The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller Read Online Free Page A

to erase the fog. On my bedside table is an untouched glass of water. I reach for it and down the tepid contents in one go. My mouth is so dry and I’m gripped by an unquenchable thirst.
           I don’t know who I am.
    Am I drunk?
    Am I high?
    Looking down, my hands look like they belong to someone else and my head feels foreign.
    All I know for certain is that I am self-indulgent. That is real. Anyone who has ever known me will confirm that. But I’m not as bad as my Mum. I’m not referring to the woman who brought me up, who nurtured me, loved me and wanted me. I’m talking about the woman who carried me in her womb.
    It all stems from her, I tell myself. Also, that after all these years, things are different. They’re not. I’m still me and questions still linger over my existence like a poisonous fog.
    So much has happened in my life in the last week.
    My life emulates a cruel experiment and I feel trapped in a Petri dish.
     
    There is no recollection of going to bed. Did I see Charlie last night? Looking at the clock. I see it’s nearly eleven a.m.. Damn, I trip over a jumper lying on the floor before kicking it violently out of the way. There is enough to contend with today, without my clothes trying to obstruct me. The fluffy orange jumper joins a pile of dirty washing in a far corner of the room. I know damn well the pile will remain there until Friday when I decide to tidy before the weekend so that Charlie doesn’t think I sit around all day doing nothing.
    Turning away from the mess on the bedroom floor, I decide I need to clean my teeth. Running my tongue over my front teeth, I know I neglected to brush them last night and, once in the bathroom, I see where my lips meet there is a dark reddish brown stain leftover from the glasses of Rioja. Guilt and self-pity mingle together in my head as I spit a large mouthful of white foam out into the basin below. I am dreading the day ahead. Drinking doesn’t suit me, the hangovers are crippling.
    In a bowl full of random crap, I find a hair band and scrape my untidy red mop off of my face. Beneath my eyes are dark bags reminding me of my own silly mistake. I splash some icy cold water onto my face and dry it roughly with a towel in the hope I might feel better. I don’t.
    Downstairs, I see the evidence of last night’s excess. On the kitchen table sit two empty bottles of red wine, leftover Indian takeaway and the crumpled letter from my mother. The room smells of lamb Biryani and I gag. It seemed like such a good idea last night. Before I allow myself a coffee, I start to tidy my mess. The place looks like a student house. The yellow rice has gone hard and dried to the plate and I have to chip away at it over the kitchen bin before plunging the plate into a steaming hot sink full of Fairy bubbles. I put the empty bottles in a plastic bag and notice there are red rings of wine on the table. I scrub hard and eventually they fade.
    The room looks respectable again and only now do I reward myself with breakfast. I make an extra strong pot of filter coffee and pop two pieces of brown bread into the toaster. My head continues to thump and I get myself a large glass of water. The pressure in my skull is unbearable, as if screws are being forced into it from all angles.
           As I munch the warm toast, I start to feel drunk again. The food hitting my stomach is stirring up the alcohol and I feel it work its way through my system, flooding through my veins making the world feel distant again. I like the numbness. It helps me forget. Then the phone rings and wakes me from my daze. The sound is piercing and offends my tender ears. Gingerly I answer.
           ‘Hello?’
    ‘You’re awake then.’ Charlie sounds cross.
           ‘Oh don’t be like that. I feel shit as it is.’
           ‘So you should. I’m not bloody surprised, the amount you put away last night.’ There is a silence and then, ‘Did it help?’ He knows the answer.