Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1)

by Whitney Barbetti

  “What kind of paperwork?”

  “Hmm.” I leaned over the paper, straining my eyes with only the light from my pen light there. I wanted to pull Andra out of my ear so I could better concentrate, but before I could do so, I heard a noise from behind me.

  I whipped around, but I wasn’t fast enough. A blow hit the side of my head, knocking the headset clear off my face.

  Instantly, pain burst from behind my eyes, but I didn’t have a chance to even register that before I was kicked to the ground. The second I brought my arms up to shield my face, someone was sitting square on my chest, pummeling my head.

  Everything happened so fast, but the pain was so intensely vibrant that it seemed to last forever. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs. Whoever was on top of me had hundreds of pounds on me and wasn’t hindered by the dark like I was.

  I was losing air and was seconds from losing consciousness. I managed to scream for Six before I blacked out.

  36

  I was dying.

  I lay in the hospital bed as the beeps rang out around me. I heard murmured voices in the hallway, heard the squeak of shoes on clean floor.

  In my arm was an IV, its point between two bruises.

  I was dying.

  Beside me, Six was sitting with his head in one hand, grieving. I quickly looked away from him, stared at the wall, at the god-awful pattern that repeated through the room. I tried to count the pattern, to keep my eyes from anything that would cause me any deeper pain. My head still ached, my body felt like I’d been hit by more than a few cars, but deep down where the doctors couldn’t see, I was cleaved in half.

  “It was spontaneous,” they said. Despite the trauma done to my body, that's not what had been what caused it.

  My heart was split open, right down the center, emptying itself inside of me.

  “There was nothing you could do,” they said. They all lied. I put myself in danger, I put myself at risk, for Six. And it had cost me. Cost us.

  Six looked at me with eyes I didn't recognize. I'd seen Six's eyes in pain, I'd seen his eyes lit with humor and warmed by love. I'd seen his eyes on fire when he'd been inside of me. I'd seen his eyes filled with wonder and admiration and all the good things he somehow saw in me despite my many fuck-ups.

  But Six's eyes now were something else. In his eyes, I saw Earth-crippling, soul-shattering, world-shifting grief. I could deal with my own pain, but I could not deal with his.

  I realized then, as the doctor read off a chart and Six held my hand, that I'd never hurt Six, not really, not truly. I'd never been responsible for his heartache until now.

  “Unfortunately, it was an incomplete—”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I'd interrupted, growling. A hand reached out of its own volition and slashed his clipboard away. I couldn't process his stupid words and the way Six's hand was limp in mine. Dead. Empty. He wasn’t holding me because he wanted to. He was holding me because it was what was expected.

  Machines beeped, and I glared a million daggers at the doctor.

  Six hadn't bothered to calm me. This wasn't my strong Six, Six who bandaged my wrists and who put me into bed when I’d had too much to drink. This Six was a million miles away, on a planet I didn't know existed in his realm.

  And I was all alone. I needed Six; I needed him for this. I needed someone to help me hold onto my sanity as my life crumbled apart in this stupid fucking bed.

  The doctor calmly picked up the clipboard and stepped away from the bed. “It was an incomplete, spontaneous abortion,” he said again. “I'm very sorry.”

  “Abortion?” What a terrible word. Everything he was saying was wrong. So wrong. And Six was silent. It was just me and this stupid fucking doctor and his stupid fucking words. “I didn't have an abortion.” An abortion was an abrupt ending. Abortion implied choice. I hadn't chosen this.

  “I'm sorry,” he said softly. I didn't want to be spoken to softly. I wanted loud. I wanted Six and his strength. I wanted something to fight the repeated punches to my heart. “Spontaneous miscarriage.”

  Another shitty word. Another word said softly. I wanted loud. The voices in my head were screaming so loudly that I couldn't hear this doctor explaining, in soft and sterile words, that I'd just lost a piece of myself.

  Six's hand was limp. I squeezed, needing him. He didn't squeeze back.

  And all the while, the doctor kept talking.

  “The blood and tissue that you found was part of the conception.”

  The blood I found in my underwear. The tissue. I closed my eyes tight. My baby. Something that had taken life inside of me, pieces of Six and pieces of me. It'd broken inside of me and slid right out.

  My blood was boiling, my heart was pounding, my eyes were filling with tears, and this doctor would not shut up.

  No. I shook my head, the word echoing in my head. No, no, nonono. “Go away,” I said, my voice on the edge of breaking. The doctor kept talking, and I swung my arms out. “GO AWAY!” I screamed, sobs tearing my throat apart from the inside out.

  A nurse poked her head in, and I screamed at her to go the fuck away. I was wild with grief, with the loss of something I wanted. Something I needed. Something, someone who needed me.

  And I'd failed it. I was a creator, but my body had just destroyed it.

  I needed Six now, but his head was a million miles away, his hand weighing a hundred pounds in mine. I was weighed down by his grief, by my grief. His grief was a vice around my throat, squeezing, choking.

  I couldn't do this.

  I couldn't be the stronger one.

  The voices in my head were loud, chanting.

  You're no good for him.

  You have destroyed a future.

  Six hates you more than you hate you.

  You love him more than he loves you.

  You killed your baby.

  “Six,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Come here.” He lifted his head, a hundred sorrows echoed in his eyes.

  I took him in, took in this moment for what it was. His expression was blank. He was even emptier than me.

  He told me once that the depth of my suffering was the depth of my love. I’d suffered a lot, and because of that I could love a lot too. He’d dug me out of a lot of that depth, his love had buoyed me to the top of it. But there was no doubt that I could not do the same for him.

  He was the strong one. I couldn’t carry my grief and his, too.

  I grasped his chin in my hands and kissed him, full on the mouth. He didn't move, didn't reciprocate. I felt tears sliding down my face, pooling around my nostrils before sliding in between our lips.

  I wanted him to kiss me, to breathe me in. To give me life when I was thinking death.

  I wanted him to hold me, to tell me I could lean on him.

  To tell me that I didn't have to be the strong one. I wasn't. I was weak. I wasn't a shoulder to lean on, and I wanted him to tell me I could, I could lean.

  But he did none of these things.

  There comes a time in every relationship where you make it or break it. Where you are faced with an unexpected obstacle and you can overcome it or succumb to it.

  This was our make or break. This was the end-all. For ten years, I'd needed him. For ten years, he'd been there for me. I'd always accepted that he'd be there to pick up the messes I made. He'd been there to force me to vomit when I’d swallowed too many pills. He was there to bandage my wounds when I'd ripped too deep. He was there to love me when I couldn’t love myself.

  But in this hospital bed, the smells of death around us, the power shifted.

  Six needed me. And I couldn't be the stronger one.

  We all want to leave an imprint. I told myself this as I pressed into his kiss, hard enough that he knew the shape and the feel of my lips and would compare this kiss to every other kiss, to all the lips that would take my place after I was gone.

  No one would ever kiss him as hard as I would. No one would ever love him like I would. And no one would hurt him
as much as I was about to.

  I needed to let him go.

  His arms came around me naturally, as if this was more than just an embrace. He was forming an attachment to me, and his arms knew just how wide they'd need to be to circle me. I wanted him to remember that forever.

  I held him, memorizing the parts of him that felt good. And then my hands went lax on his back.

  “Six,” I murmured against his mouth. “I need you to leave.”

  Six pulled back, eyes empty of everything I loved. I didn’t know this Six. “What?”

  I cleared my throat. “I need you to get out of here.” I spoke calmly, my voice free of emotion.

  He frowned, eyes clearing a little. It was as if the film over his eyes was fading. “What? No.” He looked at me like the thing I was: crazy. Like he was finally seeing it.

  So, I did what he expected. I needed him to leave, and I had to embrace the crazy, to let Six see just who he was talking to.

  “I don't...” my voice trailed off. “I don't need you, Six.

  His eyes were dark, confused. “Shut up.” He was quiet, but he was firm.

  “Go, Six. Go away.” I was tired, spent. The voices in my head were louder now, telling me a million things to do.

  “I won't.”

  A fire burned behind my eyes. “I'm not kidding, Six. I'm done. You, me, us, it's over. No more.”

  He shook his head and reached for my hands. I pulled them back.

  “You're just grieving,” he said, but I could tell even he wasn't sure if what he was saying was true. “You don't mean it.”

  I needed to prove it. I needed to make him believe me. I lunged over to my purse and pulled it onto my lap. Digging around, I pulled out the one thing I knew would cement my seriousness.

  “What are you doing?”

  I flicked my eyes up at him as I switched the pocket knife open. I mustered all the calm, all the cold I could feel. It was all I wanted to feel. I held the knife to my wrist. “Leave.”

  Six's eyes doubled in size. “You're—”

  “Crazy?” I asked, filling it in for him. “I am. I'm abso-fucking-lutely crazy.” I kept my voice calm and still. Six didn't need to see wild Mira, he needed to see cold, calculated, collected Mira. He needed to know that this wasn't just a phase. He needed to know that this wasn’t a season, this was me. Down to the depths of who I was, the woman he’d never seen before.

  “Put it away.”

  I pressed the tip into one of the more ragged scars on my left wrist. “If you don't leave right now, I will slice these open. I’ll carve your name into my skin if you do not leave.”

  There was no going back from this moment. There would be no forgetting. No turning back, no apologies, nothing to fix this.

  Six hesitated, staring at me as if he hoped for a peek inside my head.

  “GET OUT!” I screamed, pressing the tip harder. Blood formed, just the slightest bit, but it was enough to make Six stand up and walk to the door, his shoulders slumped, his jaw clenched.

  Just before he walked out the door, he looked at me again. He didn't say anything, as usual, because he didn't need to. He wanted me to see the look in his eyes, the look I wouldn't forget. The look of a man who would never forgive me for threatening to hurt myself to manipulate him into leaving me, once and for all.

  “Every beginning has an end,” I said softly.

  And then, he left.

  Afterword

  Six Feet Under is a story that has been in my heart for four years, and on paper for just as long. I’ve wanted to write about a villainous heroine for as long as I can remember, but I wanted her to feel relatable to many women. Not all women are instantly likable, but all women have stories and I wanted to tell the story of a woman who you might not like initially, but hopefully can understand.

  Mira is composed of pieces from all the women I’ve ever been close to, and I’m proud of her evolution throughout this incredibly long story. Her story isn’t over yet, though. Read on for a sneak peek at Pieces of Eight, the conclusion to Mira’s story.

  If you or someone you know is in crisis, whether you/they are considering suicide or not, please call the toll-free Lifeline to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.

  The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

  1-800-273-8255

  Trained expert advocates are available 24/7 to provide confidential support to anyone experiencing domestic violence or seeking resources and information.

  The National Domestic Violence Hotline:

  1-800-799-7233

  Pieces of Eight - Coming Soon

  Six was always there, even when I didn’t want him.

  But he couldn’t hold me together, and I couldn’t be his penance.

  Loss is a phantom limb. No one can see it, but the ache torments you in the night, distracts you during the day, and leaves you fragmented. I’m half a heart, half a soul, and nothing could cure the pieces he’d left behind.

  Losing him was safer than loving him. Because the love that kept us coming back again and again was nothing short of madness.

  But then, isn't mad love the most honest?

  -----

  Pieces of Eight is the sequel to Six Feet Under and the conclusion to the Mad Love duet.

  To receive an alert as soon as Pieces of Eight is live, please sign up here:

  http://bit.ly/WhitneyNRAlert

  Sneak Peek At Pieces Of Eight

  November 2013

  Three years later

  Loss is a phantom limb, an acknowledgement that something is absent from you but somehow still aches—a constant misery, reminding you of what you've lost. It's a sensation felt when you see the gait of a particular walk, when you hear the sound of a voice that brings forth a memory, when you place a taste on your tongue that reminds you of a moment that exists only in the past.

  An amputee could walk around with a physical reminder to those around him of what he's lost, but an emotional absence is silent, lonely, deeply private–a loss mourned alone.

  Every night I ran in the dark, physically unhindered; breathing the night air in through my nose, watching the fog leave my mouth with each exhale. To those around me, I was sure I looked capable, strong, undeterred by any obstacles in my path. To the voices in my head, I was weak, emotionally-crippled, one manic episode away from falling into my old habits.

  My feet thundered up the steps. My body shook. My lungs heaved in my chest.

  I was high. A feeling I knew. A feeling I coveted.

  Running up the hill, sneakers pounding the cracked concrete, I counted my breaths. I tuned out all the noise around me, slid between throngs of people, tamped down the throbbing desire to rest.

  When my heart leapt in my chest, a grin split my lips in exultation. Nothing compared to this; nothing could beat this feeling. Even when I would lay my head on marble countertops after snorting white powder, the stone cold under fevered skin, I never felt this high.

  I pushed myself harder, farther, down the sidewalk, into the street, and when the sidewalks showed no easy way through the people whose cigarette smoke I blew through. I closed my eyes for just a second, allowing myself a brief taste of the smoke on my tongue as the voices in my head made themselves known.

  When the next crosswalk came into view, I didn't look both ways, but sprinted with a stride longer than my own height, across the asphalt, in front of a car that slammed on its brakes. Only when I reached the sidewalk did I bend over to catch my breath.

  My ponytail, damp with sweat, hung next to my cheek, slapping my face gently with its wet tips. I lifted my head and looked around, but kept my hands firm on my knees. The adrenaline pumping through my system silenced the voices in my head, the ones that wanted to hurt.

  “Stop,” I whispered to myself. The voices quieted but didn't leave. They never did.

  Pulling one hand off my knee, I looked at my watch. 8:30 p.m. The sky was dark and the street lamps lit, casting reflections on the small puddles that pooled in the crack
s of the sidewalks from the late afternoon rain.

  I sucked air through my nostrils, taking in the scent of rainwater on concrete.

  Standing straight, I raised my arms to the sky, stretching my overworked limbs. I still had a couple hours to go, but I needed water.

  I turned around, searching for a place I knew I could walk into easily without causing some kind of commotion in my sweat-soaked clothes.

  The building so gold it reeked of first class was probably not that place. The awning in front sheltered its guests from the drizzle beginning to once again fall from the sky. Through the tall glass front window, I could see a man pushing a coffee cart toward the elevator doors. That was the only invitation I needed.

  A few people sat on the concrete border, but I walked past them briskly, through the revolving door, and into warmth.

  The lobby was full of furnishings and people, but I ignored them, making a beeline to the cart with coffee and ice water laid out temptingly. I ignored the hotel worker who hovered nearby and picked up the steel pitcher and poured a cup of water, drinking it in one gulp.

  “Excuse me, Miss! Are you a guest?” the uniformed man asked.

  I swallowed hard and closed my eyes briefly. My fingers clenched on the plastic cup before I turned to him. “No.”

  “Well, th-th-the refreshments are for guests,” he stammered. I fingered the hem of my shirt, drawing his attention away.

  I gave him a smile that probably bordered on too-friendly when I said, “If you don't want me to faint right here in your lobby and cause a commotion, you'll let me drink the goddamned glass of water.”

  He huffed but let me be, for the moment. I knew I didn't have long.

  Tucking a piece of ice into the inside of my cheek, I poured another, hoping to get a few cups in before I was asked to leave.