For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (best books to read for teens txt) 📕

I know these words will never reach you, but you remain in my heart.

I love you, Rennie.

Pain. It erupted in her brain, deeper than ever before. She fell to the ground.

As she writhed in agony, as her mother’s words from beyond the grave spiralled around her head, she thought of how she’d been dragged back to this damned place by that psychopath. She should have held onto her peace. She should have stayed away, ignored the promise, ended herself sooner. If only he could feel this pain, if only Rye could beg for mercy, if only his very lifeblood could burn in his veins and—

Her back arched. Another scream filled the cellar as her body contorted on the concrete. She was tearing at her skull when something else, something besides the agony, exploded into her mind. Renata suddenly saw what she had to do. She saw what she had to write.

A…novel?

At this vision the pain backed off, a leviathan doubting itself, then smashed back in.

This idea, this book, was replaced by Rye’s daughter, Sandie, that vacant blonde he cherished so. She was a moth, just a little moth, like the one in the larder. Maybe if she lit a flame the moth would—

Again, the leviathan of pain reared back, surrendering ground.

Just a little flame. That’s all that would be needed for the moth to return, then—

The pain began falling from her in great waves, gathering itself in her hands as the plan formulated in her mind. She wrapped her fingers around the pain, owned it. It belonged to her, now hers to do with as she pleased.

She would gift to Rye the agony he’d gifted to her. She would do it in his own language, the only language he understood: the language of written horror. From these very hands, such unclean hands, she would issue a flood upon Rye.

Her eyes lit up.

Yes, she would write a book.

Her eyes rose to the typewriter, sitting so majestically above her. She struggled to her knees, trembling with excitement, then smeared her wild hair out of her face and tore the sheet from the carriage. From a box underneath the desk, she withdrew fresh paper and a new ribbon, then ripped the cellophane packaging with her teeth and quickly fitted the ink module and paper into loading mechanisms she recognised from her old Adler. She lay her fingers on the keys.

D

The ribbon hadn’t dried.

e

The hammers still fell.

a

It was meant to be.

r

She needed help writing the book. All she had to do was light a flame and the pretty little moth would come flying to her. She would punish Rye where he could be hurt most: his love for his daughter. Was she capable of such a thing? Her fingers hit a few more keys. Renata’s end would come soon enough, but first she had to return the pain. She stared at the paper.

Dear Ms Rye,

22

 

Battered.

Beaten.

Brutalised.

But not today.

The island of Neo-Thorrach is an abused spouse, stoic and determined. It takes what it believes it must and raises not a qualm. The North Atlantic cuts it no slack, pounding its worn cliffs and outcrops, kicking up the gritty sand of its grey beaches, continually harassing the dead land which sprouts nothing of note – its only form of rebellion. Yes, an abused wife, just like…

No point thinking about that today.

The winds have calmed, you see. Although it’s still freezing, the rain has dried up and the skies have cleared. This serenity is the rarest of occurrences, so there’s no point thinking about all that today. Better to enjoy the break in the storm. That perpetual, never-ending storm.

The woman, the ‘Neo-Thorrach Buidseach’ as the Gaelic children of the neighbouring islands have named her – the ‘Infertile Witch’ – pulls her duffle hood over her head and wraps the scarf around her face, eyes squinting through the biting chill. She trudges up a worn incline, the same incline she’s trudged a thousand times before, for over this craggy gradient lie the cliffs. How much of her time on this island has been spent pacing these cliff edges? Yes, it clears her mind, and yes the sound of the waves detonating against the rocks below seem to help her mentally arrange whichever writing project is currently taking form in her head, but there’s something else the cliffs provide. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. There’s a comfort in those dead, perilous edges. Something about the power of possibility in your hands, the possibility of plunging into non-existence without a moment’s notice.

Today, she treads the jutting lips not to ponder her work, but to reach the island’s sorry excuse for a pier at its northern point. Whoever first attempted to settle on this rock, whoever threw that pier together, didn’t seem to hang around long enough to add much else; the pier, its rotting wooden bothy across the thicket, and of course her cottage are about the only structures she’s found on the diminutive isle. There were a few other modest constructions, but she’s since stripped them for fuel. She has to take all she can get.

But the island’s enough for her. Its uninviting qualities were exactly what made it so inviting to her in the first place. For the first time in her life, she’s found somewhere she can be truly alone. Well, not quite the first time. Sometimes, late at night when she doesn’t want to sleep, when she can’t face the dreams of the car and the road and the flames, she wades through the mists of her mind. She sits in front of the crackling fireplace, trying to form a mental image of that room of stone from all those years ago, that chamber at the top of the clock tower. She sometimes smiles at the irony of having