Page 43 of It Will Always Be You
Soon, I’m seeing red, unable to stop bashing his head into the floor. Again, again, again, until his whimper fades and his blood has joined mine in every crevice of this room. Until I’m covered in it and brain matter. Until he stops moving, stops whimpering, stops breathing.
“Take that, asshole,” I spit, landing one final hit with a grunt before rolling off him. It’s not until I’m watching his blood swirl down the drain that the implications of my actions hit me. I killed a man,and not just any man—the piece of shit who’s kept me captive for six years and helped murder my sister. I’mfreefor the first time in close to a decade, but at the same time, am I really? I have no idea where I am, with no means of getting back home. Do I even still have a home to go back to? And Cora—what will she make of her mum being a murderer? And God—Jonathan. He needs to know about the potential rat, but will he even want to see me? Can I stomach seeing him? So many questions, so few answers, and no time to waste pondering them.
Shelving my worries for now, I finish getting cleaned up the best I can before venturing upstairs to start my hunt for answers and freedom. Being free to roam the house that has been my prison for so long doesn’t feel right. Each second spent snooping upstairs feels like a second wasted. I should just run before I’m caught. Logically, I know it’s just me and Kyle’s corpse, but fear leaves no space for logic, so it’s with shaky hands and a pounding heart that I flick through random papers on Kyle’s desk, not really processing what I’m looking at until a name jumps out at me.
Benedict Murphy
My lip curls as I read that bastard’s name, and the bloodlust that was sated comes roaring back. Scanning the letter full of all kinds of boasting bullshit, I look for any information I can use, only to hit the jackpot when an envelope falls from between the pages. Bending to pick it up, I flick it over, and there, in black and white, is a return address.
With as much cash as I can find stuffed in the pockets of my borrowed hoodie and sweats and a destination in mind, I make my way downstairs. Eyeing up the door that taunted me far more than an inanimate object should be capable of, I can’t help but feel a twisted sense of accomplishment.Finally, after six godawful years, I’m about to cross its threshold once and for all.
Freedom is a basic human right, yet inhaling that first breath of fresh air feels foreign, like any minute, someone is going to track me down, strip me naked, and throw me back into that basement. Keepingmy eyes peeled and my head down, I work to find a way out of the grounds surrounding the house, but every time I so much as hear a twig snap, I freeze, terrified that this is it. My brief escape is over. Then, I have to work on reminding myself I do deserve this. Being free shouldn’t feel like something earnt. It should just be a given.
Making it out to a main road, I quickly determine I’m not in London anymore. Nothing looks familiar, and none of the street names are ones I recognise or have even heard of. I might be free, but I have no idea how to get home or where to even start. Looking down at the oversized hoodie and joggers I stole, it’s also clear it’ll be a miracle if I don’t raise a few eyebrows.
Following the winding road, I keep an eye out for any clues as to where I am. It’s not until I stumble across a sign for a town I could swear was in Northern Ireland that I realise just how far from home I am. The soft barking of a dog draws my attention up ahead. An older lady is walking her poodle, and as much as I’d rather not draw attention to myself, if I’m going to work on getting home, I need to know where I am.
“So sorry to bother you, but I’m a tad lost. Is there any chance you could point me in the right direction?” Painting a friendly smile on my face, I approach her slowly so as not to startle her.
“These country roads will do that to you, won’t they?” She smiles as she talks down to her dog before turning her attention back to me. “Where is it you’re headed?”
Rattling off the address from the letter, she frowns to herself for a moment, repeating it before, with a click of her fingers, giving me some directions and landmarks to look out for. Thanking her, I head the way she pointed.
Time to take out the trash once and for all.
Following the directions given to me, it’s not long until I’mcloaked in darkness at the bottom of a driveway, looking up a gravel path towards a derelict-looking house. Swallowing down the fear threatening to swallow me whole, I think about Freya, about the life lost for no reason, her son left without a mother, all the hopes and dreams snuffed out in the blink of an eye, all because she wanted to save me from the same fate. Steel straightens my spine and rids me of any lingering hesitation.
Crouching and blending in with the shadows as much as possible, I edge towards the house while keeping my eyes peeled for any movement. I can’t afford to be caught now, not when freedom is within touching distance. Slowly, I make my way around the side of the house, heading for the back. The French doors make me freeze in my tracks, but when a minute or two passes without any signs of life, I ease them open. Flinching at the creek, I duck and roll behind the nearest item of furniture: a sofa. Straining to hear over my pounding heart, I don’t dare move a muscle for the longest time.
After a while, I crawl out of my hiding space and slowly make my way through the house, heading towards the basement. Given how still the house is, my money is on him being there. Shoving down the emotions that want to rush to the surface at the thought of going down there, I force myself to head down the stairs, holding my breath and hoping none of them creak. Spying the light pooling under the door, I tighten my grip on my borrowed knife. Once I hit the landing, I take a deep breath, brace myself for the worst, and slowly inch the door open.
Blinded by the sudden light, it takes a second to realise what I’m seeing: Benedict hunched over a porcelain tub alone. Questions as to what the fuck he’s doing down here when I’m sure he’s got a fully functioning bathroom upstairs hold me captive for a second before I shrug them off. At the end of the day, what he’s doing doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what I’m about to do.
“If you’re here to kill me, you may as well get it over with.” His words freeze me in my path, one foot over the doorway with the knife raised. Flicking his eyes from the bath to me, he raises an eyebrow. Thesilent challenge is evident, even if the reason for it is not.
“Come on, then. Get it over with.” His words are void of all his usual cockiness. Part of me wants to demand answers, but bloodlust clouds my rationale. The need to make him pay for what he did far outweighs any curiosity about him as a person. And so, with a guttural cry, I lunge at him, driving the knife straight into his artery and watching as he slumps into the bath face first in a pool of his own blood. But it’s not enough—it’s nowhere near enough. Pulling the knife free, I thrust it into him over and over again until I can’t anymore, until I’m once again covered in the blood of a monster.
I hope you can forgive me, Frey. I should have saved you, but instead, all I can do is avenge you.
Getting to London was almost too easy once I had the cash in hand and a ferry ticket in my pocket. But ease doesn’t mean peace. Not when your soul is fraying at the edges. The moment I arrived, I caught whispers—soft, cautious ones—about a gang member’s funeral. The kind people didn’t speak about unless they had to. The kind that carried weight. Meaning. Power.
With my heart lodged in my throat and dread coiling sharp beneath my ribs, I followed the murmurs to the cemetery, each step heavier than the last. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find. I just knew I couldn’t stay away.
It’s been twenty-three years since I last laid eyes on Jonathan O’Neill—but standing at the edge of the crowd, it's as if no time has passed at all. Even from behind, I’d know him anywhere. That broad frame. The set of his shoulders. The quiet command of space.
Time has been kind to him—the same way it’s been merciless to me.
I glance down at myself—blood-stained, broken, barely stitched together—and something in me twists. What would he see if he turnedaround? A ghost? A stranger? A woman too far gone to be loved again?
Before I can disappear, he turns.
His eyes lock on mine. And in a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. Those eyes—God, those eyes—I used to dream about them. But memory failed me. They’re more vivid, more alive, more him than I ever remembered. His lips part. His head shakes, like he can’t quite trust what he’s seeing. Then the moment shatters.
A sob. Raw. Shaking. It cuts through the silence like a blade.
Cora.
Her face crumples, and before I can move, she’s thrown herself into my arms. And then—Jonathan. He’s there too, one arm around each of us, holding us all up like he’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
