Pretty little white boy. Who am I? What have I got to say to them?
I start to size them up, reverting to my old survival techniques. I should know how to handle this. I’ve been here. My old defence mechanisms kick into action and I give myself the talk. I go through my audience one by one, rating my chances.
You could have him. You could have him too. He’s full of shit. He’d never fight.
The inmates stare at me and I stare right back. We’re like dogs now. Guessing at each other’s strength. Bluffing. Hackles up. Who’s going to slink away first? They slouch in their chairs. They talk among themselves. They want me to understand that they don’t care why I’m here.
They don’t give a shit who I am. Nothing I’ve got to say is gonna be relevant to them. Nothing I say is gonna make a difference. I’m just like all the others. Coming in here to make myself feel damn superior. Don’t mean shit to them what some white pretty boy in designer jeans with his hair all nice and styled has to say about what they’re going through.
But I know you. I know you all.
The hissing and the clicking get louder.
Fucking stupid white boy.
They know they can say what they want in here. There’re no guards at this meeting. It’s like any other twelve-step gathering. It’s anonymous. What they say now, they say in confidence. It stops here. Those are the rules. For half of them, that’s the only attraction.
Pretty little white boy . . . don’t know fuck . . .
The open cell door is nearby. I could turn and walk away. Close it. Sink down onto the floor with a blanket tight around my neck and this time see it through. I can feel it. My body remembers. The rising blackness. The pain. The fear. The smile of my girl sparkling through my brain as I struggled for a last breath.
My conscious mind fights to take back control.
You’re different now. You’re not that unloved boy. Dig deep, and find the grit in you.
I think of sunshine, lemon drops, baby smell and Maltesers.
I straighten up. The people in front of me are just kids. They’re in the high-dependency unit of a young offenders institution. They’re all here because they fucked up or got fucked. Some of them are barely conscious. They can’t focus on what’s in front of them. They’re here because they need help. I can give them that. I can tell them what salvation really means.
I look straight at the kid who’s been giving the most lip, then I turn to point at the open door.
‘You see that cell?’ I say. ‘Seven years ago, that’s where I almost succeeded in taking my own life.’
The mouthy kid looks confused. Someone else laughs. I nod at them.
‘Yep. That’s right. I was in here for armed robbery.’
The circle is silent. I’ve got their attention now.
‘I was here,’ I say, ‘and it nearly fucking killed me. So don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like.’
Now they’re listening. The kid who looks like he’d be the most trouble leans forward in his chair.
When he does, I feel the rope unwinding itself from my neck. I take another breath and this time it properly fills my lungs. I’m still here. I’m still alive. The door of the empty cell closes and this time I’m on the outside.
I’m the man I am today because of you, Amy. Because of our little tribe. For better or worse, you help me put the bad to rest. You bring me back from the dark places.
I’m not lost property, anymore. My mother claimed me. I changed the question mark on my skin to a V. My existence is no longer a question.
I wasn’t born bad. Life chipped away at me and moulded me into an angry, scared young man. Amy and me, we apply this same understanding to all the people in our lives, even the people who hurt us. We were all children once, relying on the adults who were supposed to love and care for us. Knowing this, helps us find peace and maybe, one day, forgiveness.
Look at me now, Amy. Young offender turned local hero.
Thinking of Amy — always thinking of Amy — I can finally hold my head up high.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ I begin. ‘There’s a way off the road to Hell. I should know. It happened to me.’
Just gotta find a little sunshine, is all.
‘It just takes a miracle.’
About the Author
Kingsley Ash is a British contemporary romance author who loves writing sadistic book boyfriends because, hey, life is pain, right? She’s on a mission to rip girls' hearts out with alpha-holes, then fix them whole. Maybe.
Kingsley loves Pina Colada. Rain makes her go off. She’s a health freak. And a Brainiac. She lives in London and enjoys playing — winning — golf with her sexy lawyer fiancé.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Give Me Books Promotions. You girls rock! You helped this little fish survive in the big, competitive world of romance novels. Thank you to Lucy Olsen for capturing Shepherd Lawson perfectly in your sexy-as-f**k cover design.
And I would like to say a huge THANK YOU from the bottom of my twisted heart to all my readers for buying and reading Liarholic.
This. Is. Everything to me.
If you loved Liarholic, please kindly leave a review on Amazon, it truly helps us small indie authors make it in the big world. And I will love you forever!
I would LOVE to connect with you!
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