The Realm of You
A Novel
Amanda Richardson
Also by Amanda Richardson
And Then You: A Novel (standalone contemporary romance)
In Search of Yesterday: A Novella (standalone paranormal romance)
Charlotte Bloom Series
The Foretelling (revised version coming 2016)
The Redemption (revised version coming 2016)
Coming 2016
The Publicity Stunt (standalone romantic comedy)
Tracing the Stars (standalone contemporary romance)
Where Forever Ends (standalone contemporary romance)
First edition published by
Amanda Richardson, October 2015
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Richardson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design by Amanda Richardson
Editing Suggestions by Red Adept Editing
Amanda Richardson
P.O. Box 1961
Burbank, CA 91507
For more information about the books and/or author, visit:
http://www.amandarichardsonauthor.com
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpt from The Publicity Stunt
A Note from the Author
Thank you for wanting to read The Realm of You. Please note that this book deals with heavy situations such as self-harm and suicide, therefore it may be a trigger for some people. Though I’d consider this a contemporary romance, it’s on the dark side of the spectrum, so as a result, this book is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18.
While The Realm of You is considered fiction, I did my best to depict characters with mental illness. As a writer, I tried to stay true to the inner workings of depression, suicidal thoughts, etc. I researched everything I possibly could about these illnesses. That said, I’m sure some might find these character’s thoughts offensive and/or inaccurate, so please consider this a forewarning.
Suicide is a serious issue, and is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. for all ages. Depression affects 20-25% of Americans ages 18+ in a given year, and getting rid of the stigma surrounding mental health is one of the reasons I chose to write this novel. Visit http://www.save.org/ for more information.
For the 250,000+ people who survive suicide every year.
“Never never never give up.”
–Winston Churchill
Epigraph
XX
I HAVE no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,
Nor action new,
Except through this extent,
The realm of you.
—Emily Dickinson
Prologue
THREE months after
My eyelids flutter open.
Morning, again.
Some people say that mornings bring renewal—the dawn of a new day, or some bullshit like that. I can’t seem to agree. Mornings for me are just a reminder of the end I failed to give myself. There is no hope for someone like me. I’m broken. I’m too broken. There are cracks in my heart that will never heal over.
“Are you ready for your pills, Mr. Rivera?” Darcy sings, walking in and shaking her hips. She’s rattling my pills around in the small paper cup like she just discovered fucking gold. “Are you ready to feel happy?” she adds, giggling. She sets the pills down and sashays over to the curtains, throwing them apart. I have to shield my eyes from the brutal onslaught of sunshine.
“Do you mean… am I ready to be pumped full of mind-numbing, zombie-creating chemicals that will make me forget my problems rather than deal with them?” I shoot her a saccharine grin, and she just clucks disapprovingly.
“You know it takes a few weeks for the medicine to work,” she says, her voice optimistic. Her accent is thick today.
“Darcy, with all due respect, you could pump me full of LSD or ecstasy, and I’d still want to jump off of bridges.”
“Don’t say that,” she quips casually. “You will see. One day, you will see why God kept you around.” Darcy and her old-school, Irish-Catholic devotion to God is endearing.
“Uh-huh.” I sit up and swallow the pills, taking a big sip of the orange juice that Darcy placed on my over-bed table. The juice is bitter—a side effect of my medication. As if life wasn’t hard enough, most food tastes like cardboard to me now. If I’m stuck here, I at least want to be able to enjoy my disgusting cafeteria food as much as possible. “God has a sick sense of humor,” I reply, looking away.
Darcy clucks again. I am just one patient among many on her rotation, but she tells me all the time that I’m her favorite.
“I’ll bring some breakfast in a few minutes.” She quickly helps me off of the bed and into my wheelchair, and I wince when my broken leg touches the ground.
“I’m not hungry.” She ignores me and makes my bed so quickly that I wonder if she’s a witch using her powers. Her Irish accent, demanding nature, and coarse, red hair remind me of Molly Weasley.
After she’s gone, I wheel myself to the restroom. As I brush my teeth and splash some water on my face, purposely avoiding my reflection, I think of what activity I’ll do today. Getting outside, especially in the spring, is one of the only things I look forward to in this place. I’m certainly not in the mood to paint today. I wonder if my inspiration is gone entirely, or if it’s just temporary. Not that it matters. It doesn’t bring me very much joy anymore.
I wheel back into my room and drink the rest of the orange juice. I have it pretty good here, and regardless of my own problems, the people and the beautiful setting make it tolerable. I have a private room, a private nurse, and breakfast delivered every morning. I secretly thank my parents for that luxury, as I know a lot of people don’t have the opportunity to stay in such nice quarters while in a place like this.
I throw on my spring-weather usual—a flannel and slip-on Vans. Darcy helps me change my underwear and basketball shorts every night, so luckily those can stay put. It’s hard navigating around two leg casts. Just as I pull my flannel down my chest, Darcy comes back in with my breakfast.
“You look nice today,” she says, just like she says every day. “You are a handsome man. You need to find a woman to take care of you. Also, you need a haircut. But otherwise it’s nice.”
“Thank you. But right now, all I need are my oil paints and a blank canvas,” I reply, nodding to the white toast. I will have to eat it—Darcy doesn’
t like it when I waste food. “Do you know what my Irish ancestors would’ve given for that piece of toast during the potato famine?” is usually her response.
Talk about a guilt trip.
“Ohh, are you going to attempt painting today?” she squeals. I give her a tight smile. I wish she would stop getting her hopes up. “I will leave you be.” She starts to leave, but then she turns back around. “What do you think you’ll paint?” she asks, her voice optimistic.
“If I paint,” I clarify. I turn to her, and she’s watching me, a look of genuine sorrow passing across her face. I know she thinks fondly of me, and it pains her to see me like this. Again. “If I do paint, I’ll paint something for you,” I say, squeezing some blue paint onto a pallet. I can feel her smile, but I don’t turn around. The door closes behind her, and I scrape a large glob of royal blue onto my waiting canvas.
The first mark is always the most satisfying. It’s the next step that’s the hardest.
*
Three hours later, I can practically feel the warmth of the day radiating off of the window. I pack everything up, and I set the large, unfinished canvas against my dresser. I’ll finish it later—just like the twenty-something other canvases lining the wall, all of them blank except for the first smear of paint. My neck hurts from staring ahead, unmoving, for three solid hours.
I exit my room and wheel myself down the hall, taking the elevator down to the lobby. I nod to Cecilia, the receptionist. Her eyes go from vacant to eager, and I groan internally. She’s like a puppy who won’t leave me alone.
“And where are you going?” she asks, her voice flirtatious. The fact that she’s flirting with me is wrong on so many levels.
“Outside, where normal people exist.” I wheel myself away before she can reply, and I pray she won’t follow me like yesterday.
Once I get outside, I feel it—the crackle in the air, the fire in my belly. Life is magnanimous. Life is durable. Why can’t I be durable? This is the one thing I think I might actually hate myself for: that I wanted to voluntarily end my life when so many other people fight for theirs every single day. The goddamn trees are practically born again every spring, their resilience observable. The guilt from that is heavy. But on days like today, when the sky is the perfect blue, and the trees sway to the perfect beat, I feel it. I feel what everyone else feels. Just for a second.
The electric charge only intensifies the farther away I get from the building. This happens to me every once in awhile. I feel too much. I’m too sensitive. I notice things that others don’t. As I travel down the pathway and look back at Brattleboro Retreat, in all of its glory, I wonder what today has in store for me. It almost feels anticipatory.
The Brattleboro Retreat building itself is remarkably beautiful. It’s an old building from the 1820s, with the classic red brick and black-framed windows. I wheel myself down the straight driveway, past the parking lot, and to the dead-end embankment of the West River. Because I grew up around here, I know a secret path that leads to the edge of the water—a hidden oasis. Bonus: it’s wheelchair accessible.
Just as I bend down to slip my Vans off, I halt. A woman is sitting in the dirt, her back to me, and she’s staring ahead. She has long brown hair. Her patterned dress is quirky and funky, yet girlish. I’m intrigued, and yet I slowly back away, turning my wheels quietly. I’ve always considered this to be my spot, but now she’s here, and I don’t know what to do. I want to be mad at her intrusion, but I can’t be mad at someone just for discovering my favorite spot. I’m torn.
“I don’t bite,” she says caustically as I was just turning to leave. She doesn’t even turn around. I bet she’s blind—blind people have a wicked sense of hearing. Before I have a chance to voice my surprise, she turns, and the sun reflects on her pale face just so. She quickly raises her delicate hand to shield the sun from her face. I want to paint her, right now, this very instant. The colors are so vivid, and she’s exquisite. Her top lip is thin, but her bottom lip makes up for it. Her honey-brown eyes are bright and watery, and her heart-shaped face is classically beautiful.
A look of recognition passes across her face, almost like she can’t believe what she’s seeing—a second later, she’s horror-struck. Her face pales, and the eerie way her mouth is hanging open in shock makes me think I have a bloody nose or something. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed in place. Because while she may be frozen in place, too, I’m suddenly homesick for her, like I miss her. Like we know each other.
“Is it really you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it confirms everything for me.
There is hope.
Part One:
Marlin
Chapter One
PRESENT
Drip, drip, drip.
The blobs of water hit the porcelain sink with such precision every time that it wakes me up. Even the most seamless dreams aren’t precise, so the repetitive, orchestrated noise always rouses me.
Drip, drip, drip.
I nudge the body next to me from where I lie—face down, legs spread, arms out—using the tip of my index finger. Our California-King-sized bed allows for the luxurious spreading of limbs at all times. I take advantage.
Drip, drip, drip.
I poke the flesh to my right, trying to wake Charlie. I notice a few things right off the bat: first, the skin I’m touching isn’t as warm as Charlie’s. His skin is always hot—always burning up. Second, the drip, drip, drip is not falling at the exact tempo I’ve come to memorize. It’s slightly slower. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone but me. I’ve listened to that damn leaky sink every single night for at least two years. Third, just as I pull my arms underneath me and into my chest, I realize I’m wearing a ribbed tank top.
I don’t own a ribbed tank top, and I most certainly never sleep with clothes on.
Drip, drip, drip.
I’m afraid to open my eyes, so instead I gently caress the sheets with my pinky finger. The motion makes my arm hair prickle—these aren’t my sheets. These are cheap, generic, polyester-blend sheets—worlds apart from the state-of-the-art linen sheets I’m accustomed to.
Drip, drip…
My body goes cold as I wait for that last sequential drip, but it never comes. I must be dreaming. This whole thing—the stranger in bed next to me, the shirt, the sheets, the dripping… it’s a figment of my imagination.
Drip…
The leak has slowed now, something my sink never does on its own. I always poke Charlie, and he dutifully climbs out of bed, grunting and stark naked, to fiddle with the handle until it stops. Two or three times a week this happens, and every time it does, Charlie climbs back into bed and mumbles, “We’ve got to fix that fucking sink.”
I always pretend I don’t hear him.
Drip…
The person next to me—not Charlie—stirs slightly and lets out a long sigh. I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, trying to will myself to wake up. The muscles in my face bunch around my eyes, and then it starts to sting, so I stop. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I’m afraid the person next to me will hear it. I’m afraid they’ll feel my pulse—thumpthumpthumpthump—and I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me if they know I’m awake.
Will they kill me? Mutilate me? Torture me?
I take three slow, silent breaths, and after the last one, I force my eyes open.
Drip…
The stranger next to me is sleeping on his side with his back to me. The blanket is tucked underneath his armpit. I can only see the small mole in the center of his upper back as my eyes adjust, and then slowly, the dark-brown tufts of hair curling at his neck. My body goes stiff, and I try not to whimper out loud.
Charlie has blond hair. Unruly, thick, blond hair.
I glance around the room, straining my eyes so that I don’t wake the man next to me with movement in the bed. It’s a small bedroom, generic and plain—I hate carpet, I think as my eyes wander over the beige fluff on the floor. Moving boxes are lined up on the floor against the
wall. I dare to move my other arm ever so slightly, running it down the side of the mattress until it touches the bristly carpeting. Just as I suspected—the mattress is lying on the floor. Barbaric.
Drip…
I crane my neck, and I see the edge of a small window near our feet. The streetlamp outside casts an orange glow into the room, and I’m surprised I ever fell asleep in here, as I’ve always needed absolute darkness.
Unless I was drugged or knocked unconscious…
Not my bedroom, not my clothes, not my boyfriend, not my carpet, not my window…
This isn’t a dream. I’m much too aware for it to be a dream. That dull, fuzzy feeling that accompanies all of my dreams isn’t present here. Bile starts to rise in my throat. I bite my tongue, tasting blood, just to be sure. I am awake, this is real, and I have no fucking clue where I am.
I twist in the scratchy sheets and discover, to my horror, that I’m not wearing pants. Not even underwear. I get tangled, but after a few seconds, I’m able to climb out of bed and run into the bathroom to vomit. After I’m done, I look down and see the telltale shape of penne pasta. Why is it that I can’t remember eating any penne pasta in the first place? In fact, I’ve been going easy on the carbs lately, and I haven’t had pasta in weeks. I’ve been protein loading, sculpting my body proudly at the gym.
I flush and stand, my legs wobbly. I look behind me and into the bedroom, and the man in the bed is still asleep—thank god.
I close the bathroom door slowly. It creaks, and I wince as it clicks shut, loudly. Please don’t wake up, I will the stranger. I switch the light on, and a harsh yellow light fills the room. I stifle a scream as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 1
