The Deepest Cut

The Deepest Cut

Natalie Flynn

‘You haven't said a single word since you've been here. Is it on purpose?' I tried to answer David but I couldn't … my brain wanted to speak but my throat wouldn't cooperate…

Adam blames himself for his best friend's death. After attempting suicide, he is put in the care of a local mental health facility. There, too traumatized to speak, he begins to write notebooks detailing the events leading up to Jake's murder, trying to understand who is really responsible and cope with how needless it was as a petty argument spiralled out of control and peer pressure took hold.

Sad but unsentimental, this is a moving story of friendship and the aftermath of its destruction.

In memory of Robert Knox

21
^st
August 1989 – 24
^th
May 2008

CONTENTS

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

With Special Thanks to

Accent YA

Other Young Adult Titles

One

Polly found me on the landing at my dad's house, three months after my best friend Jake was murdered.

I was unconscious and lying in a puddle of my own sick.

I can't remember how many tablets I'd taken, or how much of my dad's whisky I'd washed them down with, as I hadn't bothered to keep count. I'd just kept going, downing them in threes and fours until I was too weak to lift my hand to my mouth.

I don't remember how I got from my bedroom to the landing and I don't remember throwing up, either.

All I can remember was wanting to be dead. My head had been spinning for months and I didn't know what else to do to stop it hurting. I just wanted to die.

Nobody would miss me. Jake's mum hadn't spoken to me since his funeral, and my dad only ever spoke to me to have a go at me and tell me to snap out of it. There was Polly, but I was sure she was getting fed up with me being the way I was.

When you decide you want to die, you stop thinking about anything else. You just think about that, and you wait and bide your time for the perfect chance. The day I took all the pills, my dad had left a note saying he'd buggered off away for a few days with his tart of a girlfriend, Jackie. I knew it was time. He was gone so there'd be no interruptions.

I screwed up the note and chucked it in the bin. I put the money he'd left for food in my back pocket. Then I put my duffel on and headed straight to town. The wind and rain battered me as I walked along the pavement with my hood up and head down. I felt a bit sick. I hadn't been into town since the night Jake was murdered. People would probably recognise me from the picture they'd printed of us in the papers. They might stop me and ask me questions. I knew they'd judge me.

They might even say it was my fault he died.

I went the long way round. I needed to avoid the park. The flowers people had left for Jake were long dead and put in the bin by some council street cleaner; who didn't even know him or care about him. Now there was just the bench. Our bench. Empty. It was another reminder. I didn't need to see it, not today. Not ever again.

In the second shop an old lady in the queue was staring at me. I looked the other way. She grabbed my arm with a tight grip and I tensed up.

‘Are you OK, love?' She asked. ‘You're shaking.'

I stayed perfectly still.

‘You're poorly?' She asked. ‘Got a fever? They'll sort you out,' she said, tapping the boxes of pills in my hand. ‘Don't need anything fancy, just good old paracetamol.'

‘Thank you,' I said quietly, with my head still down.

I paid for my pills, put them in my pocket and turned to walk out.

She grabbed my arm again. ‘You feel better, lovey. Take plenty of fluids and keep warm.' She smiled then released her grip.

‘Thanks,' I said. I walked away, out of the stuffy shop and back into the rain.

Why did she even care? I wanted to turn around and fling myself at her and fall into her arms and tell her that my best friend died, but then she'd know. She'd know who I was, and what I'd done, and she would stop caring about me straight away, just like everyone else.

On my way back the rain and wind were behind me, pushing me along the pavement like they were telling me to get back quickly and get on with it.

As soon as I was through the front door I grabbed dad's bottle of whisky from the kitchen side, and rushed around closing the curtains and locking the doors. I wanted to make sure nobody could see or get in. I didn't want to be saved.

Up in my room, I checked my phone. I had seven missed calls and a text from Polly. The text read:
Are you OK? Been trying to get hold of you for two days and I'm really worried Xx.
I ignored it, pulled the battery out and chucked it all in the bin in the corner of my room. I wouldn't need it anymore.

I popped all the tablets out of the blisters into a pile on my bed and swept the boxes onto the floor. I picked up the notepad I used to write my songs from the floor next to my guitar. In my bedside drawer, among all the old Top Trumps, the condoms I'd never use, and the photo of us on Jake's tenth birthday that I'd shoved there because I couldn't bear to look at it anymore, I found a pencil.

Then I wrote my suicide note. When I was done, I folded it neatly and put it under my pillow.

I took a deep breath. I was ready.

My hands were shaking as I opened the whisky and started taking the pills, just like that with my brain turned off. I wouldn't allow myself to think about it anymore. I wouldn't let me talk myself out of it. It had to be done.

I wasn't scared of dying, I was scared of living.

Polly told me after that she was worried, especially when my phone started going straight to voicemail, so she came round and she banged on the door and shouted my name and disturbed the neighbours.

‘Have you seen Adam?' She asked Mrs Henderson next door, who appeared with a face like thunder asking what all the bashing and crashing was about.

Mrs Henderson just snorted and went back inside. She knew about that night, and what had happened to Jake, and what I'd done. She hated me, just like everyone else hated me. She wasn't going to help Polly.

Polly climbed over the side gate, which she told me wasn't the easiest thing to do in heeled boots in the pissing rain. She said that when she saw all the curtains shut a gut instinct kicked in; she knew something was wrong. She said it was the sort of feeling that makes you panic in every cell in your body and then your adrenalin takes over.

She kicked the back door in. It took her ages and she made loads of noise.

It was Mrs Henderson who called the police – because of that. All we were to her was a bunch of reckless youths. She didn't know us, she judged us by what happened that night and by what she'd read about us in the papers afterwards. She didn't know us at all.

When Polly finally got the door in, she called my name, over and over again.

Downstairs was empty.

She ran up the stairs.

And there I was, lying there, unconscious.

Even her screaming didn't wake me up.

The police came quickly. Polly ran to the door, and pointed up the stairs. A female officer held her back as a male officer went to find me.

The ambulance came. Polly wasn't allowed to go with me. She had to stay and answer questions while some other officers secured my dad's back door.

I wasn't awake for any of this. I wasn't awake when the paramedics put me on a stretcher, when they put me in the back of the ambulance, while they put lines in and drew blood; speeding through town with blue flashing lights and a screeching siren to the same hospital they took Jake to that night. I wasn't awake while they rushed me into A&E and the paramedics handed over, telling the doctors: ‘Male, seventeen, suspected overdose …'

I woke up later.

It was the bright lights that hit me first. Blinding strip lights on the ceiling. I thought I was dead. I actually thought I'd managed it.

Then a gentle female voice said, ‘Ah, there you are Adam, welcome back,' and touched my hand.

I pulled my hand back. Her voice rang over and over in my ears.

I was still alive.

I pulled my oxygen mask off, the stickers off my chest and the line out of my arm, and blood spurted everywhere. I fought against the hands that were now holding me down against the bed. I hit out at anything and everything, shouting, screaming for them to get off me, to leave me alone.

They had to sedate me.

Four of them held me down and one put a needle in my thigh. A sharp scratch, then pain as the fluid went into my muscle and straight away made me go weak. My screams turned to cries. I cried and cried and cried.

I'd had one aim; and that was to kill myself to get away from the pain of losing Jake and from the guilt of what I'd done. I wanted out of this life and I'd tried really, really hard to make it happen, but I'd failed.

As I lay there crying, all I could think about was how long it would be before they'd let me out so I was free to try again.

Two

It was the pain in my stomach that woke me up.

I drew my legs to my chest and screamed out.

There were two people in the cubicle with me but I didn't know who they were. I wanted one of them to be Jake's mum, desperately. I needed her there. She'd make it all OK again. She always made everything OK again.

‘Is he alright?' It was my dad's voice.

He was the last person I wanted to see. He was going to go mental at me for this, I knew it.

A nurse came in and put some clear fluid in the thing in my hand. It was cold and it stung. ‘There, that should help,' she said, patting my arm. ‘Just try to stay calm, OK?' She left the cubicle.

‘Medically, he's stable,' a woman's voice said.

I opened my eyes to see who she was. She was in a suit and had a name tag dangling round her neck. I tried to see what it said but my eyes couldn't focus on the writing.

The pain shot through me again. I curled up in a ball and tried to breathe it away.

‘Are you sure about that?' My dad asked. ‘Don't really look like it, does it?'

‘It's the effect of the overdose. His doctor assures me that he's stable. They're keeping an eye on his liver function, but it looks like he was found and brought here in time. He will make a full recovery.'

‘He's lucky then,' Dad said.

I wouldn't call it lucky. Lucky for me would have been him identifying me in the mortuary instead of standing over my sweaty, quivering body.

‘We are concerned for his mental health, which is why we need to ask some questions so we can ascertain the best course of action for Adam, for when he's medically well enough to leave hospital.'

‘Right,' Dad said.

I looked at him to try and see what he was thinking. He stood rigid with his arms folded over his chest and he didn't look at me.

‘Do you want to take a seat?' She asked him.

‘No, I'd prefer to stand.' He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

‘It might take a while.'

‘Nah, I'm alright.'

She took some papers out, clicked her pen and started writing. They went through the usual stuff: date of birth, weight, and all that. I let them get on with it while I tried to stop the pain in my stomach. Then she asked the dreaded question.

‘And where is Adam's mother? Are you–?'

‘Deceased,' Dad said. One word. No emotion.

‘When did–?'

‘Three years ago.'

‘Do you mind me asking how–?'

‘Car accident.'

‘And how has Adam been with–?'

‘Fine.'

She raised her eyebrows at him and then turned her body to face me.

‘Adam?'

I shrugged. There was no point trying to say how I felt with Dad standing there, because I wasn't allowed feelings. I was meant to be a man; take it on the chin, and get on with it.

‘Adam, can you tell me what made you want to take an overdose?' Her voice was softer to me than it was to Dad.

I went to speak but couldn't. Even if Dad wasn't standing there glaring at me, and even if I could explain it all to her, there was no point. I didn't see the point in talking about it; or my mental health or anything else she wanted to talk about, because as soon as they let me out of there I was going to jump in front of a train, or off a cliff, or hang myself. Something, anything, as long as it would definitely kill me.

She was wasting her time.

She gave me some sort of look that was halfway between a sympathetic smile and a look of worry, then she touched my hand gently and turned to my dad.