The Life Left Behind

By E. Copeman

When confronted by his release from the mental ward, Marcus has to face the reality that he has changed and that the life he left behind isnt the one he is going back to. Before he can leave, though, he meets Victoria. She is everything hes never going to be or have, and she doesnt belong there, not like he does. Despite the fact that Marcuss release paper is signed, he is broken beyond repair.

Joe is angry and hurt, and no one gets it, except maybe for Marcus. But Marcus isnt quite like him; Marcus is on the way out. Marcus is okay. Then unexpectedly, Marcus wants to hang out with Joe. Perhaps Joe too can overcome his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514443255

E. Copeman

After growing up in a Pilbara mining town, Copeman moved to the city to complete a bachelor’s degree before taking up a position teaching high school students how to think bigger than themselves and to write essays. Copeman enjoys reading, taking on DIY projects, and spending time with her own crazy family.

Book preview

Prologue: The Darkness Is Calling, and It’s Wearing a Short Skirt

I scanned the room the moment I walked in. My eyes settled on a girl who was standing near one of the tables. It took me all of three seconds to single her out among the masses. There wasn’t anything particularly stunning about her, but I wasn’t going for stunning. She wasn’t the life of the party; she was simply there. Everything about her called to me, pulling me to her like iron to a magnet. I left my pack of guys without so much as a backward glance. They wouldn’t care; they knew me. I swung by the makeshift bar, making her drink twice as strong as mine.

Fifteen minutes later, she and I were sitting on one of the outside couches in the shadows. She was like me, I could tell. But then again, she wasn’t. She had what I wanted.

With each passing minute, I could see it better. I wanted it more and more. I wanted her to push the darkness away as she moaned and cried out. I wanted her giggles to be the bursts of light that shattered the endless vortex of everything. I wanted to lose myself in her and have that moment of sheer delight. I didn’t care if it lasted only a few minutes. There were so many girls out there and so many moments that I could take from them.

The more she talked, the more I started to feel bad for her—but not bad enough to stop myself. She was sad and lonely, seeking the same things I was seeking: those light moments that separate us from the truth of ourselves, moments that separate us from the lies upon lies of what life is, and that replace these things with the pure animalistic responses that take over any rational thought or feeling.

She was talking about her ambitions, about getting a degree in fine arts, and I didn’t care anymore. I never cared; I just wanted to have her. I wanted her flesh beneath mine; I wanted to dig my nails and teeth into her and hear her scream in pain or pleasure—I didn’t care which. I wanted to destroy her and lose myself. But I had to be patient. I had to do it right. I could screw it all up if I was not careful.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

Silly question, stupid girl, I thought. I wanted nothing but a way to escape, to stop being everything I am—everything that is foul and wretched, everything that she was too. I wanted freedom, the simplest thing, yet seemingly impossible to obtain. She was so stupid, but she was there, and I could feel the heat radiating off her, calling to me, begging me. The darkness taunted me, daring me to fight back against it—and I decided that I would fight. I knew I shouldn’t; I knew it was wrong, but I decided to do it anyway. So I answered her stupid question, knowing that, like always, I would get what I wanted. One way or another, I always got what I wanted.

So I answered the stupid girl, the disgusting low life, and I did it with a smile on my face because elation and freedom were within my grasp.

‘You.’

* * *

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

I rolled my eyes, turning to face her.

‘Really, you’re going to ask something as stupid as that?’ The harshness in my voice caused me to inwardly grimace despite my stony, cold expression. She was no more than a worthless girl with no self-respect. She was so much like me that it disgusted me. She was vile and revolting, and I hated her. I couldn’t even look at her. To me she was nothing but a tool—something to use to push away the darkness for a moment.

She pulled the sheet up over her body, suddenly embarrassed. And she should have been. What half-decent human hooks up with some randomguy she only just met a few hours ago?

I felt the darkness gripping me, and I knew that there was no hope; there is never hope. I kicked her skirt from the floor, sending it in her direction. ‘You deserve what you accept, whore,’ I said simply as I walked out the door. I didn’t even look back. I couldn’t look back; I couldn’t see her for what she was, for what I was. I couldn’t stand seeing myself reflected back at me. I doubted anyone could.

* * *

‘Yo, boys!’ I called, knowing my crew would respond. ‘Time to move on.’

And it was time to move on because there were still a few hours left in the night and more girls to bed. The endless darkness was calling, and I felt the need to answer because I knew the second I stopped answering, I’d lose myself completely and for real.

Day One: It Sucks

She didn’t look like one of us, but then again, we all look different. There’s no stereotype for what we are—generalisations, sure, but no stereotype.

I was surprised by her appearance in the once-vacant room across the hall. She was sitting barefoot on the bed, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees protectively. Like most new arrivals, she seemed unsure of everything. Everything about her screamed insecure. In another life, she would have been an easy target. Her duffel bag was half unpacked—again, the norm. We don’t unpack; we don’t plan on staying in this white-walled prison.

She glanced up, and I realised I had been staring at her. Nodding to acknowledge her and to hide my embarrassment, I continued to watch as she tipped the corner of her mouth and moved two fingers in return. I almost wanted to smirk at how easy she would be, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was my good news, or perhaps it was the jerk in me, but it bugged me that someone as hot as her could be like us. Of course, in the last fifteen weeks, I’d met a lot of people like me who I thought had no right to be here, yet here we all were. After listening to a few people share their stories, I had quickly stopped assuming that everybody’s life was pleasant and happy, regardless of how they looked.

Most of their lives were more screwed up than mine, which made me feel like a dick for being so weak because that was what I was: weak, stupid, selfish. I hated myself for that.

But there she was, and I wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t hate herself, that there was no logic behind her thoughts. But I couldn’t because she wouldn’t listen. No matter how many times people say such a thing to us, we don’t believe it. We only believe it when—if—it comes from ourselves. And that only happens when a person hits rock bottom. Still, my mind flicked to all the things she should be doing rather than being here: shopping, laughing, and flirting with guys. She should be staying out late with her girlfriends, hanging out at the beach, living life outside these walls. But here she was, locked up. We didn’t have many girls on the ward. Someone once told me this was because men were more prone to depression—something about suppressing emotions and crap. I’d never bothered to check if that was right. And even if it was, it didn’t matter, ’cause at the end of the day, knowing a number doesn’t change the fact that you are one of those numbers.

‘Just heard the great news.’ Karl broke my train of thought.

‘About time too,’ I replied.

Karl smiled.

I hated Karl at first, but after a day or two of his putting up with my insults and Nurse Kylie jokes, I’d realised that maybe he wasn’t as bad as I’d first presumed. He accepted my bad moods, insults, and aggression, and he never took any of it personally. When I finally played a game of pool with him, out of boredom and desperation, he beat me. No sympathy win for the crazy kid in room 12. I respected him for that. And while I didn’t hate him, his optimism was grating at times.

‘Well, I’m not going to miss your face around here,’ he said with his ever-present smile.

‘I’m not likely to bloody miss this place at all,’ I said in all seriousness but with just enough pep to make him think I was being funny.

‘So when’s the fam coming?’

I hesitated before replying. Things had been a bit tense since I had been admitted. Mum had come in twice, which was nice, but our family wasn’t really the kind to care. I’m not saying that lightly either. My family was all messed up. Dad had been on the junk since he was twelve; I hadn’t seen him in years. My mum worked herself to the bone to bring up my two siblings and me. My brother had been in and out of prison for a few years now and was currently serving six for armed assault. My sister, Elsie, was all right; at twenty-five, she had two kids with some bloke who looked down on us and was all too happy to whisk her away to the other side of the country. She’d rung, but her life was over there and didn’t really involve us any more.

I think I was the breaking point for my mum. She took it personally. Seeing me was more than she could face.

‘Not sure, aye.’ I shrugged. ‘I’ll have to make some calls. Besides, the paperwork will take a few days.’

This seemed to satisfy Karl. ‘Well, I won’t keep you from your celebration.’ He nodded. Yeah, right—as if there was any possible way to celebrate in here.

I took another glance at the girl in the room; she hadn’t moved. Just as I turned to enter my room, she sighed hard enough to cause her whole body to shudder.

Day one was always the hardest.

I was surprised to find her wandering around the common space an hour or so later, her finger tracing the length of the fish tank as she talked to one of the other inmates. Generally, the newbies avoided the common areas—too many people. By people, I mean nurses and social workers who want to draw you out of your fortress of sullen silence and attitude. I wanted to talk to her—no, not talk, flirt. I wanted to flirt. I wanted to touch her and make her laugh. Bullshit place. Sighing, I walked to the counter, grabbed my tray of hospital-regulation flavourless food, took my regular spot, and watched everyone follow their routines, which were as boring as bat shit. I turned back to her. She was new, she was interesting, and she was the first legit target I’d seen in fifteen weeks.

Whilst the social workers and nurses try to provide us with entertainment (more often than not, compulsory participation in activities such as yoga or step classes), confinement makes for severe boredom. So not long after I arrived, I did what many bored people do: I invented a game. I would observe people and decide what they had. On really boring days, I predicted how long they would be here. Would they return? Would they top themselves? This may seem morbid to a normal person, but when death stops scaring you, you gain an interesting sense of humour.

The boy beside her, for example, was an easy guess: fidgety, on edge. I was going with severe anxiety. His ‘method’ was, without a doubt, substance-related. He would be here for at least a month. They would detox him before they could attempt to help him. When he got out, he wouldn’t return. They’d hook him up with AA or something like that. Annoyingly, he was a newbie, too twitchy to be anything else. I could feel my teeth grinding. He wasn’t the kind of person she should be getting close to. Addicts of any kind were scum. I would know. I turned my attention from him to her.

She was skinny but not anorexic. There were no scars, old or new, so she wasn’t a cutter or self-harmer, unless she had scars somewhere I couldn’t see. I toyed with the idea of finding out if she had scars in hidden places as I continued to pull her apart, my eyes running the length of her body as my fingers itched to do the same.

She didn’t seem on edge or crazy. Bipolar disorder was an option, so was schizophrenia, but something about those didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t want her to be that kind of crazy. I didn’t want her to be any kind of crazy. It annoyed me that I couldn’t figure her out. The longer I sat there watching the two of them, I realised that perhaps I didn’t want to actually figure her out. I was leaving after all. The last thing I wanted was to be haunted by the hot girl in room 11. I pulled my eyes away from her and tried to focus on the world outside the windows, trying to recall my weeks of behavioural therapy.

I was partway into my daydream about getting out and finding a hot girl (who wasn’t her) and getting some action when the real action happened. The nurse said something to the boy, and he lost it. He lashed out, flipping the closest table. I was both impressed and disgusted by his form. He was impressively toned. Immediately I hated him for it. Of course she’d be drawn to him. I wondered for a moment if she was like me in that way, in her choice of vices. The thought lasted only a moment as the chairs followed the table. Other patients started freaking out. I realised that we were heading for a lockdown.

I don’t remember getting up, but I found myself standing behind her. She was standing rooted to the spot, her face showing no emotions.

‘Joe,’ she said as though she were talking to any given person on any given day. ‘Joe, calm down.’

The alarm had been rung. Nurses were moving in. This was bullshit. This was why I hated the ward.

‘Step away!’ one of the nurses barked. I wasn’t sure if she was barking at the girl or at me.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ the girl said fiercely, which I thought was admirable since she’d only just met the guy; then again, even crazy people had compassion. Correction: some of us had compassion. Regardless of ferocity, nurses don’t generally listen to others, especially to patients, and even less so to patients in a nuthouse. The nurse moved forward as the boy, Joe, moved back. Anger consumed his face. His muscles were taut, ready to strike. This kind of reaction was not new to the nurses. They were ready for the good old one-two corner. It was a simple manoeuvre. A nurse would approach you, you’d walk back, and then bam! Two from behind pinned you down. A jab to the leg and you were down and out. I’d seen it a few times; it always ended with the patient screaming, yelling, and abusing the nurses or the health system—until the drugs kicked in. It’s not a particularly nice thing to experience, or even watch, on your first night.

‘We gotta go,’ I said, making a stupid mistake and grabbing the girl’s arm. For all I knew, she could have hit me—well, tried to. Rather petite, she probably hit like a girl. But she didn’t hit me. She just stood there watching the chaos. I had to give it to this Joe guy; he was going down fighting. Some of those nurses would be bruised tomorrow. I stepped into the girl’s line of sight to tell her again that we had to leave. Her eyes were glistening with potential tears, and her jaw was clenched. Beneath my grip I could feel her muscles coiling, ready to fight. My anxiety began to take over; the last thing I wanted was to get dragged into a fight with either of them. I was almost a free man; an outburst would screw that up. Even though I knew it was stupid to stay there with her, I couldn’t let her go.

‘You can’t do anything. Walk away.’ I pulled a little harder this time. She hesitated before begrudgingly allowing me to pull her away.

‘We have to head back to our rooms,’ I said, leading her down the hall towards our rooms. I was relieved as I felt her muscles relax.

‘I don’t—’ she began.

‘He will be okay.’

‘Marcus, get your hands off her!’ Karl’s voice startled me. I let go of the girl quick as a whippet.

‘I was only trying to help. I didn’t mean anything by it.’ This was true. I knew the rules. I was about to get out. Why would I suddenly break the rules and get into trouble? Rule 8: no intimate relationships were to occur between patients, nurses, doctors, social workers, or any combination of the aforementioned.

As if to prove my point, I stepped back from her.

Karl immediately stepped between the girl and me.

‘My apologies, Miss Carmichael,’ he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

‘Sorry that you had to witness that,’ he continued. ‘Can I get you anything, a cup of tea or coffee, a glass of water?’

‘I—’ she began. Looking at her up close, I was captivated by her face. Her eyes were a greenish blue, with some smudges suggesting that, at some point, she had been wearing eyeliner. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks were coloured from the incident.

‘Cup of tea?’ she answered with a small exhale.

‘Sure thing. Marcus,’ Karl said, turning on me, ‘why are you still here?’

‘I—’ I began, trying to quickly process the shift in