Page 4 of The Eleventh Hour

Now, my life is just another dumpster fire. That love is ashes, long gone, and that girl, well, she died, too. Nothing of that life remains but memories I buried.

And that’s where they’re going to stay.

Jax

Icurl my arms around the steering wheel and rest my head on it. The headache that’s been threatening has bloomed into an absolute ripper. In minutes, the last remaining light from the sun is gone, and I sit up and push open the door to the rust bucket I stole.

Gravel crunches under my feet, and the wet smell of grass and leaves decomposing wraps around me. I haven’t been able to ascertain why someone would build a carpark out here, but I’m grateful. It’s one of three places in this dying city where I feel like I can breathe. All around us, trees grow in close proximity to each other, making it almost impassible. But cut straight through the landscape is a mound of thousands of rocks the size of my fist. That track runs parallel with Hurricane City. On top of that mound is a train track. It doesn’t stop in the city or near it. The train flies straight past three times a day.

One day, I’m going to be on it or traveling the same way out. I’m going to have enough funds, enough grit to finally cut the ties that I can’t break, and I’m going to run from Sparrow. Then maybe I can start trying to live again. Or at least die the way I want to.

Guilt immediately takes the happy vision and tears it to shreds.

Black shadows flicker, and I turn my head to look at them head on. They vanish as soon as I look their way.

“I came out here to be alone,” I snarl.

A hand caresses its way down my spine, a light, lingering, playful touch that makes me shiver. My mood shifts from irritated to relieved. I try and fail to hold back the smile.

“Gideon, I just said I want to be alone.”

My hair is thrown over my shoulder. I remain still, not moving my head, completely tense, and trying to anticipate where he’s going to touch me next.

Sparrow would inject me with a vicious cocktail and put me back in the white padded cell that would become my home if he knew I was out here flirting with my hallucinations.

“It was a bad session, G. A terrible session.” Hands drift up my back and knead the tight muscles. I let out a groan. “He wanted to talk about him again. Well, he always does, but he got to me today. I don’t think he even realises, but it’s getting harder to remember the lies. I’ll slip up one of these days and be back in that room before I can blink.”

I shudder just thinking about the horror of the white rooms and the injections that kept me in a catatonic state. My mind so mixed up with reality and illusion I didn’t know up from down. The fear of what I say under the influence of the drugs mixes with the fear of what I don’t say. Oil and water. Lies and truths. Seen and hidden.

“I shouldn’t even acknowledge you.” I moan as he reaches the tops of my shoulders and roll my head down so he can access it easier. “You’re my hallucination. My dark little secret. If they knew how many I have, it would be all over. And Bob the Bastard still won’t let me sleep.” I let out a snarl. “All night long, he rattles whatever is in my closet. I tried pulling everything out last night in sheer desperation. He moved it back in. What kind of evil is that? I just can’t with him.”

The fingers dig into a particularly painful spot, and I groan, but at least the shock of the pain stops the tears burning in my eyes.

I don’t know when I started seeing them. Sometime during The Ordeal. As far as I can tell, there are three types. The first are shimmering rainbow halos of colour, pretty to look at, distracting as fuck, but completely harmless. Then there is the second grouping, who speak to me in the moments before I wake. Some are nice, some are bad, some are downright freaky. They can touch me, but I can’t see or touch them unless I’m asleep. Trying to come up with reasons why I have fingernail marks up and down my arms is getting old. Just put it down to good ol’ self-harm and hold my hand out for the candy that makes the world grey.

The last category is the one that Gideon fits into, Bob the Bastard as well, and all those black flickers. I can see them, hear them, smell them, feel them. They can interact with me as easily as if they were real, but only in the dark. Never where there are lights. And yet…I’m the only one who sees them.

It’s my punishment.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should move again. It’d only take me ten minutes to pack.” I snort a laugh. It’s a bitter sound. I think of my empty home, my go-bag hidden in the closet. It really wouldn’t even take ten minutes.

A twig breaks behind us, and I whirl. Gideon moves faster than I, moving protectively behind me. Watching my back. I don’t know what I would have done if he didn’t come into my life and get the others to back off. Gideon is now the wall the other hallucinations have to pass through to get to me. But he can’t protect me from the real world, no, I have to do that alone.

His hand slips into mine, and for a moment, my heart aches. A few years ago, I set up a camera and filmed our interactions. It was the most heartbreakingly painful thing I’ve had to do. Sitting there watching myself lean back against air. Cup an invisible hand. Chatting to myself and seeing the way my eyes lit up, the way my whole face smiled. Everything became painfully clear in that moment.

I tear my mind away from that memory and focus on the trees around us. Nothing there, but I can’t shake the feeling someone is. It’s not usual for people to be out here, but it’s not unheard of, either, the crime in Hurricane is off the charts. So, people often come to strange places to conduct business. I squeeze my hand harder around Gideon’s and clear my throat. His finger taps mine three times, and then he steps away and tugs. I go with him, disappearing into the thick growth of trees and crouch down to wait.

My knees ache, but I keep my eyes on the area surrounding us and wait. It’s not unusual for me to disappear into the trees and go for a wander that could last hours. If the person is looking for me, they might slip up. Or it could just be kids. Maybe because it’s so silent, or I’m listening so hard, I hear the train long before it gets close.

I don’t watch as the light illuminates the world, flashing Gideon out of existence. As soon as it passes, he’s back with a small rumble that I feel in my spine. My heart races because, for just a second, in that bright light, I thought I saw someone.

I shift my weight, but a hand wraps around my upper arm. I hear the purr a moment later and watch as a ridiculously overpriced, cherry red car pulls into the car park. It parks on the other side of the car park, across from my stolen rust bucket, as if being close might melt off the pretty paint job.

The car turns off, and the silence feels loud. The driver’s side door opens, and a man explodes out. He is beautiful. Everything I appreciate in the male form, wide shoulders, narrow hips, a head full of hair. He picks up a branch and flings it with surprising strength. He’s got so much energy, life. There’s nothing downtrodden or defeated about him. This man is a warrior and sexy as hell.

I look at the car and wonder if the woman he’s arguing with is going to find her lady balls and get out and face him. Even his anger is a thing of beauty, and if she doesn’t get out, I just might go and do it for her. The door opens, and another man steps out.

For a moment, I’m surprised, and then my breath is sucked from my lungs. Because if the first man was the kind of man I always loved to look at, the second is the type of man I never knew I loved to appreciate.

---