Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
I was forced to stop when I’d ran so far that my knees gave way, rescuing myself on a giant wheelie-bin around the back of a kebab house. Once stable, I doubled over, supporting myself with my hands on my knees as I tried to regain my breath.
They knew. They fucking knew. They planned it. They fucking planned it. That bastard took away everything I ever was. He hurt me. He destroyed me. He changed the course of my whole life…and my parents fucking planned it.
With my mind in overload - confused, scared, vibrating violently with shock – and my body restless, desperate to get the pain out somehow, I rammed my fist into the brick wall in front of me.
“Fuck!” I blasted, shaking the droplets of blood from my knuckles. The spots of red glittering the back of my hand caught my immediate attention. It drew my eyes towards it like a moth to a flame, inviting me, enticing me, and for a moment all I could focus on was the physical pain. The distraction from my thoughts lasted only a few seconds but the relief was overwhelming, so I did it again.
I punched the wall with one fist and then the other in quick succession, slamming into it as if it were a person I was trying to kill. I wailed and grunted as I continued to punch, carrying on until the point I fell down to my knees, my body too weak to support me any longer. I don’t know how long I sat there, beside the dirty bin and resting my head back against the coarse bricks. Time faded into complete insignificance. After what felt like hours, but could’ve possibly only been minutes, the mental torture was returning with a vengeance. I needed something stronger.
I needed a fucking drink.
There were plenty of bars not far from where I was, in Soho – the center of London’s gay scene. So with my destination in mind, I stood up, brushed the dirt off my jeans with the palms of my hands and set off to the main road to find a taxi. It was only a two-minute ride but I was too exhausted to make the walk. When we pulled up I reached into my pocket for my wallet, wincing from the pain in my hand. After handing over my fare and nodding in thanks towards the driver, I wandered into the first pub I came to, heading straight for the bathroom.
Standing in front of the basins, resting my hands on the cool porcelain, it took me a couple of minutes to gain the courage I needed to look at my reflection in the mirror. Eventually though, I slowly raised my head, making eye contact with myself. Usually I’d focus on making sure my hair sat just right, that my tapers were in securely, that I had no spots or blemishes… but this time all I could see were my eyes. How lifeless they looked, empty, swollen and red. They portrayed how I was feeling perfectly.
Weak.
Broken.
Desolate.
Swallowing down the last flood of tears that clogged my throat, I hovered my hands under the sensor-activated taps, letting the water wash over my grazed knuckles. I gasped quietly, cursing to the empty air. The water felt like vinegar seeping into the shallow cuts, my touch like salt as I rubbed gently to remove the streaks of dried blood. The swelling was already starting to set in by the time I’d finished and marbled shadows were forming around the wounds.
After splashing my face with water too, I patted my skin dry with a paper towel, taking extra care around my hands. In the mirror, I caught sight of two guys coming in the room behind me and from the subtle nod of the taller guy’s head, I took it as my cue to leave. His pants were around his ankles before I’d even closed the door.
Next on my list was alcohol, and then I would find someone who could sell me enough weed to smoke myself into an oblivion.
I didn’t waste time with anything weak, opting for spirits from the start. I wasn’t there to enjoy it, savor it, relax and have a good time. I was there for one reason only – to get so wasted I couldn’t even remember my own name. I was just about to order my fourth shot of neat vodka when a guy – older, thirties, hair greying around the edges but with muscles so damn fine they made his shirt look like it was about to rip under the pressure – pulled up a stool next to me.
“Kyle, right?”
It took me a moment longer than usual to summon my alter ego, most likely because I wasn’t expecting to be recognized so much in the UK, especially in a small pub like this one. “Right.”