Nothing Left Behind

About the Author

L. J. Cherry was born in Welwyn Garden City, but raised from a young age in Swansea. Taking a great interest in politics, history, and philosophy, his education took him to Oxford Brookes University. After graduating with a 2.1 in Politics and Philosophy, he moved to Brighton and spent the next five years working with students from troubled backgrounds and with mental health difficulties. Moving back to Swansea, whilst continuing his work with students, he acquired a diploma in existential counselling, studied psychology, and volunteered in his spare time supporting bereaved people with Cruse Bereavement Care. An admirer of existential philosophy, Liam has attempted to sew its ideas throughout this story. As a first-time author, Liam is excited to share this book with you and he hopes you enjoy reading it, as much as he enjoyed writing it.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my beautiful wife, Leah. She has stood by me and endured all of my crazy schemes, such as writing a novel.

Copyright Information ©

L.J. Cherry 2022

The right of L.J. Cherry to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398436381 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398436398 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I am very grateful to Austin Macauley Publishers for seeing my vision and bringing my book to life. At a time when so many will not even consider new authors, Austin Macauley are bringing new and exciting authors into our libraries and book shops.

Chapter 1 – The End Part 1

He walked into his house. This task was managed, with surprising ease – he walked to the door, inserted the key, turned it clockwise until he heard the familiar click of the lock, applied sufficient force on the handle and let himself in – he feared now he was getting all too close to sober. He went straight to the kitchen and shuffled in the alcohol cupboard for something, anything, to prevent such a catastrophe. He didn’t need to stay inebriated for much longer, just enough to see him to the end. Vodka. A third of a bottle. That’ll do, he thought. He brought the bottle to his lips and tilted it just enough for the liquid to slowly transport from the bottle into his stomach. He drank it in one go. There was a time, he thought fleetingly, when the taste of vodka would make him heave, make him reach for something to chase it with to remove the taste. Now, however, it tastes of nothing, his tongue was numb to vodka… to anything, actually. How he had punished his tongue, his mouth, his body, recently. He really was sobering up and he was desperate for the vodka to kick in and remove these truths from his mind.

Sitting on the sofa, he peered down at his hands. There were a few blood stains, some mud, a nasty cut. Tentatively bringing them to his face, they smelt of all-too-many things. He hadn’t washed in days. He could feel it in his mouth. Dry. His tongue noticed the coating on his teeth, it was dense, carpet like. And then it found the spot where, until recently, one of his teeth had been. He felt now the punch that knocked it out. It was a good punch he had to admit. One, in any normal circumstances, he would have thoroughly deserved. But he thought then, and still does now, with what is coming does it matter? Does any of it really matter? Take what you can get, when you can get it, that’s what he thought. There is no room for morals, for morality even, there is no good and evil anymore. It is all moot. Because, when faced with it… when you are face-to-face with the end, you have to grab all that you can get, before that scythe taps you on the head.

Footsteps upstairs. He listened as the creaking floorboard gave away his wife’s path. The bathroom. Quiet. Then the groaning of the pipes as she turned on the tap. Creak… creak… creak. She was near the top of the stairs now. He stayed quiet, not daring to breathe. He knew, however, that she wouldn’t come downstairs. She was terrified of him. A stranger, she said, in her own house. For a moment, he imagined what was going through her head, perhaps a quiet sobbing. In fact, sobbing was the only state he knew her in anymore. Gone was the anger, the hope, the disappointment. Now, to him, she was a walking sobbing machine. And then, warmth. The vodka was doing its job. The warmth filled his stomach, his chest, it climbed up his throat and into his head. Creak, creak, creak. She was back in bed.

It was time. He was hoping the alcohol would numb his emotions. He tried to swallow it down, but it was of no use, he felt the tear land on his hand. Then another. He gave up fighting it, the tears streamed down his face. He could taste the salt of them in his mouth, how nice it was to taste something, he thought for a fraction of a second. His hands were shaking, on the verge of hysterical. Then anger. You will not dictate this, he thought. ‘You will not dictate this,’ he whispered out loud through gritted teeth, ‘I will decide my time.’ For a moment, his mind deceived him, and he considered his wife’s sadness upon seeing him in the morning. Twenty-four hours, he told himself, what does it matter if she is sad for twenty-four hours?

It was time. With his right hand, almost beyond his own control, he picked up a cushion and placed it against the left side of his head. His left hand then, shaking, pulled open the hidden draw under the sofa. Taking out the letters, he placed them on the coffee table. Then he unwrapped the newspaper and pulled it out. Heavier than he remembered, he felt the weight of the cold steel in his hands. He shook all over, violently now. This was it. It was time. With the cushion still in place, he brought the revolver up to it, aligned it with his temple, and squeezed on the trigger…

Chapter 2 – The Neighbour

Part 1

Thud… thud… thud. She recoiled on the sofa, squeezing herself against its arm, she clenched her knees into her chest and hid her pale face behind them. The pace of her heartbeat quickened as the sound seemed to tremble her whole body. Thud… thud… thud. Her nails pierced the skin of her shins; however the pain wasn’t recognised by her brain. At first, and for only a fleeting second, excitement came over her, the excitement of what could it be? But it left her almost as soon as it came, her anxiety overwhelming every cell in her body. A cold shiver ran down her spine whilst her palms began to sweat. A tiny voice inside was screaming at her, but it was so faint, so quiet, no words were understood. In fact, all sound was drowned out now, the news on the television, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the regular drip of the tap in the kitchen, all blended into a distant white noise as the thuds dominated every sense.

THUD… THUD… THUD.

‘Huh.’ A sharp, fearful gasp, combined with an involuntary jump of her whole body. Then a whinny, terrified moan made its way out of her now quivering lips. She knew what she had to do. It was obvious to her, yet so alien at the same time. To any normal person this would be easy, simple, an everyday task. But to Eve, this was an event she feared happening every second. She knew too, what was out there. You see, she didn’t feel safe inside her house, far from it, she just felt safer than outside her house. What it was, the bringer of the noise, was the world. The whole world. It was out there. Just outside, on her front porch. It haunted her. Mocked her. Stood there and waited. Its eyes pierced her through every window. It’s sound screamed at her through cats screeching, lawnmowers mowing, the footsteps of joggers passing by. It waited to pounce on her as soon as she left. Like a hermit crab leaving its shell she became vulnerable outside that door. Fragile. Weak. She could be harmed in so many ways. She so rarely left, only when she had to. Once a week to see the doctor and, perhaps, once a fortnight when she had run out of all groceries.

THUD… THUD… THUD.

‘Aah!’ A slight scream this time combined with another jump. The screech of the letter box. ‘Hello dear… I’m sure you are in, it’s only me.’ She could see now, from the sofa she was pressed into through the letter box into the world.

‘Okay… okay… okay… okay… okay… okay,’ Eve’s mouth whispered slight encouragement to herself. Standing up, with shaking knees, she embarked on the long walk to the door. Clutching at the cabinet and wall to balance herself on the way, she eventually made it. Her heart was audible through her chest and with a slow, quivering breath, she precariously opened the door.

‘Hello dear.’ She heard the old woman’s voice from beyond the door. ‘Just had some leftover casserole I thought you’d like.’ With a smile, she handed over the baking tray. Eve’s thin, shaking arms took it off her, her wild fearful eyes didn’t leave her neighbours face, staring at her as if a lion trying to gain entry and she quickly shut the door behind her without a word.

She survived. A deep breath. Eve placed the casserole in the kitchen, this wasn’t her first casserole from her neighbour, and it was not her preferred meal. Last time she was so fearful the neighbour would smell the thing in Eve’s bin, she forced it all into her churning stomach.

Sitting back on the sofa the ticking off the clock, the taps drip and the television all filled her ears once again with their sound and she relaxed, a little. Just at that time a most curious news story was being told, which brought all of Eve’s fears rushing back again.

Chapter 3 – The Dragon Part 1

Joel gave himself ten seconds, a deep breath, attempting to mask his weariness, before walking through the front door. He was immediately pounced upon.

‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’

He spun her around and held her at his hip whilst she clung to his neck. He smiled. How his troubles seemed to melt away with her contagious smile.

‘You’re late, Daddy.’

Rayna, his wife, kissed him and handed him a cup of tea.

‘He’s not your daddy, silly!’

Rayna tickled her daughter until she was squirming in Joel’s arm… it was all he could do to prevent the tea from spilling.

‘I ran over today.’ He sighed. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Again?’

‘It’s been a long week.’ Their eyes locked. ‘Every week seems to be getting longer. There’s something in the water, I can sense a difference at work.’

‘You’re tired. I can see it in your face.’ Rayna’s hand gently placed itself on his cheek. ‘You sleep okay last night?’

‘Not the best. But not the worst.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll sleep better tonight.’

But probably not, he thought. The truth was he hadn’t slept well for weeks. He had been plagued with anxiety provoking nightmares. He’d had nightmares before, but rare and sporadic. These were different. Each night, without fail, regular as clockwork, and deeply disturbing. In fact, they disturbed him to his core. But he didn’t want to share them with his wife yet, he told himself he didn’t want to worry her. But, honestly, he thought it would make them too real to say out loud. They only existed in his memory and he wanted to keep it that way, for now at least. Tonight would be no exception.

He sat beside his daughter, telling one of her favourite bedtime stories. In fact, if he was totally honest, it was his favourite bedtime story that she kindly allowed him to read to her most nights:

…and Sam told his mum, ‘Mum, I saw a baby dragon under my bed.’

‘There is no such thing as dragons, Sam, just ignore it,’ said Mum. So, Sam ignored the dragon.

The next day, Sam saw the dragon again, but this time it was too big to fit under his bed. It walked past him in the hallway. ‘Mum, I saw the dragon again!’

‘I told you, there is no such thing as dragons, just ignore it and it’ll go away.’ So, Sam ignored the dragon.

The next day, Sam saw it in the bathroom, but he closed his eyes and said, ‘There is no such thing as dragons.’ When he opened them, the dragon was gone. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The next day, Sam went into his parents’ bedroom to wake them up, and there was the dragon, in the corner of the room, even bigger than before. Now it was bigger than him. He closed his eyes, and repeated, ‘There is no such thing as dragons. There is no such thing as dragons.’ When he opened them, the dragon had disappeared. But Sam knew it would be back.

When he came home from school, the dragon was in the kitchen, it was nearly as tall as the room and its head as big as a bath. But his mum just walked around the dragon to make food. Did she not see it? Sam thought. He closed his eyes… it disappeared. Sam’s dad wasn’t anywhere to be found. Sam asked his mum, ‘Mum, where is Dad?’

Sam’s mum replied, ‘Ignore the dragon, Sam, and it’ll disappear.’

Sam was confused and asked his mum the same question, ‘Mum, where has Dad gone?’ But Sam’s mum gave the same answer.

The next day Sam woke up to hear the walls of the house groaning. He got out of bed and noticed a dragon wing bulging through his door. He