Torment
Torment
One Woman’s Revenge
Revenge never expires in a mind that fails to sleep
LEANNE WOOD
Torment
© 2017 Leanne Wood
ISBN eBook: 978-0-9953804-6-2
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of the publisher.
The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in
this publication are solely those of the author and do not
reflect those of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. It contains graphic language and violence. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the
contents of this publication.
A copy of this publication can be found in the National
Library of Australia.
Dedication
To my gorgeous – it’s a privilege to share my life and love with you. Thank you for always believing in me, for your unwavering support and constant encouragement, even on my darkest days.
Your patience and understanding helped make this book possible. Thank you for putting up with my sleepless nights, my messy office, and for reading and listening to my ever-changing versions.
You are my number 1 fan and my soul mate. I love you with all my heart, plus more.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
PROLOGUE
I
magine if the world was perfect, free of war and hunger. How wonderful would it be to live in an environment where everyone flourished and every family was flawless? Where all mankind accepted and respected differences. Violence would not exist nor would harassment, discrimination and bullying. Resentment would be superfluous; everyone would be happy and kind. Forgiveness unnecessary as there would be nothing to forgive.
It sounds wonderful. I am sure everyone wishes it were possible. We can all dream. Yet we know this is purely an idealistic conception of reality, in essence an unattainable vision.
I remember when my opinion of life was so different; so many years have passed and so many inconceivable events have occurred. I used to think I was untouchable, indestructible. My life was brilliant. But everything can change in a blink of an eye. When I look back, it is hard to believe I am where I am today. My life was shattered, but I am no longer a victim. I am no longer broken and forever limited by my suffering. I am so much more than a survivor. So much has happened. So much has changed.
These days I possess a clear acceptance that our world is imperfect. Bad things can happen to good people, just as good things can happen to those we consider bad. Our world is flawed and full of corruption and greed. It is a place where love, acceptance and trust clash with annoyance, anger and rage. Minds are fuelled by negative feelings, which create terror, apprehension and fear. People loath others, actions disgust, sadness engulfs and grief consumes. People crumble, depression invades; acts of retaliation appear the only option. It is a world in which I believed revenge would be my saviour.
TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER
Yesterday was one of those, ‘fuck this shit!’ type of days. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. For too long my days had been filled with mammoth fails and micro victories. Getting out of bed was an effort. Opening the front blinds was something I had not yet achieved. People told me to get over it – life was for living and I should move forward. Why couldn’t I just forget about the past? But things are sometimes easier said than done. The only place I felt safe was within the confines of my home. Blinds closed, curtains drawn, hidden from attack. Horrifying thoughts plagued my waking hours, haunting flashbacks and nightmares made sleep impossible. I felt like I was going crazy. Would there ever be an end to the unrelenting turmoil?
It had been seven years, three months and five days since I left Wolf Industries. Hard to believe so much time had passed. The place was a nightmare. If I could erase that section of my life, I would. My life was pretty well fucked. I had no reason for living. No purpose. I no longer resembled the confidant, smart and carefree person I was before that hell hole. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have stepped foot in the place. It should be burnt to the ground. Work for Wolf Industries and you will never be the same; maybe they should put that as a warning on their job application.
Yet the place still exists; employees come and go – after all, everyone needs to work and Wolf Industries employs hundreds. So while it powers into its future, I remain trapped by my past.
That is… I was trapped.
Last night, my partner of ten years, Zack, announced he was leaving. He’d had enough. Labelling me a ‘nutcase’ and ‘volatile’, he said I belonged in a loony bin.
I can’t say his leaving was unexpected; our relationship had been crumbling for some time. He was sick of me, and I was sick of his ‘get over it’ attitude. His leaving will be a blessing. Now I will have my freedom. He said he could no longer take the pressure of my ‘unpredictable mental state’. He claimed I had introduced chaos into his life. It was easier for him to blame me than to be a man and admit he had fallen for Sandra, the office slut. Sandra ‘Suckadick’ Wilson had been after Zack for as long as I could remember. I had met her years earlier at one of his work functions – the bleach-blonde bimbo covered in layers of fake tan, willing to spread her legs for career advancement. Zack couldn’t see it, but he would soon discover his involvement with her would only extend to satisfy her needs. I hoped she wasn’t under the assumption these needs would be fulfilled between the sheets. Zac
k’s sexual prowess wasn’t as good as he led himself to believe.
I could have shattered his ego had I told him the truth about our sex life – I had been faking orgasms for years. That screeching escaping my lips was definitely not due to my being at the peak of my sexual excitement while he had been ‘working his magic’. Before I became ill I would generally drift into thoughts about daily tasks, people I had to see, places I needed to go, and a lot of the time I would prepare our shopping list. By the time my thoughts had moved up and down the supermarket aisles, he was done and I was approaching the cash register realising how much the groceries were going to cost. “Uhhh, uhhh, ahhh!”
After I got sick our sex life became virtually non-existent. A side effect of my prescribed medication was significant weight gain resulting in further thoughts of worthlessness. The stigma surrounding mental health was devastating. ‘Friends’ left in droves. I tried to mask my depression with alcohol; I popped pills in an attempt to block out all feelings and to sleep. The thought of having sex repulsed me. I became despondent, withdrawn, emotional and at my lowest point, suicidal. Zack’s announcement propelled me into overwhelming blackness. I felt nothing.
I watched, unmoving, as he packed his bags; listened calmly as he laid claim to different articles around the house. There was no need for an argument. I wasn’t about to admit I was worried how I would cope. When he looked in my direction, I acknowledged his statements with a smile and a nod, not paying attention to his words. And finally, when he closed the front door behind him, I cheered.
Three months. I would give him three months to come back and collect the rest of his things. After that they would be out on the footpath. Suckadick could have him. I was free.
Last night I went to bed alone and a victim of my past. This morning I rise a warrior.
Too much time has been wasted. If I don’t get off my backside now I never will. And they will win. Those at Wolf Industries who did me wrong will continue as if nothing has happened. I will be a footnote in a bad joke. One day I will die and be forgotten. I can’t let them get away with it. My mind is set. I need no sympathy. I require no words. Today I am a woman with purpose. My mission is payback.
If I can’t forget, then neither will they. Circumstances can change at any time, and I will show them that without warning victims can evolve into far more than survivors. They will learn the hunter can become the hunted. For I can no longer wait for things to get easier, simpler or better. It is their time to wake up to the living, breathing hell I have had to face. There will be no turning back.
Call it a moment of clarity, call it stupidity – this is my journey and I will not be deterred. My past will no longer restrict and suffocate me, nor will it control my future. My anger has grown limbs of its own. Deep-rooted hatred towards my attackers branch out into thoughts of revenge. In-depth logistical strategies and systematic schemes distract me from my turmoil and offer a glimmer of hope. For I haven’t just planned, I have plotted my revenge against those who destroyed my life.
There are four. Four that will fall. Fuck them.
Fuck them all.
I pull back the curtains and stare at the closed blinds. A flutter of fear in my gut, but I welcome my challenge. Good morning revenge.
Pacing the kitchen, my anxiety begins to peak. Sweat covers my brow. A nervous energy makes me tremble. The room instantly fell cold. I need to see my therapist. A sense of urgency takes hold; I must keep the momentum of my thoughts alive. It is imperative I tell someone I can trust about my exciting new revelation. I know he will be happy for me. I know Daniel will share in my joy. I sit at the kitchen table. My fingers tap its wooden surface. I am in the silence of my thoughts. Doubt enters. I hope he will share my joy. Surely he will share it with me.
CHAPTER ONE
B
ridget Tilner’s drive to therapy would take ten minutes. Two sets of traffic lights, four roundabouts, no school zones or pedestrian crossings – minimal exposure. The doors to her car would be locked. The windows were tinted and would remain closed. The radio volume would be set high. She only needed to focus on the road ahead and listen to the music. Music was a great distraction. Her sunglasses and hat would aid in her disguise.
Long, determined strides propelled her to her front door – an area she had steered clear of for some time. Heart racing, her mind was set. She wrapped her hand around the door handle. The coolness of the brass brought everything into sharp focus. She shuddered as she glanced towards the front window to the right of the door. The timber blinds remained closed. Her hand remained fixed to the door, and her mind yelled at her to retreat. It would be so much easier to remain inside her home where it was safe. Heart pounding, she sucked in a large breath. Why is this so difficult? Now she’s pissed off. She could not let them beat her. Closing her eyes, she reassured herself the only way forward was forward. As stupid as it sounded, forward was difficult when one has been existing in a holding pattern for such a long time. She could no longer allow the demons control.
With a slight twist of her wrist the door opened and the warmth of the sun greeted her. It felt good. She sucked in another deep breath and assured herself all would be fine. Her therapist had spoken about desensitisation, distraction and living in the moment. No bolts of lightning had struck her dead, if she focused on her breath and her mission at hand then surely all would be fine. A slight sweat covered her brow. Her eyes scanned the street; her ears pricked for danger signs. An electric saw rang out. She assumed it is came from two doors down. From between the slithered gaps in the kitchen blinds she’d noticed trades people coming and going for the past two weeks. A skip bin was perched on their front lawn. Renovations. Strange cars and people always made her nervous.
Nausea hit her hard, churning deep within her gut. I’m going to be sick.. A lump formed within her throat. She swallowed back bile. The bitterness lingered. Her hands were warm and clammy. Her head starts to pound. Buzzing filled her ears. The world begins to spin. The warmth that settled on her face only moments ago had vanished. The air was now thick and cold. She sucked in short breaths. Every part of her shook uncontrollably. Grabbing the wooden door frame she attempted to steady herself. Her hands were weak. Her fingers numb. This is bullshit. You’re a fucken loser.
She turned quickly and stumbled, slamming the door behind her as she made her retreat. Safe. Bridget collapsed on the floor. Torrents of tears escaped her eyes. “Fuck them, fuck them all,” she sobbed. Fear was in control. She hated herself. Despised her reactions. Why couldn’t she just get over it?
Five minute passed, then five more. Her breathing settled, yet her upset remains. She seriously could not let them win. She needed to do this. She needed to leave her house. How would she exact revenge if she couldn’t even leave her house? This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. No wonder they picked her as a target of their bullying and harassment. ‘Soft cock’ was one title bestowed upon her. How could a woman be a soft cock? Disgusting. What type of man felt proud for picking on a woman? All the titles they’d doled out swirled through her: loser, fucktard, bitch, Adolf Titler, thundercunt, skittle tits. There were so many. That her name was Bridget aided in their taunts – build a bridge and get over it. Oh how they’d laughed. So many vulgar titles. So many hateful attacks. Why? Why had they singled her out?
Tears streamed down her face and washed away her sadness and anger, leaving a clear path for the return of her determination. She couldn’t let them win. She wouldn’t. Her determination returned. She had nothing to lose. No one understood the invisibility of mental illness. There were no physical injuries or scars, but it had the propensity to silently kill. Fear controlled and restricted. It suffocated whether the threat was real or imagined. Now or never.
She needed to speak to Daniel, her therapist. He would reassure her. His gentle and caring nature was something she had come to rely upon. She trusted him. His kind words always offered hope.
It took twenty-seven minutes and two more
attempts before she was successfully in her car and on her way to therapy. A huge improvement from what she had been able to achieve. Twelve months ago she would have been up vomiting for hours before she’d even attempted to open the front door. Her nerves had been so shattered that she stuttered under pressure.
In the car her windows remained closed and her doors were locked. She double-checked them while driving. She was relieved her next appointment with Daniel was this morning. She needed to talk to him about her plan. Talking helped. Every word that passed her lips within therapy remained confidential. He would understand. He was the only one who understood. He would know what to do. She would show him the list of four names scrawled on the back of an old shopping docket.
Samuel Easton would be the first.
CHAPTER TWO
W
alking into the therapist’s office, Bridget was both nervous and excited. The air seemed thick and weighty, but her hopes were high. Daniel Priest had been her therapist for over seven years. He had seen her at her worst. Daniel was her saviour; he understood where she was coming from and did not set unrealistic expectations. Bridget called him her angel – an angel with a perfectly symmetrical face. To her, he was a guardian and protector. He listened and did not cast aspersions. In his late forties, he’d been a practising psychiatrist for all his working life. A kind-hearted soul Bridget had become reliant upon. So much so she sometimes questioned her feelings. She knew he liked her. He’d said he always looked forward to her appointments. She could trust him with her inner most secrets.
Daniel knew all about Bridget, even that she hadn’t enjoyed sex with Zack but had felt compelled to stay with him. Daniel was her lifeline; the voice of reason. The first time they had met he had eased her mind, offered hope. She vowed then she would always trust him, to listen and heed his advice. He was a wise man and extremely good looking. He can press my buttons any day.