Page 1 of Kill Me

Prologue

Quinn - Present Day

Nothing in life will ever prepare you for the betrayal of a family member, even more so, a betrayal you can’t even remember. You can remember the scent of their cologne. The smoke on their fingertips. The oil on their clothes. The cackle of laughter. It’s familiar—comforting to a point—but you can never quite picture their face. And it’s a face you would never have considered picturing. Because why would you ever believe someone you love with every cell in your body could ever do to you what’s been done?

You’re taught that family is everything. You live for family; you die for family. No excuses, no loopholes. So, why was it that, after years of grief, mental anguish, and drug therapy, my family chose to side with him? They chose to believe him. They threw me away like the chip paper from last night’s takeaway without a second thought. No glances behind as the car drove away. No calls or texts afterwards to make sure I was safe. They might as well have left me in a ditch for the wildlife to take care of.

What they didn’t realise, though, was that discarding me like a used toy, a forgotten object, did nothing but stoke the fire in my soul. Without those actions, I would have been resigned to my memory loss, convinced a stranger had hurt me, devoid of emotion, and wishing death upon myself. But because of them, a determination began leaking into my veins, drop by excruciating drop. Trauma by devastating fucking trauma.

After all, there's nothing better than the smell of stale sweat and dried blood when it's coming from someone who's fought for their life, and this is a fight that they stand no chance of winning.

And my family rejecting me taught me that.

Chapter One

Quinn - Present Day

“Die, bitch, die!” Stomp.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Stomp.

“You ruined fucking everything!” Stomp.

“Maybe this will be enough to keep you away…” Stomp.

The world goes black. I’m unable to function. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Another foot to my chest winds me beyond comprehension, and before I know it, blood splutters from my mouth as I try desperately to swallow the oxygen I need to survive.

This isn’t what I was expecting. I was supposed to meet my brother after work. He sent me a text, telling me we needed to talk; that he had something to tell me. And like the dutiful big sister I have always been—despite the fact that he’s always been a shitty little brother—I dropped everything to be there. But there’s no one here. I’ve lost hours of time. I have vague recollections littering my mind, but no concrete images. Words that are automatically making sentences, but no knowledge as to whether the events actually happened, or whether I’m quite literally losing my mind. I’m standing on the corner of the street, darkness littering the skies, rain drenching my skin, with no idea where I am, and my clothes ripped; my hands and knees scraped. It’s obvious something happened, but what?

I pat down my body, wincing, hissing at the sting from the cuts on my hands that I hadn’t even noticed, feeling for my phone. It’s in my pocket, so it’s obvious I wasn’t mugged. Before I give myself time to spiral, I pull it out and tap into WhatsApp, scrolling until I find my conversation with Millie, my best friend since forever, and the one person I know I can rely on. It’s not until this moment that I realise how long it’s been since we’ve spoken. Actually, it’s been weeks. How did that happen?

Me: Help me, please. I need you.

I attach a picture of some of my injuries and my torn clothes so she can see the urgency in my message.

I see the two ticks to show it’s delivered, then the blue ones to indicate it’s been read.

And then the profile picture and the dreaded bubbles that show someone is typing start bobbing along the screen—it’s usually my least favourite part of texting. Nowadays, they can see when you’re replying; they know when you’re online, everything is trackable.

And then they stop.

Then they start again.

And then they stop—and that’s how it’s left.

No reply, no phone call, no coming to my rescue in the way I would have for her.

The screen is shaking in my hand because of the adrenaline coursing through my body, causing me to shiver.

It’s becoming clear that I’m losing touch with reality, losing time. What was seconds or minutes is quickly becoming hours or weeks.

And I have nowhere to turn.

Chapter Two

Quinn - Present Day

My brother works in a tiny little side-street garage. He’s always been good with his hands, not academic in the bookish sense like I was, but able to learn anything practical after being shown just once. It’s his most infuriating quality. The way my brain works when it comes to practical things is that it needs to be shown umpteen times step by step. And I have the toxic trait that after watching one video on social media, I automatically can do whatever was in that video on my first attempt. I’m quite simply fucking delulu. He comes home every night, stinking of engine oil, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne bought from the local store. I can’t quite place the scent, like a mixture of disinfectant and the woods. It’s quite creepy when you think of it that way, actually. The two biggest things that tend to be incorporated in murders are what he smells like. My entire life I’ve said he’s a psychopath; maybe I was unknowingly predicting the future—stranger things have happened.