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Truth Be Told

By Lauren Pickens All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Romance


Cara, a young fireball who was nothing. A mysterious man, a no-body who makes Cara somebody. This romance wasn't meat to last, but neither was success. Experience the fight of these blood thirsty characters and just remember: 'A workplace romance gone wrong' has never been more relevant!

Black Out

Sunlight reaching through the walls like tentacles, grabbing me and pulling me. My breath escapes my chapped lips, burning like the dragon's fire. My eyes open, creating slits on my face, only to squint even more. Pain shoots to my head, like a recking ball to my temples. I try to sit up, but I get hit with a wave of dizziness. My body forces me back down to the ground. "Where am I?" I ask, searching through my squinted eyes for any sign of life. "Take it easy," says a sweet, but cunning voice, from my left. I recognise the voice, a voice i've heard so many times before. It's Charlie, my sister. "What happened?" I asked, my throat hurting the more I speak. "Well, we got drunk last night, a fight broke out and, you being you, thought it was a good idea to get involved. You were knocked out!" I could see the smile on her face, even with my eyes fully shut. The only word my dry mouth could stutter was "Fuck!"

"Who was he?" she asked, curiosity laced her voice. "Who was who?" I asked back, having no idea who she was talking about. "The boy you were with before the fight," she responded, her tone becoming more alarmed. "You remember him, right?" she asked, before I had time to answer the previous question. "Erm... not a clue. No memory of him at all!" I said, straining my brain to remember the apparent boy from the night before. "How hard were you hit, Ca?" she asked, half jokingly, half nervous. I could tell she was scared that I had concussion but yet, not that concerned for the laughter in her voice was too apparent, to visible to even the most humourless of people. "Shut up, and help me up!" I agitatedly said, a bit more sharp than i was aiming for. I could see I hurt her, but without another word, she flung her hand out, harshly, to grabbed my forearm and pulled me to my feet. "Lets get you home. Mom will be wondering where you've gotten to!" Charley said. I followed behind her, slowly and mournfully, head bowed as to avoid the stabbing sun rays. As we walked out onto a main street, I twisted half my body backwards only to find out that I had been sleeping in an alley! As if things could get any more humiliating, I looked down and realised I was still wearing that pretty little red laced dress that consisted of little fabric to just above my knees and a sweetheart neckline. It was held in place by a single strap strung over my left shoulder. It didn't look so pretty and petite with vomit down the front and a rip near my right thigh. I noticed I was wearing large stiletto heels that were also a blood red colour. My feet were hurting like I was stepping on needles so I slid the shoes off my sore feet and carried them in one hand, holding onto the thin strap at the back that would cling onto my heel. Charlie suddenly stopped and I bumped into her. "You look like shit, you know that!" she said as she turned to face me. All I could manage was a slight nod of my head that felt like it was made of lead. "Come on!" she huffed as she grabbed my arm and dragged me towards a black BMW and I instantly got a sick feeling from the very pits of my stomach, but it wasn't from the alcohol. Charlie grabbed the handle of one of the back doors on the BMW and ushered me into the back seat. Once I was in, I shuffled over to the other side and Charlie bounced in after me. "Do you know what you're doing to us!? Do you know how much your mother worries about you!?" shouted my father from the front seat. I could hear my mother sobbing gently from the front passenger seat. "We thought you were dead!" she sniffled. Thats what you get when you live in my family, over protective, over exaggerating parents who never seem to let you live a life without rules, a life without restrictions. "You're grounded!" my father shouted. "I'm 18! You can't ground me. I'm an adult!" I was furious. How could he think he can treat me like this. "You're still a child! And don't think about answering me back!" he snarled. This time, I just sat there, quite, fiddling with my nails feeling more belittled than I had ever felt. Child! How could he call me that? Child! I am anything but a child!

It was a long drive home, not because of the distance, but because of the deafening silence that followed my father's last comment. I could feel the sniggers coming from my sister, every now and then, and the downbeat miserable demeanour of my mother. Not to mention the disgust and anger coming from father dear in front of me. After what felt like a lifetime of hatred and sadness, we pulled into a small drive which was nothing more than a small stretch of concrete besides a house, lined with small shrubbery of some distinct but unrecognisable British plant. It ended in a garage with a blue metal door which opened as we neared. At my all-mighty age, I knew it was just my father or mother pushing a button, but when I was little, and a bit more gullible, i was told stories of magic and little elves that opened the door. They could read my thoughts and knew when we were home. I grew out of that stage pretty quickly. As the blue garage door opened slowly, my father tapped his thumb on the black leather of the wheel of the car. I wanted to scream 'STOP IT!' but refrained from doing so. Once the door had stopped, horizontally, 6ft in the air, we drove forward and into the little stone hut with no electricity and little water. The two walls on either side of the car were blocked from sight with mounds of cardboard boxes, all different shapes and sizes. Some contained pieces of 'artwork' from mine and Charlie's younger days. Pasta art and stick figures that looked nothing like the object. Our imagination was bigger than our potential, but that didn't stop us from trying. Some of the cardboard boxes contained some miscellaneous items from when we moved to the house, 7 years ago, and we hadn't needed them or had no place for them, so they stayed in the boxes for a day that would never come. And some of the boxes were empty, just gathering dust as they pilled high to the ceiling. Being used in the move but 'may be needed again'. That's what my father always used to say when my mother asked him why we had kept them. On the front wall was row after row of tools that my father insisted on buying for use on projects that never actually got finished, if even started at all. He, for some unknown reason, liked the tools, although he didn't need them. It was like a hole in the space-time continuum that linked back to the days, before I was born, when he was a carpenter. He gave that up when I was born, said he wanted something more rewarding. So, he quit his carpentry job and became a DT teacher.

We got out of the car as the garage door was shutting behind us, and we entered the house through a tiny wooden door in the left corner. As I walked into the hallway which was lined with white wall paper and a cream carpet with a picture of me and Charlie on the left wall, I saw a heap of boxes in the corner. "What are they for?" I asked, curiosity laced my voice. "You," said my father, blankly looking through me. He must have seen the confusion in my expression because next, he said "You're leaving. You're 18 now so pack your stuff and leave!" I was shocked that i just stood there for a minute before I walked away to my room. I couldn't believe it. I wasn't that bad. I had one bad night, and they're chucking me out!

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