Survival (Twisted Book 1) (5 page)

“Why are we here?” I asked as we climbed out of the car.

“I live here,” Curtis pulled out a set of keys and opened the front door. “My parents deserted me too.”

I hesitated on the threshold, but it was where Oliver had spent his time. It was the last connection I had to him. I stepped inside and Curtis locked the door behind us.

The oxygen was squeezed from my lungs as I looked around. There was a ring in the middle, but I quickly looked away from it as the blade of grief twisted in my chest. There was a group of
punchbags hanging from the ceiling on one side and some weight-lifting and training equipment on the other. I could feel Oliver; his presence was absorbed into the eggshell paint on the walls and it enveloped me in longing.

“We all feel him,” Curtis said noting my reaction, and led me towards the far end of the gym. “It’s like he’s still here. I haven’t been able to train since - but I feel him.”

“He liked it here?”

“Loved it,” he unlocked another door and we stepped into a hallway. “This place is like a second home to most of the boys. Geoff looks after us.”

“I’m glad he was happy here.”

We climbed a staircase and stepped onto an open living area. It was small and dark and smelled of Curtis. I never noticed he had a smell before, but I noticed it then. It was comforting.

“I wish he would have brought you here.”

“Why? I can’t fight.”

He took two bottles of water out of the fridge and handed one to me.

“You wouldn’t have to. But you could have escaped, too,” he gave me a sorrowful once over. “Wait here.”

He disappeared into a room and came back minutes later with some clothes. He had changed into a pair of lounge trousers and a t-shirt and handed me a pile of similar things.

“You can change in the bathroom,” he pointed to another door. “I’ll dry your clothes.”

“Will you tell me a story?”

We were sitting in silence on his worn brown leather sofa, listening to the whirring of the dryer.

“What kind of story?”

“Any kind. I just want to hear your voice.”

I didn’t think I needed a friend, but I did. I could talk to Curtis and know he understood. I didn’t have to tell him about my life, he already knew. I didn’t have to pretend everything was okay because he knew it wasn’t. He shared my pain. He loved Oliver too.

“Once upon a time,” he started and shifted closer, “there was a boy. He was a happy boy. He played football on Saturdays and his father always told him he would be a star. His favourite dinner was sausages and mash. His mother cooked it for him before she went out with his father. It was their anniversary and the lady next door came over to build jigsaws with the boy and put him to bed. The boy was five and he loved the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

“They built the puzzle and the lady tucked him up in bed and read him a story. The boy fell asleep and dreamed of the porridge his mummy would make him for breakfast, but the lady was still there when he woke up. She made him toast with strawberry jam. He didn’t like jam, he liked porridge and honey. The lady looked sad so the boy ate his toast and sat on the sofa with her to watch TV.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder. I heard the pain in his voice and my heart broke for him.

“The boy’s mummy and daddy never came home. Their car broke on the way back and the angels took them to keep them safe.”

“Curtis.”

“
Shh,” he looked into my eyes and stroked his thumb over my chin. “Just listen.”

I pursed my lips and he continued.

“He stayed with his aunt for a while but he wasn’t nice to her. He didn’t want an aunt-mummy, he wanted his mummy. As he got older, he got angrier. He didn’t understand why his friends had their parents and he didn’t. He used to fight, but he would lose because he couldn’t control his anger.”

He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me closer as I cried and his grief became palpable.
As it swirled around us, our connection deepened and we shared the pain. We shared the relief of having each other.

“One day, when he was fifteen, his aunt packed his things in a bag and drove him to a little building on the outskirts of town. He met Geoff. Geoff was short and fat and had a weird cockney accent. He took the boy’s bag and led him upstairs. He showed him a little flat and told the boy he could have it for free if he kept it tidy, mopped the floor of the gym and learned how to fight properly.

“He put the kettle on and turned to the boy. “I’m going to help you with the pain, Curtis.” He said, “I’m going to teach you how to turn it into power. I’m going to train you to be a great man.”.”

He stopped talking and stared at the wall opposite.

“And…?” I asked.

“And then the dryer stopped,” I looked at him confused, but he smiled at me and all hint of the hurt I heard in his voice disappeared. “Our clothes are dry.”

Sometimes
hope is all you have.

February 14
th
, 2003

Valentine’s Day. I hadn’t yet reached a point in my life where I would get excited about such a day. My father would buy me a card when I was a kid, with a teddy bear and packet of Love Heart sweets, but I’d never had a real boyfriend. It was all alien to me; boy meets girl, girl swoons and loses her tongue, boy woos girl until she is powerless to his charm and then they become inseparable. In the blink of an eye, two lives become one. It was a great idea, a beautiful romance that would stand the test of time, but that’s all it was. Idealism. It wasn’t real. And I had no idea how to talk to members of the opposite sex without getting tongue-tied and looking like I’d never had a day’s schooling. It didn’t matter, really. I was convinced it wouldn’t happen for me. I was content with watching it in movies while I gorged on ice cream to try and stick it to my depression.

My mother had a date. It was the only thing she had spoken to me about for weeks. I'm sure she told me just to gloat – the forty year old drunk could get a date, but her nineteen year old daughter would be at home, simultaneously shoving popcorn and
spoonfuls of Nutella in her mouth.

I felt sorry for any man walking into the eye of that storm. My mother was a ticking time bomb; the poor fool had no idea what he was getting into but I had no intention of warning him. She was his problem now. Good luck to him.

I stood in the kitchen, microwaving my popcorn when she walked in. The buttery smell of my popcorn mixed with the smoke from the cigarette that hung from her lips made my stomach turn. At least she had washed her hair. Maybe her date enjoyed making out with an ashtray.

She pulled a little bottle of cheap vodka from the cutlery draw and downed it in one.

“Dutch courage,” she shrugged and grinned, showcasing her decaying teeth. I was ashamed to be related to her. “Have a wonderful Valentine’s.”

I watched as she left. I didn’t tell her she had the bottom of her dress tucked into her knickers.

My evening was as uneventful as every other day. I’d wake up, spend the day with Curtis if he wasn’t working, participate in life as much as I had to, and sleep. Sometimes I
spent evenings with Curtis, but he was a serial dater. At least, I thought he was. I saw the looks from women, and the tender side I had caught a glimpse of made him quite a catch.

I was busy watching a movie and eating Nutella, sucking every trace of it off the spoon after each mouthful, when there was a knock on the door. I forced myself off the sofa and looked through the peephole. Curtis.
Sweet Jesus.
I scrubbed my finger over my teeth to remove all evidence of my pathetic night in and opened the door.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he smiled and held out a single red rose.

“What’s this for?”

He shrugged, “Ollie wouldn’t want you alone on the one night you’re supposed to be shown how special you are.”

Oliver.
It was easier to talk about him, especially around Curtis. We weren’t at the sharing anecdotes point; the pain was too raw, but we reminded ourselves why we had each other.

“Thank you.”

“You can't go out dressed like that,” he nodded towards my old pyjamas and I noticed he was in jeans and a shirt. I didn’t think they made Hulk sized button-ups. “You’ve got five minutes.”

I didn’t ask questions. I scrambled to my room and changed into the nicest jeans I had, paired with the pink blouse I wore when I graduated college. I was surprised it still fit – the Nutella had been nicer to me than I deserved.

I pulled the only bag I owned over my shoulder and took some money from the shoe box.

“Wow. That was quick,” Curtis looked at his watch as I returned, and opened the door for me.

“Why don’t you have a date tonight?” I asked as we sat at our table in the restaurant.

“I do. You’re my date.”

I laughed, “This isn’t a real date.”

“Of course not,” he shifted and half-filled my wine glass.

“So where’s the harem?”

“I gave them a break,” he winked at me and picked up his menu.

I picked up mine, but couldn’t concentrate on the words. Curtis carried his pain well. I knew he harboured as much as me, if not more, but you couldn’t tell. Anyone who looked at me could tell I was a finger snap away from falling apart, but Curtis was a soldier. I had a
feeling I had only reached the tip of the iceberg when it came to his sorrow, but I would only know about it if he told me. His poker face was incredible; I needed to work on mine. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel he needed to hang around me while I floated through life and he could make something of himself. Geoff had already made him a great man, he was destined for greater things than hanging around and babysitting me.

“Skye?”
I looked up to see Curtis and the waitress waiting for me to order.

“Spaghetti bolognaise, please,” I ordered the only thing I knew would be on the menu. I hadn’t even looked.

My father used to make a great bolognaise.

I had never been drunk before. I tended to steer clear of alcohol, knowing what it did to my mother. Even when I had gone out with the few friends I had, I didn’t drink much. A glass of wine was enough for me, but Curtis and I shared a few bottles of wine over dinner while we talked. Hours passed in no time and I noticed the effects of the drink as I stood in the bathroom and washed my hands. I didn’t know what kind of drunk I was. Was I the giggly kind? The kind that got aggressive? Or was I going to break down and cry and cover Curtis in snot? I had no idea, but I waited in the bathroom for a while and splashed my face with water to try and sober up. It only made my mascara run and I looked worse than before. I sighed, giving up on concealing my state, and left.

Curtis was waiting for me at the table and handed me my coat and bag. I rummaged to find some money, but he closed his hand around mine.

“It’s paid.”

“I can pay for my dinner,” I argued. Maybe I was an argumentative drunk.

“I know. But it’s done. The cab is outside.”

He took my hand and we both ignored the way I jumped at the contact as he led me outside and helped me into the car.

“Geoff’s?”
I asked as the cab pulled up outside the gym. Curtis paid the fare and we climbed out.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said, working to unlock the door. “You can have my bed, it’s clean. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I just don’t want you to be on your own tonight.”

“Thank you.”

I staggered in through the door and stopped just inside. The gym was dark, only the lights above the ring remained. They illuminated the ring in bright white light and left
everything else in shadow. I dropped my bag and coat, and walked towards it. Circling the ring, I ran my hand along the edges of the canvas, and then the bottom rope. There was just something magical about it. It must have been the wine talking, but I knew why Oliver loved it and I was beginning to see why Curtis did too. I turned to find him looking at me.

“Will you show me?” I asked as he walked slowly towards me.

“Show you what?”

“What it feels like to be free.”

He stopped in front of me and stared. I waited for him to say something, anything, but he didn’t. I giggled; because of the wine, because of his reaction; I didn’t know but the giggling made me sway. The sway gave my feet a life of their own and I tumbled sideways until my arms were wrapped around a poor, unsuspecting punchbag. It swung a little from the chain connecting it to the ceiling. I went with it until Curtis stopped the swinging and halted my giggling with a similar look to the one he gave Oliver on New Year’s Eve.

“Let go.”

My arms fell to my sides and I sat on the floor.

“I miss him,” I fought back the tears as he sat opposite me.

“I know.”

“I really miss him, Curtis. I’m alone and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“You’re not alone,” he smiled weakly. “You’ve got me and we’ll find your path together.”