Page 43 of Sugarloaf Ridge Lies

Chaos morphs into silence. Reaching for her, I fight to see through the red shielding my vision.

She’s gone.

I’m alone.

Pain. Blinding, soul damaging agony.

I grip the slippery metal spike protruding from my thigh. As I tug, flesh clings to the steel, unyielding.

Blackness swirls like a ghost. Blinding light takes its place.

A glimpse of her forces a scream from the bowels of my very being.

Splintered bone. Torn flesh.

Blood. So much blood...

A scream jolts me awake.Was that me?

My throat tender, I cough and gasp for air. Satin pyjamas damp from sweat, I toss back the covers and palm my way down the hall to the bathroom.Holy hell, that was some nightmare.

I splash cold water on my face, and gulp some down to soothe my throat. Acid burns up my chest as saliva builds. I clamber for the toilet bowl and empty the contents of my stomach.Great.

The nightmares haven’t been this bad for weeks. I’ve been managing. What triggered it?

My pale face stares back at me in the mirror.

Jerry.

When he touched my leg, over the scar left by the metal that impaled me, I was right back there. Trapped. Bleeding.Dying.

As much as I wanted to take things further with him last night, I couldn’t do it. Will he think I’m a basket-case? One minute we’re hot and heavy and the next I’ve shut down. That’s not normal.

I need to take steps to move on, otherwise, I’ll forever be imprisoned in the past. My family wouldn’t want that.

My phone dings from the bedroom. I drag myself along the hall and sweep up the device from side table.

Calendar: Call Ms Masters 7am.

Fuck my life. It’s the last thing I want to contend with.

But you have to.

I dial her number. Despite the harsh tone in which she speaks to me, I keep my voice light and arrange an interview at seven forty-five tomorrow morning, earlier than I’ve scheduled for any parent. Gareth’s words come back to me.There are some parents who need a little massaging.

Massaging my arse. This woman wants me to perform like a circus monkey.

It’s moments like this where Mum is front of mind. She was supposed to be there for me, in good days and bad, to be my sounding board.

But she’s not. Some days it makes my blood boil like a cruel joke. Why her? She just got her life back. But today, all it does is make me sad. Like my heart wants to break all over again.

Knowing she’ll pick up the phone, I call Aunt Jean. The next best thing.

Despite it being early, she answers, bright as a button.

She is supportive as I download my work issues but gives me the honest tough love response. It ignites the fire in my belly to keep going, despite feeling like death. When I admit to having another nightmare, her approach softens.

“I’ll come out there for a visit when I can, things are just hard at the moment. Bloody teenage mood swings.”

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