Tortured Souls (Rebels of Sandland 2)

Her brother wasn’t the innocent man she made him out to be. He’d come at me in that fight, ready to take me out. I took him first. That was the deal. Now? She was going around town painting me as some kind of villain. A devil not worthy of anyone’s time. Saint Brodie was being immortalised, and for what? For being a bully? An abuser? A fighter with no morals and no credibility? Because that’s what he was. He was the scum, not me. He deserved everything he had coming to him that night.

Do I sound like a fucking psycho?

Probably, but that’s because I am.

I’m pissed at the world. Pissed at my friends. Hell, I’m pissed at the whole fucking town of Sandland. But most of all, I’m pissed at Harper Yates for whitewashing what was a fucking set-up.

I was set up.

I was framed for a murder I didn’t commit.

I wanted to make her pay, and so I watched her. I hid in the shadows and used the darkness as my friend. I wanted to see her suffer. Make her feel like she was losing her mind just like I was. I had plans for her, and I was biding my time. Waiting for the moment I could strike and finally break her. But it turns out, fate was a cruel motherfucker.

Who would’ve thought it?

Harper Yates was even more fucking broken than I was.

I thought I’d hit rock bottom when Brodie died. I thought the funeral and everything that came after it was the bottom of the fucking barrel. I was wrong. Turns out, rock bottom has a basement, and that’s where I was, lying on the cold, hard floor with no way out.

After my epic meltdown in the garden, my dad had brought me inside, and I spent the night in their bed with Mum, whilst Dad slept in the spare room; close enough that he could hear us and come in if we needed him, but far enough away to give us the space we needed.

I was a fucking mess. Even I could admit to that.

Was I seeing things?

Had he been there watching me at the bottom of the garden?

Or was my mind so focused on revenge it’d sent me spiralling into some fucked-up alternate universe where I didn’t know which way was up and which was down?

I didn’t know.

I didn’t have any of the answers.

But I knew I couldn’t go on like this. Hell’s basement was lonely and played tricks on your mind. I’d had enough of those games to last me a lifetime.

“Harper, love, we need to talk to you about some things, but we need you to stay calm, okay? It’s important that you listen and take this all in. I know you’ll want to react, we all do, but we don’t want you hearing this from anyone else but us.” My dad was back to being his cryptic self at breakfast.

I stared at him blankly over the breakfast table, nibbling on my toast but struggling to swallow. My eyes were puffy and sore from lack of sleep. I had managed to get some rest lying next to Mum as she tried not to let on that she was crying. I didn’t get a lot though. The nights were always the worst. Even the good dreams about Brodie made waking up that much more unbearable. Like a cruel reminder of what I no longer had dangled in front of my eyes and then ripped out of my grasp when I awoke. Awake, asleep, it didn’t matter; life pretty much sucked ass and then some.

“I’m not made of glass. You can tell me.” I glanced between them. Mum was biting her lip and looked rougher than I did, like she was continually balancing on the edge of an emotional cliff, ready to dive off. And Dad? He was right behind her, ready to jump in after.

“We’re trying to hold it together as best we can,” she said, taking steady breaths to help her get through what she wanted to say without breaking down. “We lost your brother, and that is the single most painful thing we’ve ever been through… well, are going through, in our lives. But we still have you, Harper. We need to stay strong for you. We can’t lose you as well.” Her voice broke and she came to sit next to me at the table, reaching over to take my hand in hers.

I knew what she was saying. They thought I was breaking. That I’d end up following Brodie and leaving them both childless, but I was stronger than that. How can you be a loser when you never quit? I would never quit.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mum. I might be struggling to get through, but I’m not down for the count.” They both paled at my use of the boxing term. “I just need time. Everything is tough at the moment. I just have to ride it out, I suppose.”

Dad tensed up, dropped his head forward and then stared at his hands in a daze as he spoke. “It might get a bit tougher before we find ourselves firmly set onto that road to recovery.” Another deep breath. “The police rang us yesterday. We didn’t want to tell you after what’d happened at school. We didn’t think you could take anymore. But if we don’t tell you, someone else might, and we need you to hear this from us.”

I braced myself and waited for him to continue.

“They’ve taken all the statements they need, seen all the mobile phone footage from that night, and they’ve decided to drop the charges.”

I gasped, feeling like the walls I’d built around myself for safe-keeping were crumbling away with his words, creating irreparable damage faster than any wrecking ball.

“They said all the evidence points towards accidental death. He took the hit, he moved away, stumbled on the uneven ground and fell. The fall damaged his skull and… Well, we know the rest. We lived it. The aneurysm must’ve given Brodie blinding headaches for months, but he never told any of us. Throw that into the mix and it just fortifies the case for the defence. His balance was off. He tripped.”

“It’s bullshit. If Brodie had an aneurysm, I’d have known about it. I’d have felt it.” I could feel the rage bubbling up inside of me. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to keep that shit down. “I saw what happened. He didn’t trip. He was murdered.” It didn’t matter what anyone else’s mobile phone footage showed, the film reel in my head was as clear as day. He went down because of that punch.