Authors: Matthew Turner
Tags: #coming of age, #love story, #literary fiction, #contemporary romance, #new adult, #mature young adult
BY MATTHEW TURNER
Published by Turndog
2015 Matthew Turner. All Rights
THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY
write a book is strange because you spend so much time lost
within your own mind and whimsey, yet it takes a true army of
people to bring it together into some form of sense and substance.
This is the part of the book where I thank those in my life who
helped transform these pages into something more, and to the kind
m lucky to call friends, family, and loved
These latter folk tend to keep me sane(
ll begin with my parents, two people I love a
great deal but never share this knowledge enough. To say you
support me, help me, love me, and believe in me is an
understatement, and I wake up each day thankful for you both, and
s the two of you that drive me to be
make myself proud because I know if I achieve this,
ll do you proud, too.
the rest of my family and closest friends, you know who you are.
m thankful and appreciative to you too, but once again
t show it or say it enough. I apologise for this, but
here I am to say I value you and love you. Without you, I
- and when I
, I mean life in general.
as I write this I haven
t known you long,
but I feel like I know you better than any other person on this
planet. I love you. I love how you love me back. I trip and stutter
far too often, but you
re there to keep me
upright. Thank you for this. I hope you
re always there
to keep me standing.
Like I say, it takes an army to share a book like this with
the world. I may have wrote the words, but it
Hall who helped bring these words and sentences and scenes to
order. Your editing and guidance made all the difference, and I
look forward to lots of future projects as well.
for Ruth Wilkinson and your talented artistic design
all I can say is thank you for producing a beautiful I
absolutely love. I know I drove you insane with my darn perfection,
but I think we created something meaningful, don
s to you, Ruth. You did a stellar
And to the Beta Readers and Early
Readers who not only provided the finishing touches to this tale,
but helped share it before anyone else had chance to, you should
flick over to the next page. I think you may like what
the fine individual who reads these very words.
Whether I know you personally or not, I appreciate you and value
you and look forward to getting to know you better. This journey
m on isn
. The fact
re part of this matters, and I hope
ll delve further down the rabbit hole after
ve read this novel (
more on this after you
ve read the
my son; my light and my muse. You
beautiful and changed my life for the better. I
proud of you, and I want the world to know that I wake up each day
striving to make you proud of me.
Thank you, all.
s toast to literature and the finer things in
Thank You To All Those Wonderful People Who Helped Transform This
Book From Good To Great. To This List Of Beautiful Beta & Early
Thank You. I Appreciate you
OF AUS & B
BY MATTHEW TURNER
during the weeks leading up to when
The Letters of Ausdylan &
introduces you to
s two main characters, their relationship, and
what love, life, and living means to them.
These 30 short and intimate letters are the ideal companion
I Unlove You
, so before you delve into the main story, you may
like to download this short prequel for free.
before you ask
there are a few hints among these
letters that answer some large questions
Intrigued and wish to transform this reading experience into
something more. . . ?
Dedicated To The Kid. My Son. MY MUSE.
- A BATHROOM FLOOR:
Beatrice Butterworth is a bitch. That
s how the
dream ends, me shouting and falling into a dark and eerie abyss. My
eyes shoot open, and for a few seconds I
m at peace.
There is no pain. There is no despair. There are no lies or deceit.
s nothing but a soothing, calming, numbing
nothingness, until everything turns against me and transforms into
I groan, my head throbbing and
close my eyes, light
s too great. My mind continues its unstable
spin. Clenching my fists, I try and force my hands to my face, but
m unable to move. I
m too heavy, far too
heavy, as if something or somebody sits on my chest.
What can I remember? What the hell
happened? Where on earth am I?
last thing I recall is standing outside of work, catching my breath
after storming out of Tony
s office. Did I
really say all those things to him? Did I tell him to sit down and
shut up whilst I stood in
office? I couldn
t have. I
only, I did. I
remember it. I remember the white room and his drained face. It
t seem real, but it is.
I whisper, each word whistling through my cracked
Blinking, I open my eyes long
enough to explore the strange place where I lay: blue and grey
tiles reach up to a cracked ceiling; an extractor fan vibrates in
the corner, covered in dirt and murk; and a patch of green mould
encircling a brown centre. I appear to be in a bathroom, and a
rather grim one at that.
I take a deep breath and focus my
thoughts, but all I do is disturb my fragile stomach. I hurt, all
over. Not just aches and pains of muscles and tendons, but a
throbbing surge running up my left arm. I tap my right fingers
against the hard, tiled floor, and run my nails along its surface
to my thigh and onto my frozen skin.
t realised until now, but I
m cold; numb,
even. Running my hand up and down my right side, all I find are
boxer shorts, as damp and cold as my skin.
What the hell
I mumble, using all my strength to roll on to my
pain running up my left arm intensifies, the pounding in my head
gets heavier, the rumble in my stomach an unbearable tumble.
I mumble again, struggling up into a sitting position and
evaluating the chaos around me.
fallen and finished bottles of cheap whisky lay to my right, and a
half-eaten burger to my left. All alone in this bare bathroom,
m surrounded by a toilet and a sink, a cracked mirror
above it. No towels, pictures, or semblance of life. No toilet
roll, toothbrushes or shower. Just me and my mess, and a pile of
vomit inches from my hand.
I say, edging away from
I search the area for my clothes,
but find nothing on the floor except the empty bottles and
discarded burger. Cuts and bruises cover my knees and shins, and a
discoloured purple patch, consumes half my left arm. At least that
answers the mystery behind my throbbing pain, although how it came
to be remains a riddle.
Closing my eyes, I focus and think, but all I remember is
standing outside the office. I suppose I drank, but how much?
ve suffered through horrendous hangovers before, but
never like this. This isn
t me. I
t do this. Neither do I confront my boss the way I