The Realm of You- Amanda Richardson

The Realm of You
A Novel
Amanda Richardson
Also by Amanda Richardson
And Then You: A Novel (standalone contemporary romance)
In Search of Yesterday: A Novella (standalone paranormal romance)
Charlotte Bloom Series
The Foretelling (revised version coming 2016)
The Redemption (revised version coming 2016)
Coming 2016
The Publicity Stunt (standalone romantic comedy)
Tracing the Stars (standalone contemporary romance)
Where Forever Ends (standalone contemporary romance)
First edition published by
Amanda Richardson, October 2015
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Richardson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design by Amanda Richardson
Editing Suggestions by Red Adept Editing
Amanda Richardson
P.O. Box 1961
Burbank, CA 91507
For more information about the books and/or author, visit:
http://www.amandarichardsonauthor.com
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpt from The Publicity Stunt
A Note from the Author
Thank you for wanting to read The Realm of You. Please note that this book deals with heavy situations
such as self-harm and suicide, therefore it may be a trigger for some people. Though I’d consider this a
contemporary romance, it’s on the dark side of the spectrum, so as a result, this book is not suitable for
anyone under the age of 18.
While The Realm of You is considered fiction, I did my best to depict characters with mental illness. As a
writer, I tried to stay true to the inner workings of depression, suicidal thoughts, etc. I researched everything I
possibly could about these illnesses. That said, I’m sure some might find these character’s thoughts offensive
and/or inaccurate, so please consider this a forewarning.
Suicide is a serious issue, and is the 10th
leading cause of death in the U.S. for all ages. Depression affects
20-25% of Americans ages 18+ in a given year, and getting rid of the stigma surrounding mental health is one
of the reasons I chose to write this novel. Visit http://www.save.org/ for more information.
For the 250,000+ people who survive suicide every year.
“Never never never give up.”
–Winston Churchill
Epigraph
XX
I HAVE no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,
Nor action new,
Except through this extent,
The realm of you.
—Emily Dickinson
Prologue
THREE months after
My eyelids flutter open.
Morning, again.
Some people say that mornings bring renewal—the dawn of a new day, or some bullshit like that. I can’t
seem to agree. Mornings for me are just a reminder of the end I failed to give myself. There is no hope for
someone like me. I’m broken. I’m too broken. There are cracks in my heart that will never heal over.
“Are you ready for your pills, Mr. Rivera?” Darcy sings, walking in and shaking her hips. She’s rattling my
pills around in the small paper cup like she just discovered fucking gold. “Are you ready to feel happy?” she
adds, giggling. She sets the pills down and sashays over to the curtains, throwing them apart. I have to shield
my eyes from the brutal onslaught of sunshine.
“Do you mean… am I ready to be pumped full of mind-numbing, zombie-creating chemicals that will make
me forget my problems rather than deal with them?” I shoot her a saccharine grin, and she just clucks
disapprovingly.
“You know it takes a few weeks for the medicine to work,” she says, her voice optimistic. Her accent is
thick today.
“Darcy, with all due respect, you could pump me full of LSD or ecstasy, and I’d still want to jump off of
bridges.”
“Don’t say that,” she quips casually. “You will see. One day, you will see why God kept you around.”
Darcy and her old-school, Irish-Catholic devotion to God is endearing.
“Uh-huh.” I sit up and swallow the pills, taking a big sip of the orange juice that Darcy placed on my over-
bed table. The juice is bitter—a side effect of my medication. As if life wasn’t hard enough, most food tastes
like cardboard to me now. If I’m stuck here, I at least want to be able to enjoy my disgusting cafeteria food as
much as possible. “God has a sick sense of humor,” I reply, looking away.
Darcy clucks again. I am just one patient among many on her rotation, but she tells me all the time that
I’m her favorite.
“I’ll bring some breakfast in a few minutes.” She quickly helps me off of the bed and into my wheelchair,
and I wince when my broken leg touches the ground.
“I’m not hungry.” She ignores me and makes my bed so quickly that I wonder if she’s a witch using her
powers. Her Irish accent, demanding nature, and coarse, red hair remind me of Molly Weasley.
After she’s gone, I wheel myself to the restroom. As I brush my teeth and splash some water on my
face, purposely avoiding my reflection, I think of what activity I’ll do today. Getting outside, especially in the
spring, is one of the only things I look forward to in this place. I’m certainly not in the mood to paint today. I
wonder if my inspiration is gone entirely, or if it’s just temporary. Not that it matters. It doesn’t bring me very
much joy anymore.
I wheel back into my room and drink the rest of the orange juice. I have it pretty good here, and
regardless of my own problems, the people and the beautiful setting make it tolerable. I have a private room,
a private nurse, and breakfast delivered every morning. I secretly thank my parents for that luxury, as I know
a lot of people don’t have the opportunity to stay in such nice quarters while in a place like this.
I throw on my spring-weather usual—a flannel and slip-on Vans. Darcy helps me change my underwear
and basketball shorts every night, so luckily those can stay put. It’s hard navigating around two leg casts. Just
as I pull my flannel down my chest, Darcy comes back in with my breakfast.
“You look nice today,” she says, just like she says every day. “You are a handsome man. You need to find
a woman to take care of you. Also, you need a haircut. But otherwise it’s nice.”
“Thank you. But right now, all I need are my oil paints and a blank canvas,” I reply, nodding to the white
toast. I will have to eat it—Darcy doesn’t like it when I waste food. “Do you know what my Irish ancestors
would’ve given for that piece of toast during the potato famine?” is usually her response.
Talk about a guilt trip.
“Ohh, are you going to attempt painting today?” she squeals. I give her a tight smile. I wish she would
stop getting her hopes up. “I will leave you be.” She starts to leave, but then she turns back around. “What do
you think you’ll paint?” she asks, her voice optimistic.
“If I paint,” I clarify. I turn to her, and she’s watching me, a look of genuine sorrow passing across her face.
I know she thinks fondly of me, and it pains her to see me like this. Again. “If I do paint, I’ll paint something for
you,” I say, squeezing some blue paint onto a pallet. I can feel her smile, but I don’t turn around. The door
closes behind her, and I scrape a large glob of royal blue onto my waiting canvas.
The first mark is always the most satisfying. It’s the next step that’s the hardest.
*
Three hours later, I can practically feel the warmth of the day radiating off of the window. I pack
everything up, and I set the large, unfinished canvas against my dresser. I’ll finish it later—just like the twenty-
something other canvases lining the wall, all of them blank except for the first smear of paint. My neck hurts
from staring ahead, unmoving, for three solid hours.
I exit my room and wheel myself down the hall, taking the elevator down to the lobby. I nod to Cecilia,
the receptionist. Her eyes go from vacant to eager, and I groan internally. She’s like a puppy who won’t leave
me alone.
“And where are you going?” she asks, her voice flirtatious. The fact that she’s flirting with me is wrong on
so many levels.
“Outside, where normal people exist.” I wheel myself away before she can reply, and I pray she won’t
follow me like yesterday.
Once I get outside, I feel it—the crackle in the air, the fire in my belly. Life is magnanimous. Life is
durable. Why can’t I be durable? This is the one thing I think I might actually hate myself for: that I wanted to
voluntarily end my life when so many other people fight for theirs every single day. The goddamn trees are
practically born again every spring, their resilience observable. The guilt from that is heavy. But on days like
today, when the sky is the perfect blue, and the trees sway to the perfect beat, I feel it. I feel what everyone
else feels. Just for a second.
The electric charge only intensifies the farther away I get from the building. This happens to me every
once in awhile. I feel too much. I’m too sensitive. I notice things that others don’t. As I travel down the
pathway and look back at Brattleboro Retreat, in all of its glory, I wonder what today has in store for me. It
almost feels anticipatory.
The Brattleboro Retreat building itself is remarkably beautiful. It’s an old building from the 1820s, with the
classic red brick and black-framed windows. I wheel myself down the straight driveway, past the parking lot,
and to the dead-end embankment of the West River. Because I grew up around here, I know a secret path
that leads to the edge of the water—a hidden oasis. Bonus: it’s wheelchair accessible.
Just as I bend down to slip my Vans off, I halt. A woman is sitting in the dirt, her back to me, and she’s
staring ahead. She has long brown hair. Her patterned dress is quirky and funky, yet girlish. I’m intrigued, and
yet I slowly back away, turning my wheels quietly. I’ve always considered this to be my spot, but now she’s
here, and I don’t know what to do. I want to be mad at her intrusion, but I can’t be mad at someone just for
discovering my favorite spot. I’m torn.
“I don’t bite,” she says caustically as I was just turning to leave. She doesn’t even turn around. I bet she’s
blind—blind people have a wicked sense of hearing. Before I have a chance to voice my surprise, she turns,
and the sun reflects on her pale face just so. She quickly raises her delicate hand to shield the sun from her
face. I want to paint her, right now, this very instant. The colors are so vivid, and she’s exquisite. Her top lip is
thin, but her bottom lip makes up for it. Her honey-brown eyes are bright and watery, and her heart-shaped
face is classically beautiful.
A look of recognition passes across her face, almost like she can’t believe what she’s seeing—a second
later, she’s horror-struck. Her face pales, and the eerie way her mouth is hanging open in shock makes me
think I have a bloody nose or something. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed in place. Because while she may be
frozen in place, too, I’m suddenly homesick for her, like I miss her. Like we know each other.
“Is it really you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it confirms everything for me.
There is hope.
Part One:
Marlin
Chapter One
PRESENT
Drip, drip, drip.
The blobs of water hit the porcelain sink with such precision every time that it wakes me up. Even the
most seamless dreams aren’t precise, so the repetitive, orchestrated noise always rouses me.
Drip, drip, drip.
I nudge the body next to me from where I lie—face down, legs spread, arms out—using the tip of my
index finger. Our California-King-sized bed allows for the luxurious spreading of limbs at all times. I take
advantage.
Drip, drip, drip.
I poke the flesh to my right, trying to wake Charlie. I notice a few things right off the bat: first, the skin I’m
touching isn’t as warm as Charlie’s. His skin is always hot—always burning up. Second, the drip, drip, drip is
not falling at the exact tempo I’ve come to memorize. It’s slightly slower. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone
but me. I’ve listened to that damn leaky sink every single night for at least two years. Third, just as I pull my
arms underneath me and into my chest, I realize I’m wearing a ribbed tank top.
I don’t own a ribbed tank top, and I most certainly never sleep with clothes on.
Drip, drip, drip.
I’m afraid to open my eyes, so instead I gently caress the sheets with my pinky finger. The motion makes
my arm hair prickle—these aren’t my sheets. These are cheap, generic, polyester-blend sheets—worlds apart
from the state-of-the-art linen sheets I’m accustomed to.
Drip, drip…
My body goes cold as I wait for that last sequential drip, but it never comes. I must be dreaming. This
whole thing—the stranger in bed next to me, the shirt, the sheets, the dripping… it’s a figment of my
imagination.
Drip…
The leak has slowed now, something my sink never does on its own. I always poke Charlie, and he
dutifully climbs out of bed, grunting and stark naked, to fiddle with the handle until it stops. Two or three times
a week this happens, and every time it does, Charlie climbs back into bed and mumbles, “We’ve got to fix that
fucking sink.”
I always pretend I don’t hear him.
Drip…
The person next to me—not Charlie—stirs slightly and lets out a long sigh. I squeeze my eyes shut as
tight as they’ll go, trying to will myself to wake up. The muscles in my face bunch around my eyes, and then
it starts to sting, so I stop. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I’m afraid the person next to me will hear
it. I’m afraid they’ll feel my pulse—thumpthumpthumpthump—and I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me if they
know I’m awake.
Will they kill me? Mutilate me? Torture me?
I take three slow, silent breaths, and after the last one, I force my eyes open.
Drip…
The stranger next to me is sleeping on his side with his back to me. The blanket is tucked underneath his
armpit. I can only see the small mole in the center of his upper back as my eyes adjust, and then slowly, the
dark-brown tufts of hair curling at his neck. My body goes stiff, and I try not to whimper out loud.
Charlie has blond hair. Unruly, thick, blond hair.
I glance around the room, straining my eyes so that I don’t wake the man next to me with movement in
the bed. It’s a small bedroom, generic and plain—I hate carpet, I think as my eyes wander over the beige fluff
on the floor. Moving boxes are lined up on the floor against the wall. I dare to move my other arm ever so
slightly, running it down the side of the mattress until it touches the bristly carpeting. Just as I suspected—the
mattress is lying on the floor. Barbaric.
Drip…
I crane my neck, and I see the edge of a small window near our feet. The streetlamp outside casts an
orange glow into the room, and I’m surprised I ever fell asleep in here, as I’ve always needed absolute
darkness.
Unless I was drugged or knocked unconscious…
Not my bedroom, not my clothes, not my boyfriend, not my carpet, not my window…
This isn’t a dream. I’m much too aware for it to be a dream. That dull, fuzzy feeling that accompanies all
of my dreams isn’t present here. Bile starts to rise in my throat. I bite my tongue, tasting blood, just to be
sure. I am awake, this is real, and I have no fucking clue where I am.
I twist in the scratchy sheets and discover, to my horror, that I’m not wearing pants. Not even underwear.
I get tangled, but after a few seconds, I’m able to climb out of bed and run into the bathroom to vomit. After
I’m done, I look down and see the telltale shape of penne pasta. Why is it that I can’t remember eating any
penne pasta in the first place? In fact, I’ve been going easy on the carbs lately, and I haven’t had pasta in
weeks. I’ve been protein loading, sculpting my body proudly at the gym.
I flush and stand, my legs wobbly. I look behind me and into the bedroom, and the man in the bed is still
asleep—thank god.
I close the bathroom door slowly. It creaks, and I wince as it clicks shut, loudly. Please don’t wake up, I
will the stranger. I switch the light on, and a harsh yellow light fills the room. I stifle a scream as I catch a
glimpse of my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.
I tug at my short dark-brown hair. It’s choppy and hacked, a horrible execution of a 1996 hairstyle. I
immediately mourn my long, wavy hair of yesteryear. I peek back at the closed door and narrow my eyes in
the direction of the stranger. He did this. He kidnapped me, drugged me, and chopped off all of my hair. I
never would have done this to myself.
I’m totally naked from the waist down, but there doesn’t seem to be any trauma. I find a pair of baggy
grey sweatpants on the floor of the bathroom, so I throw them on. They have a small red, crusty stain near
the crotch. The penne. Are these mine or his? I rub my hands on my arms. I feel thinner. There’s not as
much flesh around my middle as I’m used to, and the bones on my shoulders are protruding.
How long have I been here? Is he starving me? Giving me drugs to make me forget everything?
I look at myself in the mirror again, and my face looks the same, more or less. My cheeks are less
chipmunk-y, and my hair gives me a kind of pixie look now that I have cheekbones.
I look around the bathroom. Everything looks ordinary. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrush, facial
moisturizer, face wipes, tampons. I open the medicine cabinet. Typical stuff… Band-Aids, Advil, Nyquil, and
an old bottle of painkillers in my name. I pick the orange container up. Marlin Winters… take one tablet twice a
day for pain… Exp. 02/08.
2008? I was twenty in 2008. I was never prescribed painkillers—never in my entire life—not even when I
had my wisdom teeth removed at seventeen. The doctor gave me prescription-strength Ibuprofen. I scan the
bottle. Percocet, 2.5 mg. I set it back inside the medicine cabinet and continue to look around.
I throw the plain white plastic shower curtain open and scan the contents of the shower. Suave. I shiver. I
touch my hair. No wonder it looks fried—I would never let that chemical-ridden shit touch my hair in my real
life.
My real life. What happened to my real life? What happened to Charlie, and our townhouse? What
happened to my job? What happened to me? I turn the light off and sit on the toilet for a second, letting my
eyes adjust to the darkness. I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins, making my temples throb. I’m in
survival mode now, and if I’m going to face my kidnapper, I need to be clear-headed.
I open the door slowly, tiptoeing towards the corner of the room farthest from me, but closest to him—
whoever he is. I spot a tan faux-leather purse sitting on the floor as if someone threw it down haphazardly. I
reach inside, searching for a phone. If this is my purse, I can almost guarantee my phone is inside. I’m
perpetually running out of battery because of this atrocious habit, much to the chagrin of Charlie, who charges
his phone every night religiously. Aha. I feel the cool, sleek metal meet my fingertips, and I smile victoriously. I
grab it and walk out of the bedroom.
The apartment is small, and every inch of it is ugly and basic. Before I get caught, I quickly dial Charlie’s
number. He’ll be so happy I’m safe and alive. I look down at the phone—a silver, plain flip phone, ugh—and I
wonder if they’ll be able to trace this call. I wonder if he’s with the police right now. It rings four times before
he answers, but when he does, my whole body goes limp with relief.
“Hello?” Charlie mumbles. My eyes catch the time on the old oven in the kitchen. 4:42 a.m. I push aside
the irritation I immediately feel that he’s not eagerly awaiting my call, but I suppose the man has to sleep
sometime. He’s probably wearied from all the anguish.
“Charlie!” I whisper frantically. “It...