Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

overcame Abbie, leaving her scrambling for the handle of her car door.

She threw it open just in time, but when she tried to dive out, the seatbelt yanked her back. It was too late to go for the release. Abbie pulled the belt away from her chest, ducked her head beneath it, leant out of the car, and threw up onto the concrete.

She threw up again, then took long, deep breaths. Controlled. This time it helped. Her fingers fumbled for the seatbelt catch, and it popped loose, causing her to jerk forward, causing her almost to fall from the car into the puddle in the road.

Which would have been disgusting.

After preventing that fall, Abbie reached under the passenger seat and grabbed her trusty drawstring bag. Lifting her feet, she swung them out of the car and over her vomit. With a hop, she cleared it and stumbled to the side of the road.

She collapsed.

Empty fields lay to the left and the right of the road. The town into which she had to go was ahead; nothing but open road behind.

Slamming the brakes, spinning the car to a stop had left it side-on across the left lane of the two-lane highway. There were no cars in sight, and Abbie could hear the approach of no engines. Still, she had to move her vehicle soon. Should any car approach, they would have plenty of time to adjust, to go around the roadblock Abbie had created. But she couldn’t risk it. There would be no car wreck on her conscience today.

Rising, throwing the drawstring bag over her shoulder, Abbie forced herself back to the car. Forced herself to sit, to start the engine, to move. She pulled off the road onto the gravel and then grass. She parked alongside a fence that defined the boundary between council and farm owned land. Still fighting to control her breathing, Abbie evacuated her car again, taking her bag, and dropped onto the grass at the side of the road.

The welcome to sign was on this side of the road, also. It was only five or so metres behind, but Abbie didn’t look. It was like a curse. Reading it would condemn her to more vomiting or worse, even though, theoretically, looking at the town itself should have caused more problems. It didn't work like that, though Abbie didn't know why.

Bum planted in the grass, the cold night air nipping at her, Abbie pulled the bag from her shoulder and grabbed the neck, widening the hole. From within, she extracted a folded pillowcase.

Abbie’s hands were shaking. Closing her eyes, taking her deepest breath yet, she regained control of her digits. With utmost care, she unfolded the pillowcase and removed from within her battered and bruised copy of The Stand.

Laying the pillowcase over her lap, Abbie lay the Stephen King epic over the top. Delicate fingers peeled back the cover and first couple of pages until she found herself staring at the dedication.

For Tabby: This dark chest of wonders.

And beneath that, the name of the book’s previous owner. Before Abbie had taken possession.

Violet.

It was this scrawled name Abbie lay a finger on, as she had so many times before. Though she was convinced by the existence of no supernatural phenomenons, Abbie found herself filled by strength when she touched that name, as though that long ago penned signature provided a link to the long since deceased writer.

“Help me, Vi. Help me go on.”

Abbie did not believe communication with the dead was possible. She knew speaking with her sister while pressing her finger to a word said sister had written years before she had died was nothing more than a psychological crutch, but that was okay. It was a kind of placebo. What mattered was that even though Abbie knew this: it worked.

Having seen the town’s name, Abbie wanted to turn and flee. To get into her car and return to the seaside town where she had been living for the past three months. To the warm embrace of Alice, her pseudo mother, and to the friends Abbie had begun to make there. More than anything, she wanted to whip her tail between her legs and run.

“I love you, Violet. Give me the strength to go on.”

In her dreams, Abbie had seen the face of a teenage girl in pain. She had woken knowing neither the name nor the location of the teenager. She knew nothing other than that the girl would be killed within the next forty-eight hours, should Abbie not rise to do something about it.

When she considered all that, how Abbie felt—this visceral reaction to learning into which town she was driving—meant nothing. The girl’s life was all. This teenager could be her only focus. Abbie shouldn’t have needed to talk to the memory of her sister to know, but she did. She had to roll with that.

“I love you, Violet,” she repeated. “I’ll make you proud.”

Abbie did not believe the dead could feel pride any more than they could feel hunger or an annoying itch on the end of their nose. What she meant was, I will continue to try and be the kind of person I think you would have been proud to call your sister.

Violet would never know this was Abbie's intention. But Abbie knew. And that was enough.

With as much care as she had used in extracting it, Abbie returned The Stand to the pillowcase and returned the pillowcase to her drawstring bag. This done, she returned herself to her car and started the engine.

From her window, she could see the sick she had left in the road. She shook her head.

“That’s revolting. Abbie, don’t be so repulsive again.”

Self-castigation over, Abbie left the grass and moved back onto the road. Despite the dread that continued to build in her heart, stomach, and soul, she forced herself to drive on.

She moved back up to the speed limit, and she drove into the town of her birth.

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