough to try to change it. Beth, our older sister…she got out two years earlier. She moved away to university and apart from the weekly call to make sure we weren’t malnourished, she had her own life.

Oliver and I both held down two jobs so we could feed and clothe ourselves, and pay the water rates; we were two showers a day clean freaks. We worked all the hours we could, which was pointless because she only smoked and drank our money away. A vegetable or a hint of colour was a rarity in our fridge.

I was determined to get out, we both were. We decided one night, about five months in when we were high from inhaling next door’s
fumes, that we wouldn’t put up with her for much longer. We would save enough money to move out and get a place together; a place with at least two bedrooms.

We only had each other. We had to stick together; keep each other sane and on the straight and narrow.

“Skye!” My mother’s incessant banging and leechy voice continued.

I had turned the damn alarm off ages ago. I realised when she banged again and I considered getting out of bed, opening the door and banging my fist on her face to show her how it felt, that she didn’t want me to be late for work. Less money on my
paycheck meant fewer Marlboro Lights for her. I would go and earn the money, give her half and not tell her the other half would go into our savings box. Oliver and I would get out soon, I could feel it. Maybe it was the lingering smell of weed from the night before making me delirious, hopeful, when I should have known better than to have hope.

I heaved myself out of bed and looked across the room at my sleeping brother. He had pulled the duvet over his head to block out her voice so he could sleep before work. He had only been home from his other job for a couple of hours.

Marijuana effects or not, I had a feeling we would be okay. I had to keep that energy and channel it into making a better life for us. I could do that. What other choice was there?

But life doesn’t work out the way you plan it, no matter how hard you try.

It’s the unexpected we all fail to prepare for…

How many Hulks does it take to celebrate New Year’s Eve?

December 31
st
, 2002

I managed to find myself some friends. I was convinced that if they knew the kind of life I lived, I would be a laughing stock, an outcast. Everyone had their own problems and were fighting their own battles; my job and the friends I made at work became a way to escape the kind of hell that waited for me at home.

By day I worked at the local deli, putting together cof
fee orders and toasting panini and by night I operated the switchboard in a car insurance call centre. When I wasn’t working, I sat in my room on guard in case my mother came snooping and found our savings, or I went for a few drinks with my friends. They knew little about me; they assumed I didn’t get good enough grades to go to university. I could let them believe that. It was better than the truth. I hung out with Oliver and his friends, too. When I was with my brother I could pretend, just for a while, that we were part of a normal family again.

I was on my way to meet Oliver after work when I thought about our father. He never came back like he said he would. I was nineteen, I wasn’t stupid, but it hurt. He was a good father, as much as I knew what made a father good
, but I had no idea why he left us. Deserting my mother I could understand; she was a hopeless drunk with no passion for life. Maybe Oliver and I did something wrong too. The thought plagued me constantly. After eighteen years he just decided he didn’t want us anymore, and it hurt; more than having to go into a charity shop to buy something for the party. We were celebrating New Year’s Eve with Oliver’s friends and I was on my way there to meet him, wearing my charity shop dress with as much pride as I could.

I knocked on the front door and waited for an answer. It was a nice house, like the one we used to live in and I wondered if there were parents inside; parents who were still together and still taking care of their children.

A huge man with a dark tangle of hair opened the door and I almost shrieked in shock. Every inch of skin I could see was covered in ink. Tribal markings, symbols and script covered his neck and arms.

“Can I help you?” His voice was a deep baritone. I looked at the door number and then down at the piece of paper in my hand with the address on
it. Oliver must have given me the wrong one.

My eyes danced between him and the address, but I couldn’t stop my eyes lingering on him, in an almost blatant stare, studying his features. His big brown eyes sparkled with confidence, yet I could tell they were a barrier; for what, I didn’t know. His smile was one-sided, a cocky smile that showcased a pair of full lips. There was something dangerously alluring about him.

“Miss?”

“Uh, sorry,” I stuttered. “Is my brother here?”

“I might be able to tell you,” he said with a hint of humour in that deep voice that drew my gaze from his powerful body up to his dark eyes, “if I know who your brother is.”

I might have laughed, if it weren’t for my discomfort. This guy was huge; I didn’t know they made men in XXXL. I almost laughed again.

“Oliver. Oliver Jones.”

“You’re Ollie’s sister?” He sounded surprised as he looked me up and down.

“I am.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” he grinned. “Come on in. You’re missing the party.”

He held the door open and I stepped in. The house smelled of polished wood and lemon. It smelled clean. It reminded me I had housework to do. I followed The Hulk through the house to a conservatory at the back. There were ten other men in there, including my brother, although I couldn’t be sure of the exact number. I counted ten heads, but their bodies meshed into a sea of muscle. They were all huge. So was Oliver. How had that happened? I didn’t make a habit of checking my brother out but how had I missed
that
?!

“Hey, you’re here!” He jumped up and squeezed me against him. He’d had at least three beers.

Beers three, four and five made him an affectionate – and now considerably bigger – teddy bear. Beer six onwards made him just want to sleep.

He handed me the rest of his bottle and presented me to the Hulk army surrounding us.