So Down I Fall (Broken Fins, 1)

By Alex Benedict

I'm Grace O’Neal, the sixteen-year-old girl who attempted suicide in the sea. If you’re wondering what happened to me, I didn't die that night. Adam wouldn't let me. At first, I didn't want his help. A strange new islander with no shoes and a retro haircut. Who did he think he was? My hero? But when he pushed me to accept my mom’s drowning, to heal, I realized I needed a friend. I should have known someone so weird and wonderful wasn't a normal teenage guy. I should have known my complicated life was going to get a lot more complicated when I fell in love with him ... and discovered his dark secret.

Editorial Reviews:

"I love Grace ... I love the storyline - it's an imaginative, emotive, contemporary take off of The Little Mermaid ... really absorbing and moving." - Sherie Posesorski, young adult author and literary critic for the Globe & Mail

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Benedict
• Release date: Jan 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301166787

Alex Benedict

ALEX BENEDICT is the young adult author of dark fantasy fiction with a romantic twist. An animal lover, she is the proud parent of a rabbit and two cats. She works in an animal hospital. Don't miss her new series "Broken Fins."In another life, Alex writes historical romance under the pen name ALEXANDRA BENEDICT. To learn more about her work, visit: www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

Book preview

SO DOWN I FALL

Alex Benedict

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SO DOWN I FALL

Copyright © October 2012 Alexandra Benedikt

Cover Design

Copyright © RDH BOOK Cover Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission by the author, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews.

www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

To Ella.

My Inspiration.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

1 Chapter: My Hero

2 Chapter: Somewhere Over the Rainbow

3 Chapter: The Oneironaut

4 Chapter: Something Wicked This Way Comes

5 Chapter: Phantasmagoria

6 Chapter: Revelations

7 Chapter: Land of Darkness and Whirlwinds

8 Chapter: Xanthippe

9 Chapter: Blue Beginnings

Author’s Note

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

My Hero

I thought about killing myself the old-fashioned way: overdosing on a handful of pills, driving my grandfather’s truck into a tree. But I didn’t want to be buried beside my mom’s empty coffin. I wanted to be with her. In the deep.

God, I missed her. More so now than a year ago when she drowned. I especially missed the noise in the house: the kitchen pots crashing to the floor after she opened a cabinet; her muttered curses as she picked up the dishes and crammed them back into the tight space. She was an awesome cook, but she always made a huge mess in the kitchen. How about frozen dinner tonight? she’d then suggest—and suggest every night after that.

Yah, I missed her. Granddad was my guardian now—my only family—but he had to look after me. At sixteen, I was too young to be emancipated. His deadbeat son wasn’t going to take care of me, that was for sure. I didn’t have a close bond with my grandfather, though. He didn’t like having a moody teenager in the house. He didn’t like having anybody in the house. He was a loner. Still, I left him a goodbye letter. He might be sad at first, but after a while, he’d get back to his normal, solitary life. And after a miserable year apart, I would finally be reunited with my mom; that’s all I’ve wanted since her death.

I yanked off my t-shirt, then removed the box cutter from my pocket before wiggling out of my denim shorts. I’d researched suicide on-line. One website even walked me through the steps to cutting my wrist properly, so I was fully prepared—and euphoric. At last I was going to push the elephant off my chest. No more struggling to get out of bed in the morning, no more headaches concentrating in class, no more difficulty breathing … no more being alone.

Foamy waves rolled over my bare feet as I waded deeper into the icy surf. I lifted the blade to my left wrist, took a deep breath, and sliced the skin. Shit, it hurt! A lot more than I thought it would. And it was only the first cut. I had to dig through the muscle and tissue before reaching the artery.

You can do it, Grace.

Ugh!

The steel wasn’t slicing smoothly. The muscle was tough. I hacked at the wound, bawling, until blood squirted in my face. My hand cramped, then convulsed. The website hadn’t mentioned this kind of hell!

In instinct, I grabbed my butchered wrist and clinched it hard, trying to stop the burring pain and gushing blood, but the fiery red liquid seeped between my sticky fingers and into the sea, darkening the suds at my feet.

Oh, God! Oh, God!

Shivering uncontrollably, I dropped to my knees and clenched my eyes, panting for breath. As if someone had hit a universal light switch, the world went black. I keeled over, but only for a second, and sputtered saltwater as I soon regained consciousness.

I don’t want to die in pain.

I wanted a peaceful death underwater. A dreamy drop into the abyss. Not a vivid nightmare. And I couldn’t even wakeup from the terror. All I could do was roll in the surf, groaning and crying and pleading with God to take me—now.

I should have swallowed pills. I should have swallowed pills. Another howl, laced with tears, ripped through the night.

Die. Just die!

But even now, at the end, I wouldn’t get a quick, quiet death. Like every other tragedy in my life, the suffering would go on and on.

To hell with life!

Using my right forearm, I dragged myself further into the ocean. Saltwater scorched my wrist before agony exploded through the rest of my body. I cried with each stroke until I reached the deep. The torture wouldn’t last much longer. Soon I’d be at the bottom of the sea—with her.

My limbs weakened, starved for blood. Exhausted after treading water, I stopped kicking. The lighthouse beacon faded as I slipped beneath the churning suds. I was surrounded by blackness, still holding my breath, but as I sank, the pressure on my chest forced me to open my mouth and inhale a rush of stinging brine. Choking, I tried to spit it out, but I couldn’t. Another yawning breath. Another mouthful of water. My lungs burned. My heart pounded. I was still alive. Why? It wasn’t supposed to take so long to drown. A minute maybe. I was supposed to grow feeble. Fall asleep. Die. What was wrong?!

A faint light penetrated the darkness—and a ghostly face appeared in the distant gloom. I thrashed my arms to get away from the phantom, but too frail to make much headway, I only stirred the water until spume obscured my view. What the hell was that? A spirit? I wanted to be with my mom, not some other lost soul at sea.

A high-pitched wail then split my eardrums. I screamed, taking in more water. In the confusion, the current roiled and something slick brushed my legs. A force pushed me upwards. I broke through the fizzing bubbles, gasping for air. A strong arm circled my waist, squeezing my belly, and I retched salty fluid over and over again until I dry heaved.

Almost skimming the surface, the person pulled me through the water. I was back on the beach in seconds, right at the shoreline. I hadn’t the strength to sit up or even move. I recognized a guy. He had wide shoulders. He hovered above me, my hero, the light from the full moon so bright, it made his hair glow like a halo, but his face was covered in shadow. I wanted to rail at him. Did he think he was saving me from death? Wasn’t it obvious I wanted to die?

He stroked my cheek, his fingers cold. My angel of death? But then he ripped a piece of fabric and looped it around my wound.

No, don’t, I moaned.

He bandaged my wrist without a word.

Please stop!

Still he ignored me. He bound the laceration so tight, I blacked out …

Are you all right, Grace?

I opened my eyes. How much time had passed? Something warm fell on top of me. A jacket? I heard a plea for an ambulance. The guy had his cell phone out. His voice was familiar. One of my classmates? I was quivering so much, I couldn’t tell what was going on around me. There was one thing I was sure of, though: I wasn’t going to die tonight.

The wretched elephant sat on top of my chest again. As the guy wrapped his arms around my shoulders, holding me snug, I buried my face in his shirt—it reeked of bait—and sobbed.

~ * ~

A pale face floated in the black water. Who are you? It circled me, gliding with ease. I twisted in the water, looking for it. Tell me! It opened its mouth—and cried.

Beep … Beep … Beep …

As I lifted an eyelid, and white light skewered into my eyeball, the hazy reflection from my dream vanished. Moments later, I felt something cool and moist under my nose: oxygen. I grabbed the uncomfortable plastic tube pinched between my nostrils and pulled it away from my face, grimacing at the twinge in my arm. I noticed the bandage coiled around my left wrist, the tendons cramped, and my hand trembled so hard, I couldn’t control the movements.

Squinting, I made out the objects in the room: a heart monitor, an intravenous device. I was in a hospital … alive … and still in agony.

A familiar silhouette shifted beside the window. Granddad? I peered at the figure. The beeping noise from the heart monitor spiked. Not Granddad. I recognized the military haircut, the stiff posture of an army soldier. It was Staff Sergeant John O’Neal—my father.

Tall, built like a fighter, he had his hands folded behind his back, his legs braced apart. He was wearing his desert fatigues, but his most prominent feature was the tattoo on his upper left arm: a list of soldiers names. A list so long, it disappeared up his shirt sleeve. And in that moment, I remembered him as the cold, commanding parent who still preferred his military family to his blood relatives.

What was he doing here? I hadn’t seen him in three years. He hadn’t even attended my mother’s funeral. He wants to be a warrior, she had always said, not a father. So why had he come home?

A young doctor entered the room.

Sergeant O’Neal?

He turned away from the window. I pressed my wrist to my side. At the shooting pain in my arm, I wanted to scream out for morphine, but I bit my tongue instead.

Yes, he said curtly.

I’m Doctor Hamilton. She smiled and stretched out her hand. It’s good to meet you.

Without a word, he returned the handshake.

She looked at the duffle bag on the ground. You’ve had a long journey.

He nodded.

From Kandahar?

That’s right, Ma’m.

Well, welcome home. I’m just sorry it isn’t under better circumstances.

He placed his hands behind his back again and stiffened. How is she?

Grace attempted suicide three days ago by cutting her wrist, severing muscle and tissue. There is nerve damage.

Will she be all right?

She’ll recover, yes, but she’ll need physiotherapy to restore movement in her left hand. Then, in a more gentle voice: It’s also best if she meets with a psychiatrist on a weekly basis.

A psychiatrist?

To help her work through her troubled feelings.

He frowned. Isn’t there medication for that?

I can prescribe anti-anxiety pills. After the consultation with the psychiatrist, we can better determine if Grace needs stronger medication.

He nodded.

I’ll have one of the nurse’s make the appointment. She offered her hand again. If you need any more information, you can contact me here at the hospital.

Thank you, Ma’m.

Closing my eyes, I prayed my father would go back to looking out the window. He didn’t. I sensed his presence at the foot of the bed, and since the pulses from the heart monitor quickened as my heartbeat increased, it was pretty pointless, pretending to be asleep.

Hello Grace.

There was a rare softness in his voice. I sighed, opening my eyes.

It hurts, I blurted out.

He glanced at my bandaged wrist, then strode out of the room, calling for a nurse. He returned with a matronly woman carrying a syringe.

Good morning. She smiled. It’s so good to see those pretty green eyes of yours. She stuck the needle into my IV. Feeling better?

Yes, I breathed, eyelashes fluttering. The morphine took effect almost instantly.

She patted my shoulder, then left the room.

Alone with my father, I demanded, What are you doing here?

Was he glowering at me? It was hard to be sure, his features blurring as I became lightheaded.

I received word about the accident.

Accident? Yah, I’m such a klutz. I always go swimming in the ocean with a blade in my pocket.

So what, you just abandoned your post to be at my side?

I was scheduled for leave.

I snorted. I guess it’s a good thing I had my ‘accident’ now. I’d hate to inconvenience you.

He scraped his fingernails across his smooth-shaven scalp. I’ll get your grandfather.

He left the room in brisk strides.

It was just like him to toss me aside when things got tough. First, he dumped me after he divorced my mom. Then, when Mom died, he dumped me with his father. And now, he was dumping me again. He’d rather dodge gunfire on the other side of the world than spend five minutes alone with me. He hated me.

And I hated him.

~ * ~

A thick fog rolled across the beam bridge connecting the mainland to the island. There was always fog on the island. Fog. Salt. And fish. As the only vegetarian in town, it wasn’t easy convincing the seafaring islanders shellfish was a meat; that I refused to eat anything with a nervous system; that I especially hated the way lobster was prepared, the creature dropped alive in boiling water. It was cruel. And I was weird for thinking it.

At least, that was the consensus among the 650 inhabitants of Triton’s Cove: a fishing community on a tiny island off the coast of Maine. How had Kitt raised such a girl? was repeated so often there was talk of putting the phrase on the town seal, but my mom had been proud of me. She’d named her boat after me: Catherine’s Girl.

I smiled. It hadn’t been easy for her, the captain of a lobster rig with a vegetarian for a daughter, but Catherine Kitt O’Neal had been a strong and independent woman, and she’d wanted me to be one too.

Will I ever stop missing you, Mom?

The drive home from the hospital was quiet. Well, no one talked inside the 1984 Dodge Ram pickup, but the truck’s engine roared like a cantankerous fisherman. The radio knob was also broken so the dial was stuck on a classic seventies station. I was squished between my father and grandfather, elbows in my lap, wincing with each bump over the uneven bridge beams. The town was too small to maintain a hospital, so for the past four days, I’d been treated on the mainland. I had to return to the hospital once a week for physiotherapy and psychiatric examinations. Until then, I was supposed to be heavily medicated with pills for pain and anxiety, which suited me fine. It stopped me from thinking about how my life had come apart.

Are you hungry, Grace? from Granddad. It’s almost lunchtime.

I shrugged.

How about your favorite, veggie stew?

Whatever.

He sighed. Stew it is.

Joseph O’Neal, a big, bearded, widowed mechanic, along with an attic loft in his 1891 clapboard house, were the boundaries of my new world—but that might change now that my father was back in town. I wasn’t worried, though. If Granddad didn’t want me around anymore, I’d run away, but I was not going to live with John.

I glimpsed sidelong at my father, his features staid. He’d offered financial support after the divorce. The army had taken the money directly from his earnings and had sent it to my mom. He’d hardly ever called, though, never mind visited. I must have sprouted into a two-headed sea monster when I turned thirteen, or he really preferred being a warrior to a father, but when he divorced my mom, he divorced me. I didn’t know him anymore. I didn’t want to know him.

The truck thundered past a familiar one-and-a-half storey house on Bleak Heights, and I noticed