Welcome to Paradise

Chapter 1

Her eyes fluttered open. Cold sweat puddles around her. 

She let out a tired sigh. These nightmares would always keep haunting her. 

Slowly, she heaved herself out of her bed. It looked puny in the cramped room. $500 per month was way too much to pay for this tiny apartment. 

Carefully, she made her way to the pile of clothing that was stacked in the corner. 

Suddenly, the ear-piercing ring of the old telephone that hung on the yellow-stained wall echoed around the room. Hesitantly, she picked it up. Her hand shook. Phone calls never ended well. No-one ever called her, unless it was either to tell her that her taxes were due, or that someone had died. The last one wasn’t very likely, as most of the people she knew had already passed away. However, there was still a chance that it was… no, that wasn't possible. 

A syrupy-sweet voice sounded on the other side of the line. 

΅Hello, am I speaking with miss Wendy Parkinson?”

A small lump formed in her throat. She HATED being called by her old sur-name. She had changed her sur-name recently, to get away from the memories. 

She swallowed. 

“Yes, why are you calling me?” 

The woman hesitated. 

“Umm, miss, maybe you should get ready. I have some bad news…”

Fuck. A cold shiver ran down her spine. A ragged breath came out of her mouth. Then another one. And another one. Her legs collapsed under her. Her numb fingers were draped with sweat, and the phone dropped, crashing to the ground. 

“Miss… Are you okay?”

Shakily, she picked the phone back up. 

“Y-yes. W-who was it?”

“Sorry miss, I don’t understand you. What do you mean?”

“WHO DIED?” She responded, with an unintended harsh voice. “I’m sorry, I just want to know who passed away.” She added quickly. 

“Umm… It was your brother, Peter Pan Parkinson.”

That was when she lost it. The phone dropped, landing with a small crack beside her. A sore, hurt wail filled the small space, one of an injured animal, and it took her a while to realise it was herself. She screamed until her throat was sore, until all the oxygen was drained out of her lungs. She punched the walls until her knuckles bled. Wonkeling, she made her way through the mess she had created towards the mini-fridge in the corner of her apartment. Cold air blew against her hot, blood-rushed face. It was almost empty, except for an old bottle of whiskey she had gotten from her former partner, who had recently revealed himself to be an alcoholic drug-dealer involved in human trafficking. 

Her hand shakily reached out for it. 

This is dumb. I shouldn’t be doing this! 

It was too late to stop now. She barely hesitated as she poured it down her throat. It hurt. It burned. She loved it. 

She couldn’t stop. She willed herself to stop, but her body wouldn’t obey. It kept drinking, hungry for more. She couldn’t breathe. The acid liquid kept flowing down. Drool was leaking out of her mouth. 

It continued. It continued for so long. Seconds turned to minutes, turned to hours, turned to days, turned to decades. Until there was nothing left. 

She collapsed on her side. Crimson was coming out of her nose, staining the wooden floor. She felt bile rise up in her throat. She let out a dry, desperate cough, which soon turned into a rampage of never-ending noise as her body convulsed forward, draining her energy.