Unspoken Words
Copyright © 2019 by K.M. Golland
Published by Golland Family Pty Ltd
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders
Cover Design — T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com
Structural edit by Sali at Alpha Beta Inc
Copy/Line edit by K.M. Golland
Proofread by Ellie at My Brother’s Editor
Interior Formatting & Design — T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Part One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part Three
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Plight
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by K. Golland
This book has been written using Australian English and contains spelling, euphemisms and slang that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.
For those brave enough to listen to their heart.
Chapter One
Ellie
Heat travelled the length of my body and fizzled at my cheeks, the incessant churning of my stomach, heavy and unforgiving. The air was thin, almost unbreathable, but it was the thrumming cacophony of screaming and swirling spotlights that had me dizzy and disoriented, my hand unsteady as it reached out to clasp the black velvet curtain, left of stage, that I was standing behind.
“I love you,” a girl called from the crowd.
Connor strode from his position, centre stage, to where I was standing in the shadows watching him perform his very first live show in front of thousands of people. I narrowed my eyes as he approached, finding his dimpled cheeks and mischievous grin. He was up to something. He hadn’t yet finished his set; he still had one song left to sing.
“If you all don’t mind,” he announced to the crowd as he neared me. “I’d like to invite someone very special to the stage for this next song.”
He clasped my hand. My body stiffened.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, reluctant to let go of the curtain I was holding on to.
He didn’t answer. He just kept smiling his infuriating smile and led me onto the stage, my hand clammy, my steps timid and unsure.
A blinding light illuminated my face, and I stumbled just slightly before raising my hand to shade my eyes so that I could see where he was taking me.
“Say hi to Ellie, everyone.”
The crowd—all willing puppets on Connor’s strings—did his bidding and chanted, “Hi, Ellie” in unison, so I gave them a shy wave then turned to the puppet master himself and mouthed ‘I’m gonna kill you’, the many ways in which I could suddenly flowing through my mind like a cartoon movie reel: strangulation with my bare hands, suffocation with a pillow … Death by banging his bloody guitar over his head, Tom and Jerry style.
Connor chuckled and adjusted his mouthpiece. “She just said she’s gonna kill me.” He pouted then added, “We can’t have that now, can we?”
Eyes wide, I nodded frantically at the ten-thousand-plus screaming fans in the hope I’d miraculously win them over. But his pout was huge, way over the top, and bloody adorable. And my chances of winning this battle were as promising as snow in the height of summer, so I gave in and ceased my nodding when Connor and I stopped by the side of his stool.
He patted the black leather cushion and, like the gentleman he was, assisted me as I climbed on top. Everything around me tilted, and I swayed a little, my sense of balance worse than it had been backstage. I felt strange, unlike I’d ever felt: hot, lightheaded and nauseated but not entirely of this world, as if I were being pulled toward a darkness I did not want to enter, a darkness I knew was there but I’d not yet reached.
Blinking, I sucked in a deep breath and tried to remain focussed as Connor’s fingers crept from my hand to my arm, slowly turning it over to bare my wrist. Warmth danced along my skin as he pressed his lips to my tattoo, his grey eyes gleaming with possession. “This song is for you, baby,” he said, stepping back and letting go of my hand. “Always.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks once again, and I couldn’t help but dip my chin and cover my eyes, giggling as I peeked through my spread fingers.
He smirked at me and then toward the crowd. “She doesn’t want to kill me now, does she?”
Laughter rumbled through the arena, his words and demeanour one of triumph. I chuckled. Truth be told, I did and I didn’t want to kill him. Sitting in spotlight in the middle of a stage, in front of thousands of people wasn’t something I’d ever aspired to do, but being serenaded by the man I loved, by the man thousands of people loved, definitely wasn’t something worthy of ‘accidental’ homicide either.
Shaking my head, as if to say ‘no, I didn’t want to kill him’, I chose to blow him a kiss instead, watching with indescribable love and awe as he swung his guitar across his chest and took a few casual steps before strumming the opening chords to “Ever After”—our song.
The sweet melody wrapped itself around my heart, squeezing tighter than ever before, and with our eyes locked, we spoke our unspoken words as the oiled timbre of his voice sang the opening lyrics.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. The quicker I wiped them the quicker they fell. Despite everything we’d been through and everything we’d lost, he was there—illuminated on stage—and I was right there with him, the way we were supposed to be; together: Ellie and Connor, Connor and Ellie. Surreal and perfect. And, yet, that mysterious darkness lurking in the shadows continued to beckon me. I could feel its icy sting, the uncertainty … fear, and I wanted nothing more than to let its call go unanswered.
Leaning forward, Connor stopped playing the song and wiped the pads of his thumbs over my cheeks before kissing me softly. The screaming, cheering, and wolf whistles quickly subsided until al
l I could hear was my heartbeat, loud and fast, hard and intense. A sharp pain seized my breast, and I flinched, wondering for a second if, during the day, I’d somehow strained a muscle. The sensation was severe and abrupt, and it caught me by surprise.
I raised my hand and rubbed the area, pushing the pain aside as I tried to refocus on the only man I’d ever loved and what we’d achieved together—our music.
Connor pulled back and broke our kiss, strumming his guitar louder and with more enthusiasm, his eyes wide, his smile wider as he turned to the crowd and sang the chorus. He held out the microphone so they could sing it too, Connor one line, the crowd the next.
There was something superlative when watching a person exude talent, their body a slave to their instrument, eyes closed, completely lost in the moment. And when Connor untethered himself to the world like that, I anchored myself to him and his passion—his presence all-consuming.
Swaying to our song, my smile faltered when another bolt of pain hit my chest like a freight train. I clutched at my breast, dread and agony filling me. That lurking darkness all of a sudden blanketed my body, and my mouth fell open as I silently cried out, desperate for air I was unable to breathe.
Connor’s neck cricked just slightly, and he smiled but not like he normally did. Confusion crumpled his brow, and his hands wavered.
The crowd were so loud I could no longer hear them, no longer see them. I tried to call out to Connor and reach for his hand, but the edges of his body blurred with black fog that rapidly spread until it was all I could see, until the pain in my chest froze and held, my lungs heavy, my body rigid. Until there was nothing or no one left.
Until my heart stopped beating
Part One
Chapter Two
Ellie
Ten years earlier
So much green.
So much brown.
So. Much. Dirt.
“This place is disgusting,” I grouched, arms crossed, my nose upturned.
Dad wound down his window and drew in a deep breath as he pulled the car to a stop at our summer camping spot. “How can nature be disgusting, Ellie? Look at it. Smell it. Taste it.” Taste it? Yuk!
My body shivered, voluntarily, so I positioned my headphones over my ears in the hope I could block everyone and everything out and was about to press play on my Walkman when Dad pointed to a group of campers who’d already set up their tents and chairs. “There they are.”
“Who?” my brother, Chris, asked, his neck craned.
I, too, stretched for a better look.
“The Bourkes. Their son, Connor, will be starting at my school this year. He’s the same age as you, Ellie.”
I pretended I couldn’t hear what was being said because, honestly, I didn’t care who this Connor kid was. What I cared about was how I was going to survive the next fourteen days in a grotty, insect-ridden dump. There were trees, sticks, and shrubs everywhere, and it was going to be the worst summer holiday in the history of summer holidays.
Pressing fast forward on my Walkman, I mentally calculated it would take roughly fifteen seconds to reach “Holiday.” Ironically, “Holiday” was my favourite Madonna song. I idolised the Queen of Pop. She didn’t take crap from nobody and certainly wouldn’t be caught dead spending her summer holidays without electricity or a proper bed. Madonna wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do because she was Madonna.
I wanted to be her.
“Does this Connor guy like footy?” Chris asked, scanning the towering boy with his narrowed eyes. Chris rotated the football in his hands once, twice, before handballing it in the air and catching it again.
“Not sure. Apparently he can play basketball though.” Dad’s smile bounced from the rearview mirror before he nodded in greeting to who I assumed were Connor’s parents.
Chris shrugged. “Basketball is for pussies. Anyone can bounce a round ball and throw it into a hoop.”
“Language!” Mum snapped. “That just earned you dish-duty, young man.”
I scoffed, my smile bold. I’d earned dishes duties earlier in the day and knew, at some point, my stupid brother would earn it from me.
“And that still applies to you, too, Eloise. I haven’t forgotten your outburst this morning. One of you can wash and the other can dry.”
“I’ll dry!” both Chris and I yelled simultaneously.
I glared at him. “I said it first.”
“Who cares? I’m older. Oldest always wins.”
“Does not.”
“Does too!”
“ENOUGH!” Dad swiveled in his seat to face us. “You’re both acting like toddlers.”
“Elliephant is a toddler.”
“I am not. I’m nearly thirteen. And don’t call me Elliephant.”
“Elliephant,” he muttered.
“Chris, you can wash. Eloise, you can dry.”
Chris clamped his ball with his hands. “But, Daaaad—”
“No buts, Chris.”
Dad’s eyes shot from my idiot brother to me and then back again, as if he were watching a tennis game and we were the players. But they soon relaxed, and a small smile crept in at the corners of his mouth. I wasn’t sure why, but Dad really did love camping. Nothing could ruin his happy nature-vibes. Not even us.
He sighed. “Look … the Bourkes are new in town, and Mrs Bourke has been appointed as my school librarian. When she mentioned that she and her husband enjoyed camping, I invited them to join us for the holidays.”
“Of course you did,” Chris retorted.
I couldn’t help but giggle. Luckily, I suppressed it before my true I’m-really-not-happy-to-be-here feelings were betrayed.
“Connor has just been through an unimaginably tough time where they used to live,” Dad added. “So do me a favour and be nice, make friends … Enjoy each other’s company, okay?”
Bull crap! I’m staying in my tent.
“He better like footy,” Chris mumbled before opening his door and exiting the car with Mum and Dad.
Before Mum closed her door, she paused, her eyebrow arched. “You coming?”
I shook my head and diverted my gaze to a barren tree.
She sighed and made her way to my side of the car before opening my door and leaning forward to pluck my headphones off my ears. “Wrong answer.” Mum placed her hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look into her green eyes. “I know this is not what we promised, sweetheart. I know we said we would spend the summer holidays at the beach. And I know you hate us right now because we broke that promise—”
“I don’t hate you,” I mumbled, wiping the tears that were pooling in my eyes.
Mum’s fingertips were delicate as she helped rid them from my face. “Good, because you’re not allowed to hate us.”
Scoffing mildly, I deliberately avoided her emerald gaze. It was a gaze that had you forgetting your annoyance and thinking about nothing other than row upon row of leafy evergreen trees, merry little leprechauns, and the Emerald City in Wizard of Oz. My mother’s gaze was magical. Hypnotic. And like my mother, I, too, had vivid green eyes and red hair, red hair I hated with a passion and would be dying as soon as I was old enough to do so.
Apparently, the age of ‘nearly’ thirteen wasn’t quite old enough.
“Ellie, honey, please don’t be upset. The way I see it, you can be miserable and have a miserable time, or you can accept that sometimes things don’t pan out the way we want them to and, instead, make the most of a crappy situation.” She smoothed my hair and cupped my cheeks. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
I shrugged.
“Well, until you decide, I want you to get out of the car so that we can introduce ourselves to the Bourkes. After that, perhaps you could go for a walk and think about how you’re going to play out the next two weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
She pressed her lips to my forehead then smiled. “Good start.”
Mr and Mrs Bourke seemed like nice, quiet, loving, Carol and Mike Brady
types. As for their son, Connor, he definitely wasn’t part of the Bourke Brady Bunch. When Dad introduced both Chris and me, Connor met our gaze for the briefest of seconds before asking if he could be excused. Talk about rude and disinterested.
I guess I couldn’t blame him for wanting to escape the campsite, though, which was exactly what I’d done shortly after he had. I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable either, not to Mr and Mrs Bourke and certainly not to my parents or my football-kicking douche brother. I was in Hell. A mosquito-ridden, dirty, smelly Hell, and no one seemed to care but me.
Now gazing out over the river, which snaked through several mountains flanking our campsite, I reluctantly admitted to myself that the sparkling water rapids were kind of pretty even though they weren’t the beautiful, blue ocean I craved. So were the many towering gum trees lining the riverbanks, together with bottlebrush shrubs dotting the area like chocolate chips on a cookie. In fact, the entire scene before me was soothing … in a dirty poo-brown kind of way.
I sighed for the gazillionth time that day and collected a stick from the ground before stepping onto a fallen tree trunk, which jutted out over the river from its embedded position in the dry bank. Jumping once, twice, and happy that it was sturdy, I slowly edged along it until I found a spot where I could safely sit and swirl my stick in the water—a perfect place to sulk. Eventually, I would read or write in my notebook, for both things were as natural to me as breathing.
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