The Darkness Within

by Alice J Black

  The Darkness Within

  The Soul Seekers - Book One

  Alice J. Black

  Copyright © 2018 by Alice J. Black

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by The Parliament House

  www.parliamenthousepress.com

  Edited by Maria Pease and David Rochelero

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  The Darkness Within

  About the Author

  Future Books in the Soul Seekers

  The Parliament House

  The Darkness Within

  nothing quieted the voices of the dead

  Into the Madness

  I woke up on the wrong side of groggy. My head was pounding and I felt like I’d swallowed a whole bag of cotton wool. Rubbing my tongue across the roof of my mouth produced nothing. It had been a long time since I felt like that. And for me, that was saying something. I smacked my lips together and groaned at the lack of moisture in my mouth. I needed a drink.

  I lay still on what I assumed was my bed but I couldn’t stay like that forever. I needed to move. I worried that movement would cause a hot torrent of vomit to rise from my stomach like I was about to rise from the dead.

  Another night spent drinking myself into oblivion. I couldn’t even pretend this was normal anymore. There had been no party, no social gathering, just me and my bottle of gin. Or was it two?

  Groaning, I rubbed my face and took a deep breath. I had to get some water or I was in danger of dying from dehydration right there. Then, after I doused the cotton wool, I would pour myself a glass of something a little more refreshing. Images of bottles lining the fridge came to mind. Something told me that not much was left after my heavy week, but there should be enough to tide me over.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. Everything was still smothered in a dark hue and when I glanced at the curtains to the left of my bed, I saw the grey dawn beginning to peek through the crack where the cloth didn’t meet. I had been meaning to fix that for weeks. Or was it months?

  It was early. Drinker’s curse. No matter how much I willed my body to stay in its comatose state until the early afternoon, it never listened. Now my days always seemed to start at the crack of dawn. Sometimes earlier.

  Rolling across the side of the mattress, I felt it spring under my weight. I heaved myself up and swung my legs over the side and caught sight of my bare thighs. I scratched my leg absently as I stared at the rotten brown carpet. It had lain since I moved into the house and was stained with the abuse of alcohol and in places, cigarette burns. That was one thing I had managed to abstain from—for the most part anyway—cigarettes. Most of the burns in the floor had been done by someone else in a sex-fuelled rampage. I shuddered and averted my eyes.

  Yawning, I brushed the stray strands of dark hair from my face.

  Then I stopped with a sudden realization. Something was different. I wasn’t alone. Swallowing, trying to alleviate the dryness in my mouth, I slowly turned around. There was a man sprawled in my bed. His mouth was open and soft snores ejected into the room. I had no idea who he was. Shit. I’d come home with a man.

  That’s when the gurgling began. My hands moved to my stomach and lifted the bottom of my vest top up. I saw my belly vibrate, the flabby skin around my midriff humming with the movement.

  I pushed myself up and dashed the distance from my bedroom to the bathroom, legs moving as fast as they could in their weakened state. Booting the door open, I hurled myself in the direction of the toilet just as the sickness rose. My whole body heaved in rejection and my head came to rest over the bowl. As the liquid-torrent of vomit rushed through my body, spilling through my nose and causing my eyes to water over and over again, I wondered if I had alcohol poisoning. I shoved the thought away. Who cared anyway?

  Finally, after my body was done ridding itself of the toxin, I slumped on the floor. Everything ached. My whole body was tender and I closed my eyes and groaned. I knew I wanted to promise myself that it would be the last time, that I would cut drink out of my life but I couldn’t. It would be a lie.

  I had promised myself time and time again that it would be the last and then time and time again, I would go back to it. Drinking was my safety net, a warm blanket that nestled around my shoulders when I need comforting. It was always there when nobody else was. I could count on it like an old friend. It didn’t judge and it always made me forget.

  That was the important part. Forgetting.

  Thoughts too close to memories began to surface in my dulled mind and I quickly shoved them away, shaking my head and opening my eyes. I grounded myself. I was in the bathroom. I was safe.

  I stood on shaking legs, holding onto the radiator to steady myself and then cautiously made my way downstairs. Maybe a coffee would be best to begin with.

  But what about the man in my bedroom? Right now I couldn’t think straight, let alone consider the next course of action.

  I made my way down the steep steps on trembling legs, my hand glancing the wall to keep my balance. When I finally reached the bottom, I sighed with relief. That was until I saw the kitchen. The place was a mess. Plates and pans everywhere, clothes piled on top of my meager table and the stale stink of alcohol was enough to turn my stomach. I took a deep breath through my mouth.

  This had to stop.

  My eyes continued to burn, only this time they were close to tears. It had been a long time since I took a long hard look at myself and it hurt. It hurt knowing that I did this to myself every day. It hurt knowing that I kept on drinking without thinking about the consequences of my actions, about the effect it was having on my body or the people I cared about. I was a mess. The house was a mess. My whole life was the bottom layer of muck that lined a bin, putrid and stinking of rotten fruit.

  I sucked in a deep breath and dropped my eyes as I picked my way around the kitchen, skirting around a bin bag that lay open in the middle of the floor. I glanced inside and caught sight of empty cans and the remains of last night’s meal. A fly buzzed over the contents coming to settle on the edge of the bag, legs rubbing together as if in anticipation of the feast.

  I reached the sink and, ignoring the pile of red slop on top of a plate that was beginning to crust over, I leaned over it and opened the curtains. Then I popped the button for the window and pushed it out as far as it would go, shivering when I was hit by a blast of the early morning breeze. I hoped that it would offer me some refreshment too.

  Loitering at the table, I scrounged a jumper from the pile of mess and pulled it on over my head. Then I set about filling the kettle. The dishes—and everything else—could wait.

  Just as the kettle was about to boil, a voice behind me startled me from my trance. “Morning, Peyton.”

  I spun and scowled at my best friend. “Why are you here?” I growled.

  “Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed,” she mused, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Well maybe if you didn’t scare the shit out of me in my own house, I would have greeted you with a little more warmth.”

  The switch flicked on the kettle and I pulled down a second cup from the cupboard. I made us both a strong brew, putting plenty sugar in mine. Olivia strolled forward and took her mug, cradling it in her hands. I leaned back against the bench and let the scent of the caffeine drift over me.

  “But seriously, Olivia, why are you here?” I asked. I took a sip of the coffee and blanched. Opening the fridge, I searched for milk but came up with nothing. However, I knew that shou
ld I decide that I wanted to Irish-up my coffee there was plenty of choice.

  “You don’t remember?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember anything.” I groaned at the way my head still thumped. My stomach was gratefully receiving the offering as I took another sip from the cup though I knew the coffee wouldn’t hold it peaceful for long. It needed a stronger sort of sustenance.

  She sighed and I watched as her lips pressed together in a thin line. Olivia had been my best friend since school. She had known I was fucking up my life and I knew that she could be blunt on the side of bitch. We became almost inseparable. She was the complete opposite to me in so many ways. Her short pixie cut was sweet and always looked styled, even at this time in the morning. Her blue eyes never missed a beat and her willowy frame was feminine yet hard.

  “Do you want me to tell you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “Come on.” She ushered me out of the kitchen. “Let’s sit down.”

  I swallowed the bile that rose at the back of my throat as I followed her through into the living room. The sun was up now and shining through the open window. Dust motes floated in the air, sparkling where they caught the beam. I watched as Olivia sagged into the brown chair next to the window and I took up residence on the sofa, curling my feet up beneath me. I glanced around at the place. It was in dire need of a good clean and probably a complete overhaul. My sofas looked like they had stepped right out of the 60s and the carpet was so threadbare I couldn’t bear to walk on it without protection on my feet. The curtains weren’t much better, the flowery pattern on it so worn and faded I could only see the snake-like vines crawling up the material. I rubbed my eyes and sighed again.

  “Listen, Peyton, I’m only telling you this because I love you,” Olivia started in a soft voice. It wasn’t so much the conversation I knew was coming as the tone she was using. It was very rare I’d heard it in the whole time I’d known her.

  “Uh-oh."

  “Yes, uh-oh.” She nodded. “Last night I saw you—or rather, heard you—leaving your house.”

  “I did?” I groaned. I didn’t remember that at all.

  “Yes.” She nodded once and I knew she meant business. “Of course, I got dressed right away and followed you. You went to the shop and argued with the guy behind the counter because he wouldn’t serve you with alcohol.”

  “It’s my right to buy what I want to buy!” I argued but even I knew it was weak.

  “Not when you’re so drunk you can barely stand.” She raised her perfectly-shaped brow. “I had to drag you away, Peyton. He was going to call the police.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She nodded. “Then you met this guy outside. You talked for all of five minutes and he was coming home with you. I followed you back and I stayed. I was worried.”

  “Shit,” I groaned. “He’s still upstairs.” My eyes stung and I fought the tears that threatened to fall.

  “Listen,” she took a deep breath. “I know that you’ve been through a lot. Losing your parents can’t be easy, not for anyone, but you’re drinking yourself into a hole.”

  “Olivia, we just turned twenty.” I chose to ignore her referral to my parents.

  “It’s normal to be drunk half the time anyway.”

  “Not like this.” She shook her head. “You’re using it as a way to cope but the thing is, Peyton, it’s not healthy.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but no words formed. Instead, tears stung my eyes. She was right. I was using it as a coping mechanism but this wasn’t just about my parents. This was about everything. The voices, the ghosts that invaded my mind, my ability to keep some semblance of sanity as they whispered to me night after night.

  Olivia was my best friend though that was one secret I still kept from her. The ability to see and hear the dead was not one usually celebrated. I didn’t want any admission on my part to end up in a psych evaluation. The thought of being locked in a ward under supervision without the ability to drink—although I could almost guarantee I was going to be heavily sedated—took the last of my control away. I couldn’t let that happen.

  “You need to stop this now before you drink yourself to death. Your parents—”

  “Don’t bring them into this,” I snapped.

  “Your parents hated seeing you like this. They tried to help and it failed because you weren’t willing to see it as a problem.”

  “It failed because I was enjoying my youth.”

  “It failed because you’re not willing to admit you’re addicted.”

  “What if I told you that I drink because I like it? Because I like losing control and forgetting the world? Not everything is about order and rationality. I’m not like you, Olivia.”

  “But not everything is about when you’re going to get your next drink, either. There’s a difference between letting your hair down and needing a drink as soon as you wake up.” She paused. “I bet that coffee is doing nothing for you. You’re already thinking about when you can get rid of me so you can raid the fridge for whatever you didn’t drink last night.”

  “Why do you think it’s okay to act like my mum?”

  “Your mum died, Peyton. She tried to help you and she died.”

  My jaw opened and closed as I fought the anger that forced its way up my throat. “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “No but maybe if you were home, maybe if you hadn’t run away and gone on a bender you could have been there to stop the fire. To help them. What if you could have saved your parents?”

  The words hung in the air, thick and toxic as they wound around my mind, squeezing and pulsating. I bit back the lump in my throat. I wanted to throw down my cup and storm over there. I wanted to take Olivia by the neck and wind my hands around it and keep squeezing until she couldn’t talk anymore. Until she couldn’t blame.

  “Hearing this isn’t easy and I know you hate it. I know you probably hate me right now. But you need to hear this. There’s no one left to hear it. Don’t you see? I’m the only person left in your life and I have to tell you, my patience is wearing pretty thin.”

  I bit my lip as my stomach churned. Reality came at me hard and harsh like a blanket of snow whipping around me in a cold frenzy. “You . . . you wouldn’t leave.”

  “Want to try my patience?” Her brow raised and I saw wrinkles form on her brow. “Because believe me, I’m this close to walking away.” She held her thumb and forefinger millimetres apart. “There’s only so much I can do, Peyton. Only so many times I can watch you almost choke on your own vomit. Only so much I can haul you out of sticky situations. I’m trying to hold down a job, my own life. I’m not your babysitter.”

  “I didn’t ask you to be.”

  “No but if I wasn’t here, neither would you be and that’s the truth.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “The truth hurts. I know that. But you have to face the facts, Peyton. Alcohol is running your life. It’s ruining you and it has to stop.”

  “You say it like I can just put it down. Like I can just give it up.” I laughed, the sound bitter in the hollow of my throat. As if giving up alcohol, denying myself the will to forget and push the voices of the dead away, was as simple as choosing to put down the bottle. “It’s not that easy.”

  “I never said it was. But you have to want it. Unless you want to change, nothing ever will.”

  “What if I don’t want to stop?” I snarled. Nobody could tell me what I could and couldn’t do. If I wanted to drink myself into oblivion every night it was my choice.

  “If you don’t, then I can’t be your friend anymore, Peyton.” Her words jolted me and I really looked at her. I saw the bags beneath her eyes, the waxy pallor of her skin. I was hurting her, I realized. I was dragging her through the coals with me just because she was trying to keep me level-headed and out of trouble. Tears pricked my eyes and I glanced at the coffee in my hand, the milk forming greasy circles on the surface.

  “Olivia,” I
began, clearing my throat of the thickness that lumped there. Hurting my best friend was the last thing I wanted to do. She was all I had left and I couldn’t lose her too. “Tell me straight, is it really that bad?”

  “Peyton,” she started, her voice soft. She was about to deliver the final blow. “You’re an alcoholic and if you don’t get help for it now, you’re going to die.”

  The breath whooshed out of my lungs and I struggled to take in a breath. Alcoholic. The word tasted like acid on my tongue. I wasn’t an alcoholic, was I? That word was reserved for old men who plagued bars night by night and beat their wives. It was for the down and outs, the wayward strays of society, and I wasn’t that. Was I?

  Doubt crept into my mind as my eyes took a fresh look at my surroundings, the squalor I’d been living in. The house had been brand-new when I moved in. In just three years it was trashed beyond belief. Things were broken and hadn’t been fixed, everything I had was second-hand and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cleaned. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  Forcing myself to look at Olivia, I saw pain mixed with fear on her face and I realized she had been dreading this conversation and it had been coming a long time.

  “Alcoholic,” I whispered. The word sounded foreign on my tongue but even as it rolled off, I knew it was true. I knew that I was addicted. I was one of the members of society that couldn’t function without the juice. My blood-alcohol level was surely more gin than anything. I sobbed, my whole body heaving in realisation.

  It was like Olivia had turned on a tap, the truth pouring into my mind like a writer with a blank piece of paper in front of them, the words flowing from the keyboard and unable to stop. The tears flowed and I cried. I cried like I hadn’t since my parents died in that fire. My nose ran and my throat scratched but I still couldn’t stop. Olivia moved over to me and pulled me into her arms and she held me until my body finally stopped shaking. But I still couldn’t force the word from my mind and the one reason that I had begun to drink in the first place. To forget.