Fragments (Running On Empty Book 1) Read online

  Copyright.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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

  All products mentioned in this book belong to their rightful owners.

  I do not claim any of these products to be my own.

  'Any song’s’ lyrics used are not affiliated with the author.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Fragments

  Running on Empty series, book one

  ©M R FIELD

  Synopsis

  Trice

  Under the lights, amongst the jazz shoes, blistered feet, and caked faces of the dance troupe, you pretend you’re someone else. The melody begins and your body responds. You allow it to weave into your skin until it’s made itself home in your soul. It is that dance that drives you. It is that dance that will continue to save you. It is that dance that will release you.

  Until him.

  Until your heart can no longer shut him out even after he’s pushed you away.

  You can’t let him in again, can you? There’s only so much of your heart left to give.

  Alex

  She is the reason I can’t stay. The reason that the covered bruises, the lies, and the hurt are too much. I am no good for her. But when I see her again, I can’t stay away. Like Dante said, "The path to paradise begins in hell."

  Note For The Reader

  This book is set in Australia and has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.

  Please remember, that the words are not misspelled, they are slang terms and form part of the everyday, Australian lifestyle. Some euphemisms or slang terms have been provided below for your information. This book has been written using UK English.

  If you would like further explanation, or to discuss the translation or meaning of a particular word, please do not hesitate to contact the author – contact details have been provided, for your convenience, at the end of this book.

  Arse-Ass

  Reckon-To believe/think

  Ya-You

  Bagging- To tease

  Slapper- similar to skank

  Billabong- An isolated pond, that is attached to a river.

  Bloody – Commonly used expletive to describe something, mild swear word

  Shagging – To have sex

  Doona- A quilted eiderdown or duvet

  Cock-and-bull story – A hard to believe story, made up story or a lie

  Daft – An expression or state of mind that is ditzy, blank or just plain empty

  Git – Silly, incompetent, stupid, silly

  Lounge room – Living room

  Couch – Sofa

  Mate – Buddy or friend

  Mobile phone – Cell phone

  Paramedic – EMT

  Shitful – A word that is used to describe something that is not good

  Mole- To term to use for a unruly girl/woman

  Skank – A promiscuous young woman, similar to a slut

  Pashing – To kiss passionately

  Piss off- Go away

  Taxi – Cab

  Twat – Fanny, Vagina

  Knob-Penis

  Pants-Trousers

  Undies-Underwear (briefs)

  Feral- To appear or behave in an unkempt manner.

  Esky/Eskies- a portable insulated container for keeping food or drink cool.

  Wog- A derogatory term used for a foreigner or immigrant, especially one from southern Europe.

  There are also Italian terms used:

  Amore- A term of endearment. Love.

  Finalmente-Finally

  Brodo- Chicken broth

  Basta-Enough!

  Uscite!- Get out!

  Da Sola- By oneself

  Adesso-Now

  Sei proprio brava- you are really good

  Sei innamorata?- Are you in love?

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  To my husband and two little munchkins.

  “I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.” E.E Cummings.

  In Memoriam- David Glasson. Almost ten years have passed and I miss you every day.

  Prologue

  “Half way along the road we have to go,

  I found myself obscured in a great forest,

  Bewildered, and I knew I had lost the way.”

  The Divine Comedy, Inferno I; lines 1-3.

  Dante Alighieri

  Trice

  Dante once loved a woman so deeply that although they could never be together, he immortalised her in his writing. His love for her pushed him to venture through the layers of hell and purgatory to finally reach paradise so they could be united. Sounded romantic, didn’t it? But his love for her was only in his mind. She never physically touched him. No kisses, longing looks, no spoken words of affection. Just his written words, where he expressed all that he could never tell her.

  I had grown up with the story my whole life. My mother used this passion for Italian literature to name me Beatrice. While she gushed and daydreamed about their tale, all I felt while she harped on was that he was a sad and lonely man who was married to someone else. I couldn’t understand why this story was so crucial to our motherland’s family heritage. To me, it was shit. Loving from afar, never being near the object of your affection, all seemed like a cruel joke. Dante, your writing was beautiful, but buddy, you were not living the high life. The love train ran you out, reversed back, and then flicked you to the other side.

  It wasn’t until I was older that I realised what their story meant; how his love for her was immortalised into a beauty that most of us could only dream of experiencing. It didn’t matter that he never held her, as deep in his heart she was always going to be his. Looking back at my teenage years, love was not so kind. It was an arrow, the sharpened head dipped in a potion of confusion and heartache. Once struck, its archer- Alex, became the one I loved and no other could get close. Although unintentional, Alex punctured my heart, maiming the delicate tissue until all that remained was a fragmented, useless muscle. The beat was no longer steady; it drummed inconsistently against my rib cage in a weak arrhythmic thud. Love had deceived me with the illusion of happiness, only to betray me. Love was a twisted warrior and I was its wounded, blackened queen.

  In hindsight, I was young, emotional, and weak. Prior to this, I had battled against the nefarious playground of high school, where most students were chameleons, unless you were tormented, like me. Ignoring the playground battlefield s
eemed like the only feasible option. What else could a teenage girl do? I ignored it all until that fateful day, when a scar was brutally etched into my skin, causing me to finally break my silence. My newfound strength saw me fighting back, while I was also hurled in the direction to the one person my heart could love. Alex didn’t mean to hurt and use me, but the emotional scars from that night lay heavy across the one that was already marked into my skin.

  In the end, though, I believed we saved each other. We might not have realised growing up that we would love each other eventually, but no matter what separate adventures we had, our paths were destined to bring us back together. No sense in fighting it. It was just the way we were.

  Chapter One

  “Freakshow”

  Silverchair

  Alex

  Autumn, 2004

  My head flew back as the knuckles from my father’s hand crunched into my jawline. I stumbled, momentarily lost as the piercing pain tore through my wounded chin, weakening my stance. The metallic taste of blood filled my gaping mouth, as my fingertips tentatively held the side of my jaw.

  My mother trembled as she crouched down on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees for protection. I barely heard her muffled cries over the throbbing in my skull. Her right eye was almost swollen shut while her head turned away from me, refusing to come to my aid—again. The stench of bourbon punctured the air, as thrown chairs and smashed vases littered the lounge room floor.

  A family portrait lay shattered on the ground, the shards of glass cutting into my bare feet. My sister’s face smiled back at me from the photograph and I thanked her lucky stars that she had missed today’s episode in the hellhole.

  I swayed momentarily, adjusting my balance as my head continued to reverberate from the aftershock of his punch. My ears rung like a piercing whistle that increased as the stinging in my head intensified.

  He raised his right arm high into the air and I sucked in a breath as the familiar horsewhip came into view. I knew it was my turn next.

  Before I could brace myself, movement at the kitchen window caught my attention and my eyes locked onto a pair of bright blue, tear-filled ones. She stood there speechless and my chest seized in fear at the thought of my father seeing her. In a desperate attempt to get her out of there, my eyes hastily widened and flicked to the side, a silent plea for her to leave. As I watched the only girl I could ever love run off in the distance, the shadow of his whip, loomed over me as it came crashing down on top of me. The burning pain tore through my side as I toppled towards the ground, vowing to keep my feelings distant. This world was no place for her.

  Winter, 2005

  The husky rumble of my pop’s Chevy drove into our dirt-laden driveway.

  “Lily!” I called. “Pop’s here, let’s go!” Too impatient to wait, I opened the door and raced out, throwing my duffle bag over my shoulder. Pop idled in the driveway, a broad smile lighting up his face. I waved to him as the front door slammed behind me, and the footsteps of my sister soon followed.

  “Shotgun!” I yelled, racing to the front.

  “Like I even want to be in the front when all you guys talk about is cars,” mumbled Lily, rolling her eyes.

  I opened the passenger door and slid in beside Pop, throwing my bag onto the floor. His left hand clasped my shoulder in greeting, the firm grip squeezing me hard.

  “Hey, Al, ready to help me today?”

  “Shit, yeah!” I fastened my seatbelt as Lily got comfortable in the back.

  “Good.” Pop laughed, turning to Lily, his eyes softening as he stared at her. “You’re looking more like your gran each time I see you, Lil.” She blushed, gazing down at her lap.

  “Thanks, Pop.” She said, biting her lip, her cheeks reddening.

  “Nothing to be ‘shamed about, honey; she was a looker.” He cleared his throat. “So, where are you playing today?”

  “At the fields,” she answered, pulling out her basketball timetable to double-check. “Says I start in half an hour.” She folded the sheet and haphazardly threw it in her bag, while rustling around searching for her lip-gloss. Her lips smacked as she coated them in a strawberry glossy film. Yuck. I reached out to the console and pushed in the cassette tape that was protruding, and the unmistakeable bass-baritone of Johnny Cash’s voice filled the cabin.

  “Righto, let’s go!” Pop kissed the photo of Gran that he kept by his speedometer and reversed out of the driveway. Gran’s smile looked back at him; he never went anywhere without her.

  In my early teens, one of my favourite pastimes was rebuilding Chevys with my pop.

  He’d been part of the Hot Rod Club, and one of his passions was recreating and rebuilding vintage cars. On weekends, I used to stay with my grandparents when I wasn’t hanging out with my

  friends, Robbie and Bea. Pop included me in all his remakes, from dumping his latest piece on its guts to sliding in the new V8 engines.

  Those weekends used to be an escape for me. I never told him about what my father was like at home, but I think he suspected. He’d call me up every Saturday morning to see if I wanted to be picked up or if I was going to be at our neighbour’s house. He was always looking out for me.

  We arrived at his garage after dropping Lily off to basketball. My eyes zoomed in on the trailer that held a body of a car, covered by a dusty sheet in the centre of the room. My hands were itching to touch it. Pop strolled up to it and tore the sheet off. A worn out, dilapidated ’48 Chevy truck lay underneath. There was more rust than car. My heart sank. This was the worst carcass I had ever seen. The doors were bent in, the roof damaged, and the interior was completely gutted. We were looking at a skeleton of a car.

  Each car we remade held a story. Some were for friends of his who had travelled around Australia and wanted to rehash their childhood. Others were just because he loved all things vintage. This one looked like it already had several stories to tell.

  “Alex,” he said, “I’ve got a special project for us. This rust bucket will be our best work yet.” I looked over at the carcass on his trailer. It didn’t look like it could be saved.

  “Really, Pop? This piece of crap looks too old to fix.” He smiled and gestured for me to come closer to inspect it. Already in my teens, I was taller than he was, but those gestures of his made me feel small. Placing his hand on my shoulder and drawing me in closer to speak in my ear, he used his right arm to point out the bonnet.

  “See that, Al? That’s the heart of the truck. We just put in a new V8 and it’ll be like a transplant.” He continued to point to the other surfaces. “Those edges along the frame are only a little bit rusted. We’ll give this car the best makeover it’s ever had. Even celebrities will be jealous of the nips and tucks we’ll do. The best-looking turd you’ve ever seen.” He smiled.

  Now that I was getting older, Pop had been sharing his rebuilding magic with me. Over the next few weeks, we began slowly working on the rust bucket, being mindful of treating it carefully. We sanded off the rust in parts, and smoothed the edges, maintaining the car’s original vintage feel. The other hot rods that were in town were deep reds, green, or blues, but Pop wanted this one to be different.

  During one of our days together, he’d cracked open the tin of paint for the guys to spray paint, I was shocked to see that it was a cream.

  “Why that colour, Pop?”

  “Al,” he answered, “the inside of this car will have all the new-age bullshit that you youngsters need, with your air con and your fancy schmancy stereos to get the ladies. But this,” he pointed to the frame, “will keep its integrity. This is my favourite colour of the ‘40s. Every time I see it, I think of your grandmother and the trips we had in ours.” I’d nodded and pointed to the can.

  “Okay Pop, load up the gun then. Let’s make Nan think of all those smooches you gave her in the back seat.” I’d wiggled my eyebrows. Pop had laughed and clipped me behind the ear.

  “Don’t let your nanna hear you talk about that stuff. Your generation
needs to have a bit more respect for your girlfriends. Sure, I know you guys will eventually want to taste the buffet, but this truck does not need to be soiled with the leftovers. You keep that cabin pure.”

  I’d looked at Pop, confused by what he was saying. “What do you mean? By me?”

  He’d handed the paint over to Jim, our paint guy, and led me outside. “Alex, I’m giving this truck to you. I ain’t going to be around forever. But a part of what we have shared over these few years will be something that you think about when you look at your truck.”

  I’d felt my throat tighten at his words. “Alex, I might be old, but I’m not stupid. I know one day you’ll have your latest trash in here, but remember this.” He pointed to my chest. “In here lies the heart of a decent man, and in there,” he pointed to the cabin, “you will only bring the one you will cherish, you hear? If you are going to experiment when you’re older, then you do it over there!” He’d pointed to the tray at the back. I cleared my throat and focused on the cabin. I didn’t want to have the ‘sex talk’ with Pop. This was too embarrassing. Pop wiped his nose with a handkerchief and stepped closer to me.

  “Alex, I’m not stupid. I know your life at home is hard—” I sucked in a breath and clenched my jaw, looking down at my shoes, “—and I wish that you or your stupid mother would let me in, but if you won’t, or can’t, then I will give you something to help hold these memories close. You can drive two friends around, or better still, one day you’ll have a special lady sitting by your side with whom you will want to create your own memories. Those floozies won’t mean a thing when you’re my age.” My eyes raised to his genuine smile. I felt a warmth that I never got at home. I nodded and picked up a spanner.