1
GLYNDON
Disasters start on black nights.
Starless, soulless, sparkless nights.
The type of nights that serve as ominous backgrounds in folklore tales.
I peer down on the crashing waves that war with the huge pointy rocks that form the cliff.
My feet tremble on the edge as bloody images roll in my mind with the wrecking force of a hurricane. The replay happens in full, disturbing motion. The rev of the engine, the slide of the car, and eventually, the haunting scratch of metal against rocks and the splash in the deadly water.
There’s no car now, no person inside it, no soul to be dispersed into the unapologetic air.
It’s only the slam of the angry waves and the ferocity of the solid rocks.
Still, I don’t dare to blink.
I didn’t blink back then either. I just stared and stared, then shrieked like a haunted mythical creature.
He didn’t hear me, though. The boy whose body and soul are no longer with us.
The boy who struggled both mentally and emotionally but still managed to be there for me.
A sudden chill runs down my back, and I cross my flannel jacket over my white top and denim shorts. But it’s not the coldness that rattles me to the bone.
It’s the night.
The terror of the merciless waves.
The atmosphere is eerily similar to a few weeks ago when Devlin drove me to this cliff on Brighton Island. An island that’s situated an hour by ferry on the south coast of the United Kingdom.
When we first came here, I never imagined everything would spiral to a deathly end.
No stars were present then either, and just like tonight, the moon shone brightly, like the bleeding of pure silver on a blank canvas. The immortal rocks are unassuming witnesses of crimson blood, lost life—and an all-encompassing sense of grief.
They all say it’ll get better with time. My parents, my grandparents, my therapist.
But it’s only been getting worse.
Every night for weeks, I haven’t gotten more than two hours of hazy, nightmare-riddled sleep. Every time I close my eyes, Devlin’s kind face comes crashing in, then he smiles as scarlet red explodes from all of his orifices.
I wake up shaking, crying, and hiding in my pillow so that no one thinks I’ve gone whacko.
Or that I need more therapy.
I was supposed to spend Easter break with my family back in London, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.
It was pure impulse when I snuck out of the house as soon as everyone fell asleep, drove for two hours, took the ferry for another hour, and ended up here past two a.m.
Sometimes, I want to stop hiding from everyone, myself included. Oftentimes, however, it gets too hard and it’s impossible to breathe properly.
I can’t look Mum in the eye and lie. I can’t face Dad and Grandpa and pretend I’m their little girl anymore.
I think the Glyndon King they raised for nineteen years perished with Devlin a few weeks ago. And I can’t face the fact that they’ll learn that soon.
That they’ll look at my face and see an imposter.
A disgrace to the King name.
It’s why I’m here—a last attempt to expel the charge building in my body.
The air frizzles my honey-colored hair that’s streaked with natural blonde balayage and stuffs it in my eyes. I flip it back and rub my palm on the side of my shorts as I stare down.
Down.
Down…
My rubbing heightens in intensity and so does the sound of the wind and the waves in my ear.
The pebbles crush under my tennis shoes as I take a step closer to the edge. The first one is the hardest, but then it’s like I’m floating on air.
My arms open wide and I close my eyes. As if I’m possessed by an alternate power, I don’t recognize that I remain standing in place or how my fingers itch to spray paint on something.
Anything.
I hope Mum won’t see the last painting I did.
I hope she won’t remember me as the least talented of her kids. The disgrace who couldn’t even reach the tip of her genius.
The weirdo whose artistic sense is screwed up in all the wrong ways.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper the words I think Devlin told me before he flew to nowhere.
Light slips past the corner of my closed lids and I startle, thinking that maybe his ghost has risen from the water and is coming after me.
He’ll tell me the words he snarled in every nightmare. “You’re a coward, Glyn. Always were and always will be.”
That thought spurs those images from the nightmares. I spin around so fast, my right foot slips, and I shriek as I tumble back.
Back…
Toward the deadly cliff.
A strong hand wraps around my wrist and tugs with a force that steals the breath from my lungs.
My hair flies behind me in a symphony of chaos, but my vision still zeroes in on the person holding me effortlessly with one hand. He doesn’t pull me from the edge, though, and instead, keeps me at a dangerous angle that could get me killed in a fraction of a second.
My legs shake, slipping against the tiny rocks and sharpening the angle I’m standing at—and the possibility of a fall.
The person’s eyes—a man, judging by his muscular frame—are covered by a camera that’s slung around his neck. Once again, blinding light flashes directly on my face. So that’s the reason behind the startling flash a moment ago. He’s been photographing me.
It’s only then I realize that moisture has gathered in my eyes, my hair is a tragic mess of the wind’s making, and the dark circles beneath my eyes could probably be seen from outer space.
I’m about to tell him to pull me, because my position is literally on the edge and I’m scared that if I try to do it myself, I’ll just fall.
But then something happens.
He slides the camera from his eyes, and my words get caught at the back of my throat.
Since it’s night and only the moon offers any type of light, I shouldn’t be able to see him so clearly. But I can. It’s like I’m seated at the premiere of a film. A thriller.
Or maybe a horror.
People’s eyes usually brighten with emotions, any type. Even grief makes them shine with tears, unsaid words, and irrevocable regrets.
His, however, are as dim as the night and just as dark. And the weirdest part is that they’re still indistinguishable from their surroundings. If I wasn’t staring straight at him, I’d think he was a creature of the wilderness.
A predator.
A monster, maybe.
His face is sharp, angular—the type that demands undivided attention, as if he were created for the purpose of luring people into a carefully-crafted trap.
No, not people.
Prey.
There’s a masculine quality to his physique that can’t be hidden by his black trousers and a short-sleeved T-shirt.
In the middle of this freezing spring night.
His arm muscles bulge from the material with no hint of goosebumps or discomfort, as if he were born with cold blood. The hand he’s currently holding my wrist hostage with—and effectively stopping my fall to death—is taut, but there’s no sign of exertion whatsoever.
Effortless. That’s the word to be used for him.
His whole demeanor drips with utter ease. It’s too cool…too blank, so that he appears a bit bored, even.