Broken, p.25
Broken, page 25
“Diet Coke.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Nope.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Ha! Where do I start? Amy shakes her head at me as Damien fake coughs to regain her attention. She hasn’t yet answered his question.
“A cocktail,” she says, but Damien hovers, seeking a more detailed answer. “Surprise me.”
Damien heads off to the bar, and I spot a couple of women standing to attention when he arrives, ogling him like a piece of meat. His black eye from the attack is almost completely faded, most of his cuts have healed, and he’s a stone’s throw away from being back to his flawless self, so I’m not surprised the two women find him attractive. Hell, I was attracted with the cuts and bruises.
Damien turns his head to look at the women, and they throw him a seductive wave. Damien merely diverts his attention to the now present bartender. Oh, it must be so hard being so beautiful.
One of the women decides to make a bolder move, rising from her seat and moving across the bar to stand next to him. She places her hand on his bicep, obviously flirting, and for a second, my heart rate rises. I let out a silent sigh of relief when Damien increases the distance between them, freeing his arm from her grip, and I give myself a sharp slap.
Damien points at me, and I quickly realise my name has dropped into the conversation. I smile, waving at the severely disappointed woman at the bar.
“Who are you waving at?” Amy asks.
“The woman at the bar hitting on your brother,” I say, laughing.
Amy turns to look in Damien’s direction. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
I shake my head. I have many, many issues, but I don’t want jealousy to be one of them. Okay, so maybe I got a little jealous of the mysterious woman Damien loved in the past, but that was completely different. I know for a fact that Damien will spend the rest of his life being ogled and hit on by women, and I need to accept that. Jealousy would be a colossal waste of time and energy. Besides, Damien has given me no reason not to trust him.
“It would me,” Amy says as Damien returns carrying a bright pink cocktail for Amy, my usual and a pint of lager, cider or beer, I can’t tell the difference, for himself.
“What would what?” he asks, setting the drinks down and sitting next to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders.
“Some other woman hitting on my boyfriend would bother me,” Amy explains. “I’d be getting in her face telling her to back off.”
“She didn’t know Damien’s spoken for,” I argue. “As far as she’s concerned, he’s a gorgeous guy in a bar. You can’t blame her.”
“You’re far too nice,” Amy says, shaking her head.
“I didn’t need to get in her face anyway,” I point out. “Damien did it for me.”
“Damn straight,” he says cockily. “I’ve only got eyes for the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I straighten up and glance around the room for dramatic effect. “I don’t see her.”
Damien shakes his head, smiling. As I lean back into the sofa, he kisses me softly.
“Seriously, you two,” Amy groans. “The whole cute, lovey-dovey crap is getting beyond nauseating.” Amy fake heaves in an over-the-top fashion that makes me smile.
“Bathroom is over there.” Damien points, then kisses me again, more to wind his sister up than anything else, but I’m not going to complain.
We sit chatting for a while as the bar starts to fill up. It’s not crazy busy, but most of the tables are now occupied, and there are quite a few people hovering on the dance floor and at the bar. I notice the DJ setting up in the corner, and it’s looking like the party’s about to get started.
“All right, boys and girls,” the DJ speaks into a microphone. “Are we ready to kick off eighties night?”
The crowd cheers enthusiastically. I have to say, the younger generation is far outweighed by their elders, eighties night drawing a more mature crowd, and it makes me smile. I’m sure their maturity will fly out of the window along with their sobriety, and it’s not long before the dance floor is rammed. I’m happily watching, my head resting comfortably against Damien’s shoulder, his arm leaning against the back of the couch as his fingers run through my hair when Amy stands. She reaches down and grabs my hand.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head.
I pull back, refusing to move as the realisation that Amy wants me to dance sinks in, but Amy is freakishly strong, and she yanks me to my feet, almost taking the table and our drinks along with me.
“Damien can watch the drinks,” she practically shouts above the music. “Come on.”
“I don’t dance,” I insist, wriggling out of Amy’s grip and looking out at the buzzing crowd. I’m not going out there amongst that, not a chance. That’s one step too big.
“Please,” she begs, but I shake my head. I know my limits.
I retake my seat, ignoring Amy’s pout and snuggling back into the safety of Damien’s arms. He offers me a sympathetic smile, but I know he understands. Amy on the other hand, not so much.
“I’m gonna head to the toilet instead then,” Amy tells us, and I’m wondering if she’ll have a little dance with herself en route to dampen her disappointment.
I watch her shimmy her way through the crowd, and when I turn back to Damien, he’s texting one-handed. “Anyone interesting?” I ask. Damien looks at me, confused, and I point to his phone.
“It’s Paul,” he answers. “He’s in the pub across the road.”
“I thought he was having a father-daughter night?”
“Apparently, it’s happening tomorrow instead,” Damien explains.
“You head over if you want?” I suggest. “I can grab Amy, and we’ll meet you there.”
“You sure?” he asks nervously, and I’m assuming it’s the idea of leaving me alone that’s the cause.
“Babe,” I say bluntly. “You’re not my babysitter, and if I plan on, you know, living, I’d like to think I can manage to make it to the toilets and back again unscathed.” Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, anxiety.
“I’m not trying to babysit you, babe,” Damien groans. “I just know how you feel about crowded places.”
I briefly glance out at the crowd, but there’s an unfamiliar resolve stirring inside me. Dancing in the thick of it is a step too far, but I’m not about to let a bunch of people who have no interest in me whatsoever stop me from standing on my own two feet. I refuse to rely on Damien to survive. I’ve done that far too much already.
“I’m good,” I insist. “I can go around the crowd, and I’m hoping I’ll surprise myself by staying calm.”
“Want to say that with a little more conviction?” Damien teases. “Otherwise, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Go,” I say. “I’ll get Amy.”
Damien hesitates a minute longer, a tinge of worry sitting upon his brow, but I plaster on my best smile and rise to my feet. I slide on my jacket and plant a kiss on Damien’s lips before heading in search of his sister. I carefully make my way around the growing crowd until I finally reach the ladies’ toilet. I’m not surprised to find Amy standing in front of the mirror, spreading fresh lipstick across her lips. No wonder she was taking so long.
“You about done?” I ask, and Amy turns her head to smirk at me. “You’ll be happy to hear we’re abandoning eighties night.” Amy’s face lights up like a Christmas tree as she deposits her lipstick in her clutch bag. “Paul’s in the pub across the road. Damien’s headed over, so, when you’re done beautifying…”
Amy rolls her eyes, but when I make a beeline for the door, she follows. We make our way around the bustling crowd and out onto the street. Feeling the night’s chill, I pull my jacket a little tighter as I wait for the passing traffic to die down and allow us to cross over. I can see Damien through the window, sitting at a table with Paul, throwing me a little wave.
After what feels like a lifetime, Amy and I step out into the road, but upon hearing a clang and spotting my phone on the floor, I’m forced to bend to retrieve it. A loud screeching sound steals my focus. A speeding car is heading for Amy. Instinct kicks in, and I dive for her. She stumbles onto the path, but I’m knocked off my feet.
Time moves in slow motion. The look of shock upon the driver’s face. My head hitting the bonnet. My legs soaring in the air. Landing on the cold tarmac with an almighty thud. I scream at the pain engulfing my senses. I can hear the commotion around me, but I can’t respond. It’s like I’m paralysed, unable to speak or move, yet there’s no panic or fear. There’s a calmness I wouldn’t have expected, and a peacefulness that’s a little disturbing.
All I can think is, this is it. This is how I’m going to die. My eyelids are so heavy. I can feel my body going limp, any energy or fight slipping away. The already blurry world starts to fade. I’m in and out of consciousness. My head is spinning. I can hear voices. Damien’s here. He’s holding me, I think. He’s begging me to stay with him, to respond, but every time I try to open my eyes, my lids refuse to cooperate. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
I’m inches away from accepting my fate, except… Something’s off. That’s not right. My eyes are closed but I’m seeing things, random, chaotic images that make no sense. I’m about to put it down to my delirium, but I’m hit with more and more…memories? Am I remembering things?
Holy hell, I am remembering things. No, that’s not possible. What I’m seeing is not possible. I don’t know if I laugh out loud or in my head, but whichever way, I’m laughing. Of course it’s possible. My whole life is the making of an Oscar-winning film, or at the very least, I’m a walking, talking soap opera, and I should know by now anything is possible. I make a mental note should a bright light appear, to not go towards it, just in case.
The confusion is overwhelming, but I force my screwed-up brain to focus on just one memory in a feeble attempt to make sense of the chaos. I’m running through a corridor. College, maybe? Yes, college. I’m carrying books, and I’m obviously running late, but in my haste, I crash into someone. Literally crash, causing the books to scatter across the floor. I’m apologising profusely, scrambling to collect my books, and when I look up at the squatting figure handing me the last paperback, I’m met with the most gorgeous sky-blue eyes I have ever seen, like a cloudless sky on a bright day.
Do you understand now? Well, that’s a twist I never, ever saw coming. In fact, if I wasn’t so close to dying right now, I wouldn’t believe it. I’d blame my fucked-up brain playing tricks on me, but there’s more. A montage of undeniable images, and the emotion… I can feel the happiness and love embodied in each memory, and holy hell, the feelings I feel for that man are indescribable.
I’ll spell it out in case you’re not quite with me. Sixteen-year-old me is staring into the eyes of a seventeen-year-old Damien. The same Damien I supposedly met just a few weeks ago, but if the flashes are to be believed – I’m not ruling out my imagination just yet – I didn’t meet Damien a few weeks ago, I met him a good few years ago. Damien is not a stranger, nor is he a friend or my boyfriend either.
He’s my fiancé.
He’s the love of my life.
What the royal fuck?
Chapter Twenty-One
My head is in the toilet, vomit flowing out of my mouth in searing waves. Oh God, I feel dizzy, but I think I’m half satisfied I’ve got nothing left to expel, so I stand and move to wash my hands. I take a few deep breaths before heading back out into the hospital corridor. Damien is waiting by the door, his back leaning against the wall, and I can tell from the less-than-impressed look upon his face, he still disagrees with my decision.
“Are you sure you’re ready to go home?” he asks.
“Four days was long enough.”
And what an interesting four days it’s been. I woke up in the hospital to discover it wasn’t a bad dream, and I had indeed been hit by a car. I was dazed and overwhelmed thanks to the added bonus of the whole I-already-know-Damien revelation, but despite the confusion, I wasn’t surprised to find Damien sitting by my bed, clinging to my hand for dear life. At that moment, I didn’t care about anything other than feeling happy and grateful he was there. That, and I’d yet to really process everything. I was too busy feeling grateful just to be alive.
I have a now-sealed-in-a-cast broken wrist, bruised ribs, plus a thousand other bruises covering my left side, which was apparently the side that hit the ground, and a nasty bump and gash that required stitches to the head. Oh, and a concussion, I got that too, hence the vomiting that’s refusing to subside. But after four days consisting of a CT scan, X-rays, neurological tests, and constant checks of my blood pressure and temperature, the doctors have signed off on my discharge, albeit with conditions. I’m not to be left alone for at least forty-eight hours, so I’m off to Damien’s home, not mine, and I’m to return to the hospital if I experience one of the many, many possible side effects that come with a head injury and, you know, being hit by a car.
“I’m fine,” I insist, taking Damien’s outstretched hand and letting him lead me towards the hospital exit. “Feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, but other than that…”
Other than that, I’m in a weird limbo. I’ve had four days to process the fact that not only didn’t I dream the car accident, I also didn’t dream the memories that have plagued me ever since, and although there are countless questions still to be answered, I’ve managed to figure out a few details, here and there. And no, I’ve yet to discuss the revelation with Damien; one, because I’ve been in a hospital, a less-than-private place, and two, because I simply haven’t had the energy to hash it out yet. The confusion is too much to handle.
Okay, so I’ll iron out a few details for you to bring you up to speed. Damien and I met in college. That much I know. We literally crashed into one another, but in my haste, due to my desperation to avoid tardiness, I apologised then took off. I can’t lie and say there wasn’t an instant attraction because there was, the butterflies in my stomach were proof of that, and I can feel it even now, as though I’m reliving it somehow, but I was still surprised when Damien tracked me down in the canteen later that day. Happy, but definitely surprised.
From what I can gather, that’s where it all started. A little chit-chat in a canteen and the rest, as they say, is history. I can vaguely remember a couple of trips to the theatre and a far-too-passionate kiss for a public place at the top of Blackpool Tower – turns out I have been to Blackpool – plus a couple of nights cuddled up on the couch watching a scary movie, but my clearest memory is of the day Damien asked me to marry him. We were on a boat, no, a yacht, standing at the front under the moonlight. Damien got down on one knee, and after spouting a highly romantic, well-rehearsed speech, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. My God, I loved that man, and what’s terrifying is I can feel the emotion of that day as if it was only yesterday.
The downside is, there’s a less-than-cheery memory floating around, and it’s the day Damien was deployed overseas. I can see him standing on my doorstep, dressed in his Army uniform as the tears stream down my face. I remember clinging to him for dear life, begging him to come back in one piece. Hell, I begged him to stay, but we both knew going AWOL wasn’t a viable option. I was so scared. I don’t know for sure, but I doubt Damien hid his intention to join the Army, so I probably knew it was coming, but Afghanistan… Nothing could have prepared me for that, and I’m pretty sure a piece of my heart broke as I stood and watched him walk away that day.
There are a few other memorable moments, like my apparent graduation and some Army promotion thing for Damien’s dad and so on, but just to bring back the cheerier side of things, what’s truly amazing is the memory of a simple family dinner. Yes, I said family, as in my family. I think it’s a birthday dinner since I can remember balloons and cheesy party hats, but I have no idea whose, not that it even matters. What matters is that I can see my mum, whom I get my hazel eyes from just by the by – cannot describe the happiness that tiny piece of knowledge has given me – and my dad, plus Pops, Uncle John, Aunt Sharon and even Seth, albeit he’s a shedload older. In fact, the tall, skinny, pinnacle of high fashion dude sitting facing me at the table is almost unrecognisable, but it’s his cheeky boy smile that gives him away.
Damien’s there too, and would you believe it – the icing on the cake – Paul. No, you didn’t hear me wrong. That bastard has known who I am all along too, and like Damien, he’s kept his mouth shut. That “I know you better than you think” comment at Kayleigh’s birthday party is echoing in my ears, and I’m starting to think the whole dragging me on stage to sing stunt or the “learn by ear” challenge were games Paul took far too much enjoyment in playing. If he knows me, then he knows fine well I can sing and learn songs in the blink of an eye. I know, even without any memories, that music has been a massive part of my life since birth.
Although thinking about Paul’s involvement only makes me question Amy’s innocence. Yes, she was away in Australia, and no, she didn’t have any contact with Damien, but surely, she must have seen pictures or something. Or at the very least, heard things from Damien or his dad. Unless he erased my memory to cover his tracks. God only knows at this point.
But anyway, I digress. Back to the party and the wonder that is my family. The smell of homecooked chicken pie is mouth-wateringly good, but what’s even better is the laughter coming from the people I hold dear. The smile on my mum’s face is priceless, and the pride in my dad’s eyes when he looks at me is worth its weight in gold. Even remembering Seth throwing cake at me is a joy to behold, though I doubt it was at the time, and I cannot begin to describe how amazing it feels to have a snippet of my family back. To know that, before the shooting, before Adrian, I was happy is more than I ever could have asked for.
So, by my reckoning, since no matter how hard I’ve prodded and probed my mind the past four days, I can’t seem to remember any form of a break-up, Damien and I were together for close on seven years before the shooting. Although, if Damien and I never actually split up, you could say that we never ceased to be a couple, and if that’s the case, technically, Damien is still my fiancé. How bizarre is that? So bizarre. So very, very bizarre.
