by K. L. Jessop
Only you failed mother fucker.
Noticing the clock, I realise its past midday and I’ve not taken my meds yet, something I’ve let slip these past few days, which explains why I can feel my state of mind falling faster than I can stop it.
“So tell us, Dexter. What type of art do you dabble in?” Her dad asks.
“Street Art mainly.”
“As in the kind you find in tube stations?”
“No, Sir. More what you find in Brick Lane and the South bank. Just to name a few. Tubes stations are more tagging from the kids that like to mark their territory.”
“Dexter has also just had a huge commission come through. A full length building outside of Camden has asked that he does a project on their upcoming beauty salon.”
“Excellent. And has Pepper been working hard?”
I look at Blue and smile, thinking about how lucky I am to have her. “She’s been amazing with everything.”
“And your parents, Dexter? Are they local?”
An answer to her mother’s question gets caught in my throat. Knives feel like they are slashing my insides and I have to control the rage that’s bubbling below the surface. I suddenly sense everyone watching me, waiting, already judging.
“No. I…” I grip my glass harder wanting it to break and cut into my hand so I get a release. I can feel Pepper’s eyes burning into me, wanting to know the answer to this question herself. Clearing my throat, I force out my words. “It’s just me.”
“So did you two meet any celebrities while away?” Malcolm adds, and I’ve never been more thankful for the distraction.
As they continue their conversations, laughter and love fill the room to the point I can’t breathe. The jealousy in me hits like never before with what unfolds.
Why didn't I have that? What did we do that was so wrong that meant we were abandoned? Which God in this universe decided that life would be so cruel to such small children?
I need space—need to control this feeling inside that I’ve not felt in a while.
Guilt.
It tears at my heart and her face blinds my eyes.
Tessa.
My God how I've abandoned her these past few weeks. I've hardly been in her room and I’ve put her to the back of my twisted mind like she’s some distant memory.
What have I done?
I'm so sorry, Tessa.
Like she knows of my sudden trauma, Pepper’s eyes still remain on me as the heaviness of my betrayal begins to weigh me down. I need to go.
Standing abruptly, I say my goodbyes. "Mr and Mrs Livewell, I'm sorry to cut this short but I need to go. The gallery awaits."
I lie.
"Oh, of course, it was lovely to meet you, Dexter. We hope to see you soon."
"I'm sure you will. And please call me Dex."
I don’t look back as I head for the door, Pepper right behind me.
"Dexter? You okay?” She takes my arm, making me stop. Those concerned eyes almost break me. I’d said I would tell her when I felt my mood change, and I’m not going to lie, but I stress that she won't be close to me while I ride it out. She’s sworn she won’t leave, but that was before the true me was apparent. Now, the devil in me is rising, and I fear it's going to be ugly.
Taking her face in my hands, I whisper with a desperation I’ve never heard in me. "Say you’ll wait for me, Blue. Promise me you’ll wait."
"Talk to me, Dexter?”
"I'm not feeling myself."
She studies me for a moment before her features turn sad and she whispers. "Is it because I made you stay?"
"No. Never think that okay? None of this is your fault. It's just me.”
Her arms snake around my waist and she clings on tight. “Let me be with you.”
“Spend time with your parents."
"But I want to—"
"Go, Pepper." Kissing her on her forehead, I leave without looking back, hating the ache that’s just gripped my chest in leaving her behind.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dexter
My chest constricts, and the thoughts racing through my mind are sporadic as I find it hard to breathe. My palms sweat, and that feeling of someone tearing their way out of me gets stronger with each passing minute. If I were to paint an accurate portrayal of how I feel right now onto canvas. The Incredible Hulk would be ripping his way out of my body.
Reaching for the JD, I open the bottle an take a large mouthful, hoping the heat of the liquid will ease this ever-growing ache. My hands shake as I fiddle with the key to the room that holds my past. Anxiety rages through my blood, and I have no idea what to do right in order to calm it. As soon as I open the door, the smell of the paint fumes hit my senses, but what has me almost hitting the ground with the remorse that’s destroying every part of me are the big eyes that stare back. The pain is like a freight train smacking me full force with a playback of haunted memories. The shame of what happened. Losing her. But what rips me in two with realisation is that I’ve thought less of my sister while I’ve been with Pepper.
And that needs to change.
Tessa has always been my number one priority, and I’ve gone and pushed her to the side as if she means nothing.
“I’m sorry, Tessa,” I whisper, downing a large amount of whiskey to try and numb the pain. “Please forgive me.”
She will never forgive you!
“Please tell me how to make it right?”
You can’t. Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.
I try and wash down the bile in my throat that attempts to cut off my airway. The ache of my emotions try to explode as I look at the gallery of paintings—representations of how I imagine her. It’s been weeks since my last portrait, and I fear I’ve missed out on so much because I haven’t kept her in my thoughts like I should have. What would she think of me if she knew she hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind? Like I can feel my punishment through the canvases, her eyes become more prominent as they hold every part of me, trapping me in place and weighing me down. Her eyes are everywhere—eyes that suddenly seem like they are judging me. Eyes of hatred because I’ve gone and abandoned her yet again. Eyes that plead with me to find her. Her sweet little voice, the one I loved, is now a savage roar as she screams my name and begs me to help her before it is replaced with her heart-breaking cry because I never did.
All of it.
It’s all staring right back at me, everywhere I turn.
All because of me.
The fucking failure strikes once again.
“Oh, God. What have I done?”
Downing more JD than I should, I stumble back and hit the wall, sliding down to the ground like the worthless piece of shit that I am. And as I drink myself into oblivion and my eyes glass with tears, I wait for the chaos to take over before I’m faced with the devil inside me.
Lying on the cold, hard ground, I look up to the overcast clouds that gather in the sky. I can’t remember the last time I felt the sun on my skin. Funny how the gloom not only casts over me but it also smothers this shithole of a city at the same time—like the devils of the dark world generate their deadly spell and bring a gloom to those that deserve it before the purity of the good gods shine down on those worthy.
Angels and demons.
I’m in this contorted cycle of what I believe to be worse than death. I should have known it wouldn’t last, that it was too good to be true—the good phase. They. Never. Fucking. Last.
My life is like a horror movie where everything starts out how you want it before the demons strip you bare and make you choke on your own memories. Voices that are too loud to ignore tell you shit while others cackle in the background because for a split second someone made you believe you deserve a life with freedom and fresh air.
Then the shadows come, gathering the shit storms to rain down on your fucking parade.
Each passing second the ice-cold rain touches your skin is another second longer to suffocate in the web of ruin. You can’t get out, no matt
er how hard you try. You drown further in your own shit-filled existence.
And here I am once again.
I close my eyes when a memory comes back: a face of a little girl filling my mind. It’s the same one that’s provided me with this retribution I live with daily. And rightly so.
Her big eyes are like saucers. Her thin blond hair hangs straight down her back. She wears her favourite white nightdress that’s seen better days, her tattered teddy hanging from her little hand. She looks like an angel only covered in dirt and grime. Her feet are black, the dirt in her nails from the shit hole we lived in is congealed, but what breaks me are the tears that slip down her face, creating a clean path over her grubby skin. Tears of fear. Tears of need. Tears of wanting to be loved by her mummy while the woman in question snorts her shit and fucks her dealer.
Tessa had spent more time hiding under the table than she had anywhere else in the house. In my arms, she’d trembled against me as her silent tears had fallen with the loud voices that filled our neglected home. The hollers, the screams, the moans of pleasure coming from the other room. We’d see things—things that no kids that age should see, especially my sister. The worst had been when one of the dealers thought it would be funny to fuck our mother on the kitchen table while me and Tessa were underneath. She had been crying with her hands covering her ears as she’d buried herself against me. Meanwhile, I’d had sounds of the nauseating display filling my hearing like venom as I’d whispered to my sister that everything would be alright. Once it was over, the sick fuck had dropped to his knees with his dick still out and taken a picture of the both of us, laughing that Clyro would find it amusing that the act took place in front of minors.
I’d sworn to Tessa at that point that I would take care of her forever and do anything to protect her. I’d said it countless times.
“You and me against the world, Tessa.”
Only I’d fucking failed her like I did everything else.
It’s what I do best.
Fail.
And here I am still walking through the boulevards of this fractured world wondering why the fuck I still exist when she doesn’t.
When I hear the familiar sound of a yellow scooter, I curse under my breath.
Why now? Why today? Why can’t she do as she’s told and stay the fuck away?
It’s safer to stay away.
Each step she takes up the iron stairs to the rooftop is like a thud to my chest. preparing me for what’s about to go down—letting me know I need to try to stay calm because she’s likely to push. That’s one thing that woman is good at. She always knows how to fucking push.
I’ve not even seen her, and I already want her to go.
“Dexter?” she gasps, panic in her voice. “Oh my God, Dexter!”
She’s at my side in seconds.
“I’m fine.”
“I thought you were…” She falls silent. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing. You’ll catch your death.”
Good. I welcome death.
“Did you fall asleep out here?”
“No.”
“Then why are you wearing next to nothing?”
I don’t reply. When her eyes land on the empty JD bottle, I see disapproval in her blues. “Have you drunk all of that?”
Yes, and it’s still not enough because I can still remember.
“I said I’m fine!” Sitting up, I keep my eyes from hers and grab her wrists to move her so she’s not touching me. Her touch is too much right now. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you’re okay.”
“Well now you know, so please go.”
“Dexter.”
“Go home, Pepper.”
Rising to my feet, I stagger past her, leaving her standing there as I head inside my shitty home that’s as bare as my shirtless back, hating myself but knowing I’d warned her before all this shit started. Irritation channels through my blood when I hear her follow me in. I’m in no mood for girlish chit-chat, and I’m in no mood for Pepper and her, “Please talk to me,” bullshit. I need alcohol. Only I can’t fucking find any when I look in the cupboards.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Alcohol.”
“Anything other than that?”
“No.”
I push past her when she tries to get closer, a part of me longing for her touch but the sickening side knowing I can’t bear it. Looking in the final cupboard and find it lacking a JD bottle, I slam the door hard and growl. “Fuck!”
My skin is prickling, my hands clammy, my mind is vastly being filled with visions I can’t be dealing with. I need them to stop.
“Dexter, talk to me.”
“I asked you to leave.”
“Well, I’m not going.”
She corners me against the kitchen sink before I have the chance to escape and my fists ball at my sides to stop me touching her as I’m likely to push her away harder than I mean to. The rage that’s creeping in me will be too much and my strength will do more if she doesn’t respect what I’m asking.
“Look at me, Dexter,” she whispers, her hands cupping my solid jaw as I slam my eyes shut. Since she’s been here, I’ve not allowed myself to truly look at her. I can’t. She haunts me as powerfully as the devil. “Find me, Dex. I’m right here.”
When my eyes betray me and I find her blues, my stomach knots at the sight of her.
She is pure and I am not.
She is beautiful and I’m a monster.
She is everything my heart shouldn’t be wanting, and I fear she is everything I won’t be able to live without.
But you need to learn to because everything you touch turns to ashes.
Angels and demons. A war of purity and poison.
“You need to go,” I whisper, feeling defeated from her touch.
“Is it bad? The episode?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes do that same fucking shit Emmet’s always used to: sympathy. I don’t need fucking sympathy; I need JD, so I can drink myself into unconscious and forget.
But when she presses her lips against the corner of my mouth, it’s like ice cascading down my spine and from fear of losing her altogether, I pull her close and hold onto her like my life depends on it.
“I’m here, Dexter,” she whispers. Stroking my hair in the most comforting way. “Tell me what you need?”
Right now, at this moment, I want to hold her because even in the dark, it somehow seems to bring me comfort. But then, like they’ve seen enough, those damn fucking demons are laughing at me, making me realise what I’m doing with having her against me.
My heart pounds from her touch. My mind races from the visions of Tessa. The only thing I’m good at is fucking up someone else’s life only to sit back and watch it with a bloodstream filled with whiskey and through delirious eyes. Pepper needs more and I’m not it.
So, I spit out the words I know will hurt her. “Get me JD, then leave me the fuck alone.”
Moving her aside like she means nothing, I head for Tessa’s room and lock myself inside, dropping to my knees and feeling myself fall deeper into the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pepper
As I pull up to the entrance of the gallery, the hollow ache in my stomach is too much with the silence that suddenly fills the environment. It’s like the world around him knows that the beast has risen and to leave him be. The spray cans and the paintbrushes will no doubt be left untouched, as the place remains colder than usual because the missing piece that brings charisma and warmth to my heart is hiding away upstairs, broken and trying to find his answers at the bottom of too many bottles. I’d waited for hours for Dexter to appear from his room of secrets. I’d knocked, I’d pleaded, I’d sat against the door, but after five long, heart-breaking hours, I’d finally left him in peace before going home and crawling into bed with tears in my eyes, feeling like a failure for falling at the first hurdle.
I’d thought everything was perfect.
It had to be that.
I knew it was that.
Stepping inside the gallery and switching on the lights to blast out the final part of the cold, dawn morning, my breath catches with the sight in front of me. The full-length wall that runs along the front has been transformed into a beautiful yet poignant mural where a young boy in the shadows is pulling back what looks like a curtain to reveal a life full of colour on the opposite side. As I walk the length of the floor, the words freedom, hope, love, peace and please are woven amongst an array of colours and patterns as the boy continues to look on. Just from the posture of him—the position he has been painted in—I can feel the emotion emanating from him that screams of what he is so desperate to have. The image is harrowing yet has an air of tranquillity with it. Dexter had said he’d made a start on the gallery, but never had I imagined something like this.
“Simply beautiful,” I say to myself.
Turning around, I spot another design on the pillar that leads to my office. There I find another young boy sitting on a swing with his back to me, holding on to the chains. His red jumper is all crumpled like it’s not seen an iron. I can’t see his face, but again it’s clear the boy is troubled, neglected, and I reach out and run my fingertips over it because my chest aches with the pure discomfort that radiates from the image. But when I notice the words, Lost boy searching for freedom, in tiny, barely noticeable writing underneath the swing, it brings a lump to my throat.
