ANGELS AND GHOSTS
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Descent

The headlines screamed it out the next morning;

MIDDLETON’S NIGHT OF CHAOS!

For the full week, every media outlet kept the story alive, new details emerging every day as the story rocked the communities; a Mayoral candidate killed, an underworld figure shot by an off-duty policeman, a young woman raped and beaten by the two now deceased males, and all of this happening at the site of the recently discovered grave.

Rachael spent three days in hospital, and Mia came in every day.

But Rachael didn’t want her there.

And Mia knew it.

Against the doctors wishes, Rachael checked herself out and went home, and that was good … or the days were good, but the nights became terrifying. Nights were no longer that which follow day, nights were now her enemy. She could kill anybody she wanted to, although she couldn’t kill her nights; and they came for her, one after the other, and devastatingly, it seemed like each subsequent night was becoming even more terrifying, each night swelling with greater intensity as they drove her towards breaking point. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Mia rang, and Rachael said that she needed space; and a few days later, Mia texted, and Rachael replied, Struggling; need space.

Struggling she was, because she couldn’t do anything, and her horrific nights fucked up her days. She was always tired, always cranky, aggressive, hostile; always in need of … always in need of what she didn’t have, and she didn’t know what that was; and even if she did have it, she fretted that it wouldn’t be able to help her anyway, because her mind was dismantling.

Marco was good though, for he cuddled her and comforted her, and he made dinner for her every night, and sometimes she ate and sometimes she didn’t, because she was more interested in getting plastered, more interested in getting totally fucked-up, because comfort or support couldn’t repair her, comfort and support couldn’t stop the nights from being nights.

*

Days flitted by, meaningless days, although all the days eventually turned into nights.

When she wasn’t fucked-up, she was emotional, and she cried when it was raining, and she cried when it was sunny, and she cried when it was Monday, and she cried when it was Tuesday … or Wednesday, or Thursday …

Marco had subtly urged her one time, ‘Rach, Gorgeous, I’ll come with you.’

She had sniffled and asked, ‘Come with me where?’

‘I’ll come with you when you see a counsellor,’ he had advised. ‘You can’t go on like this.’

And she cried in his arms.

*

Marco got in the habit of leaving his door open, for she came in most nights, curling into his bed, then directing his hand around her waist; and he wanted to comfort her, although he wasn’t sure who she was anymore.

And Mia texted, and Rachael deleted the message.

*

One night Marco made Chilli Con Carne, and Rachael enjoyed it, then a few hours later, she got totally fucked up, stripped off, then lay on his bed.

Marco couldn’t even remember how many cans she’d scoffed back, or how many joints she’d sucked back, or how many lines she’d snorted, and he was so distraught as he sighed, “Rach, what are you doing?”

Snivelling, coughing, trembling, she whispered, “Blow me.”

The sacred flesh on offer, although the important friendship in danger of imploding, and Marco blubbered, “Rach, you’re destroying yourself.”

A whimper, “Please, blow me.”

“Rach …”

A solid statement, “Blow me!”

“Rachael …”

A threat, “Blow me or else!”

Marco hung his head until the tortured, despairing plea floated over.

“Blow me, please …”

Torn, twisted and corrupted, he did try, but alas, she no blow.

And she cried.

For the entire night.

*

All Mia could think of was a four-letter word. The word had four letters, and it was a sledgehammer of a word; stark, offensive and destructive.

Mia opened her personal diary and stared at the day; July the seventeenth 2015.

In two days time, it would be the first anniversary of the worst day of her life, although Mia knew that she now had a new, Worst day of my life, and it would be three hundred and sixty-five days before she was confronted with it again.

It was obvious now, because the four-letter word rang in her mind, and it chimed and tolled and brought clarity into the situation. There was only going to be one entry recorded under this date, for the entry that had assumed the title of the Worst Day Of My Life, didn’t need any gloating companions. The first real love of her life, the only true love of her life hadn’t responded to any of her messages in over three weeks; and they had been non-invasive, innocent messages; Hi, how are you? … Hi, let me know if I can help you … Hi, I know you need space, just know that I am always here for you.

Mia wrote the four-letter word in the diary, and with tears welling in her eyes, she stared at the word.

O-V-E-R

She was tempted to put a question mark after the word, although it was becoming obvious that a question mark would be superfluous. No contact at all in over three weeks, and the four-letter word seemed to sum up their relationship.

Her Bold, Exciting friend had been raped, savaged and brutalized … because of her.

Mia didn’t ask to be hit by a car and then have the spirit of long dead girl visit her; but it happened, and even though Jenny Rose’s spirit was free, the emotional cost to Mia was yet to be determined.

In the company of the Bold, Exciting Person, Mia had soared to heights that maybe even the pre-accident Mia wouldn’t have been able to reach; but now, with the four-letter word recorded in her personal diary, the descent, the fall, promised to be catastrophic.

Mia felt a tinge of guilt.

By losing Rachael Terina, she had lost the one great love of her life, but people can move on … can’t they? People can move on and accept the next best option, but what of her, what of the one great love of her life? Could Rachael ever move on; … raped, savaged and brutalized …

Do they get a second chance, those who have been so harshly dealt with; do they ever recover, can they ever recover?

Mia looked to the future, flipping over to the next page, and she wrote;

I love her, I love her so much, so if not seeing her means that she will recover, I will choose to not see her, because I want her to get better, or repair.

Hello July the eighteenth, I will start today and I will let her be, because some of the things that are wrong with her were indirectly caused by me.

Hello Rachael, I am now making this a DEAR DIARY notation, and I apologise for all the torment and grief I have caused you, and if I could help you in any way, I would, without hesitation.

Before the bad things happened, you were trying to gently push me away anyway, so now, knowing that you need space, knowing that you need a chance to repair, I am letting you go.

I will lose terribly by not seeing you, but your well-being is my only concern.

Be that as it may, I couldn’t let this period of my life pass without telling you how I feel about you, and in respect for your feelings, I have chosen not to record the word that seems to frighten you.

Rachael Terina, I ---- you, I ---- you so much.

I will never forget you, ever.

On this night every year, I will do the Can-Can naked, and I’m sure I’ll cry every anniversary, but I’ll also remember the very best times of my life.

I’m sorry, but I’m going to keep your number in my phone, just in case. I hope, I pray that you will contact me, and maybe one day, after you’ve recovered, we can become friends, because you mean so much to me.

If we are destined to never meet again, I wish you well, and I hope that your journey through life will give you as many pleasures as you have given me.

Sorry, last time; I ---- you.

So much.

*

Weeks flew by, and Mia despairingly accepted that her greatest fear had been realised.

It was O-V-E-R.

Mia knew that she had to try and move forward and create some kind of a life for herself, and with that in mind, she volunteered for a position at the Community Op-Shop. She worked two six-hour shifts a week, and she loved being involved, loved meeting new people and she enjoyed being a participant in life again, and it also gave her plenty of time to concentrate on her new goal.

She had registered for the New York Marathon through the Brain Injury Association of New York State, and her application had been accepted, so one of her life-time ambitions was going to be realised. She was churning out thirty miles every-day on the exercise bike, and on the fifteenth of September, she drove down to the truck parking bay on Cribb Highway.

Mia stepped out of the car, drew in a large breath, then closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure that she was ready for this, although she knew that the longer she left it, the harder it would become.

Her life had changed forever on this Highway, and she wanted to change it again.

“Mia Coombes,” she whispered to herself, “Take charge of your life, don’t be afraid of anything; no fear, have no fear.”

Mia stared up the Highway, steeling herself.

So many memories, so much to confront, yet so much to conquer.

Mia patted her short’s; the pills in her left pocket, just in case; and her cell in her right pocket, just in case Rach … she … her … well, just in case. Rachael hadn’t contacted her in over two and a half months now, so the likelihood of her ringing on this significant day was pretty remote.

Mia took a moment to compose herself, then she said, “Rach, you wanted me to run in the marathon, and to honour you and everything you did for me, I will do it, I will.”

With her arms by her side, Mia held her head high and whispered, “Hello world, you’re just about to meet the new Mia Coombes.”

The first month was torturous, and she didn’t do the whole run without walking at some point, but by the second month, non-stop, and slow though it was, it was a break-through.

Every run, she detoured into the forest, knelt by the grave and said a prayer for Jenny Rose, then she would come hurtling down Cribb Highway, feeling so alive, so invigorated … so new.

And every night she picked up her cell and looked at Rachael’s number, skimming her fingers lightly over the number as the tears dribbled down her cheeks.

*

Sometimes Rachael went back to her unit and lay on her bed, listening to Melanie.

She had all the Melanie CD’s now. Sweet, gentle folk tunes, sometimes funny, sometimes boppy, although the occasional song wasn’t sweet or gentle, because it smacked you right between the eyes. Songs like, Lay Down (Candles In The Rain). Accompanied by an orchestra and backing singers, the song was majestic and powerful, and with lyrics like; Some came to sing, some came to pray, Some came to keep the dark away … the song could coax you to cautiously take a peek behind you.

Rachael knew that if she was a candle, she had been rained on, or blown out, on numerous occasions.

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