Limbo: Limbo, #1

By S.L Goulding

"Limbo' is a haunting tale of love, loss, and the dangers of living in the in-between.

Chase is a troubled teenager who is struggling to find a sense of purpose in his life. He soon discovers that he has the ability to astral project into Limbo, an ominous place where people who have committed suicide reside.

There, he meets Ash, a girl who is condemned to roam Limbo for eternity.

 

A once-depressed Chase finds happiness with Ash, and he finds himself unable to enter Limbo, leaving Ash alone and worried. As he falls back into his depression, he seeks out Ash, only to discover that reality and Limbo aren't what they seem. As they try to navigate their feelings and the truth, past actions are brought into the light, and both of their lives are forever changed.

 

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, RAPE AND ABUSE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.L Goulding
• Release date: Sep 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223512226

S.L Goulding

S.L Goulding is an emerging author making her professional debut with this book. Having found solace in the written word from a young age, she started penning stories at the age of eight or nine. Her vivid imagination, akin to a constant movie reel, has been the driving force behind her creative journey. Despite being often lost in daydreams, she has harnessed this trait into crafting compelling narratives and won numerous writing competitions for both stories and poetry. Born and raised in Wigan, where she still resides, Goulding's life has been marked by hardships. From enduring bullying since the tender age of three or four, to grappling with mental health issues and PTSD, her journey has been challenging. However, she has channeled these adversities into her writing, with the hope that her stories might provide comfort and solace to others going through similar experiences. At 25, S.L Goulding is not just an author, but an advocate for mental health awareness. She is determined to use her platform to shed light on the struggles that come with bullying and mental health issues. Her writing is a testament to her resilience and an offering of hope to those who find themselves in the pages of her book.

Book preview

Chapter 1:

Save Him

And have you spoken with your parents about this? The question hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that seemed to consume all the oxygen in the room. An uncomfortable silence fell, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. It was as if a storm cloud had descended upon them, casting a sombre shadow over the scene. The only sound that dared to break the eerie quiet was an occasional drip from the old water cooler in the corner, each drop echoing loudly in the tense silence.

Chase! The principal's voice boomed, slicing through the silence like a hot knife through butter. His shout startled Chase, who was slumped dejectedly in his chair. The teenager looked like he had been through a war zone, his face battered and bruised, a damp towel pressed against his discoloured nose and split lip. Chase flinched visibly at the sound of his name, pain shooting through his body like a bolt of lightning. He winced as the pain radiated from his ribs, spreading up to his head in a searing wave. Answer me, boy! The principal commanded again, his voice stern and unforgiving.

No. They-uh... he paused, silently wincing as his throat hurt. They're not aware. Chase managed to croak out, his words muffled and his voice hoarse from the physical trauma he had endured. Each word was a struggle, pain throbbing in his lip with every syllable. He wasn't a medical expert, but the excruciating pain in his side hinted at possible fractured ribs.

Chase Lawson Miller was not your average 15-year-old. He resided in the picturesque town of Corrales, New Mexico, the offspring of a high-profile lawyer who had climbed the political ladder to become a State Senator. His father was a revered figure in their community, a man whose reputation was untouchable and whose authority was rarely questioned. Yet, the knowledge that Chase's relationship with his father was strained made him a prime target for bullying.

Blake Miller Sr. was a respected figure in society, a man who wore his success like a badge of honour. He often paraded his beautiful wife, Jocelyn Miller, in public and took immense pride in his eldest son, Blake Miller Jr., who was considered the golden child. But beneath the surface of this seemingly perfect family lay darker truths, ones that Chase bore the brunt of.

Blake Jr., a mirror image of his father in every cruel way, was an even more formidable tormentor than the patriarch of the Miller family. His relentless public humiliation of Chase served as an unspoken invitation for others to join in, knowing full well that there would be no consequences for their actions.

Earlier that day, the school's most popular athletes had cornered Chase during gym class. There is a prevailing belief that private schools are sanctuaries of privilege, where life is a breeze compared to the rough and tumble of public institutions. Yet, the reality couldn't be further from this idealistic picture. Private schools, with their polished facades, have a unique talent for sweeping incidents of violent bullying and staff misconduct under the rug, hidden away from prying eyes.

Chase's world was disintegrating around him. The ceaseless bullying at school, coupled with the emotional and physical abuse he endured at home, was driving him towards a dark abyss he had never navigated before. He found himself grappling with questions that no teenager should ever have to ask: How much more could he withstand? Was this the bleak reality he was destined to endure?

So, we are in agreement then, that all of this, the principal gestured with a sweeping hand towards Chase's pitiful state, his words dripping with insincerity, is merely the result of your clumsiness during gym class, correct? His eyebrows arched upwards, the question hanging in the air like a thinly veiled threat, subtly coercing Chase into a silent agreement.

Y-yes, Sir. Chase stammered, his hand instinctively clutching his side. His gaze fell to the floor, a surge of anger welling up within him. Why were the jocks not held accountable? They were the true perpetrators, after all. Chase gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his jaw. With great care, he pushed himself up from his chair, taking care not to put any weight on his potentially fractured foot. Drawing in a deep breath sent waves of agony shooting from his chest down to his legs, but he bore it without a whimper. It was a small act of defiance, a testament to his resolve to not let them see him broken.

Is that all then? The words slipped from Chase's lips, his voice was taut with suppressed fury, a stark contrast to the broken boy he appeared to be.

Mind your tongue, boy! The principal retorted sharply, a stern warning lacing his voice. But Chase was beyond the point of caring about reprimands. He was done being the proverbial punching bag, done swallowing years of torment in silence.

Why should I always be the one to back down? Why am I the one who suffers while they walk away scot-free? His voice started to rise, his tone resolute. I'm the victim here! What about those brutes who did this to me? Or will this just be another incident conveniently swept under the carpet? Chase's sudden defiance seemed to startle him, but his pain was too intense to give any thought to the potential repercussions.

The principal smirked, an unpleasant twist of his lips. So, the little kid wants to play with the big boys today, huh? He chuckled, leaning casually against his mahogany desk as if this were some light-hearted conversation. What seems to be the issue? I was under the impression that these injuries were just the result of an unfortunate gym accident, weren't they? He motioned towards Chase again, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. That's what this accident report states, the one you signed and dated. He held up the incriminating document with a triumphant smirk, waving it in front of Chase like a victorious flag.

And just like that, a wave of crushing defeat washed over Chase, drenching him in its icy grip. As he closed his eyes, he felt as though his stomach had taken a free fall. Nausea washed over him in waves and his already throbbing headache intensified tenfold.

Chase had signed those forms time and time again, each time without bothering to read the fabricated excuse penned down by the manipulative principal. This month alone, he had added his signature to five such 'accident reports'. Each time, he would make a silent vow to himself that he would insist on accuracy the next time - the bullies' names, the actual sequence of events. But when the moment came, he always found himself capitulating, signing away his dignity in the futile hope that just once, the principal might stand up for him, that one day he would become his knight in shining armour. But that day never seemed to come.

After the unpleasant confrontation in the principal's office, Chase found himself limping painfully through the eerily quiet school corridors. He made a valiant attempt to maintain a semblance of normalcy in his gait, but every step he took was a sharp, stinging reminder of the brutal beating he'd endured earlier. As soon as he stepped outside the school premises, he quickened his pace, desperate to put as much distance between him and the place that had morphed from a haven of learning into a battlefield of torment for him.

Home, however, was not the sanctuary it should have been. It offered little respite from the relentless bullying he faced at school. His room was his only refuge, a small corner of the world where he could escape, if only temporarily, from the storm that was his life. Once he was safely ensconced in his room, sleep quickly claimed him, providing a brief reprieve from both his emotional turmoil and the physical pain that coursed through his body. But this tranquillity was fleeting.

The booming voice of his father, Blake Sr., shattered the silence like a thunderclap. Fear twisted in Chase's stomach like a coiling serpent. His father's fury was an unpredictable storm, one from which there was no shelter, no escape.

Blake Sr. had never made any effort to hide his disdain for Chase. The result of a drunken night of self-pity after losing his first and only court case, Chase was an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. Blake Jr., the perfect heir, was already part of their family. A second child, especially one conceived under such circumstances, was superfluous. But terminating the pregnancy was out of the question, a scandal they could ill afford, particularly given their staunch pro-life conservative stance.

To Blake Sr., Chase was a constant, living reminder of his one failure, an embodiment of his moment of weakness. And he made sure that Chase knew it too. In his public speeches, he would shower praises on his wife and his elder son, his true heir, while Chase was conspicuously absent from his acknowledgements. Blake Sr.'s words were a testament to his clear preference, a painful reminder to Chase that he was nothing more than an unwanted footnote in his father's otherwise perfect life.

Chase, get your useless ass down here. NOW! The thunderous command of Blake Sr. reverberated through the hushed house, the rage in his voice a menacing undercurrent that cut through the silence like a serrated blade.

With a pained wince, Chase forced himself from the relative comfort of his bed. His body screamed in protest as he used the solid wood of his bed frame for support, his ribs sending sharp jabs of pain through his side at the effort. The journey downstairs was slow and laborious, each step a battle against the agony that threatened to bring him to his knees. He gripped the banister tightly for support, the coolness of the polished wood providing scant relief from his discomfort. But the relief of successfully navigating the treacherous stairway was short-lived. No sooner had he reached the bottom of the stairs, did he find himself roughly pinned against the wall, his father's fingers clenched around his neck in a vice-like grip. He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, but Blake Sr. beat him to it.

Do you find joy in embarrassing me, boy?! Blake Sr. spat, his icy blue eyes glaring into Chase’s dark brown eyes with a venomous fury. His grip tightened, the pressure against Chase's windpipe increasing. "You are nothing more than a useless ass. I always prayed that your mother would have miscarried when she carried you!"

Chase struggled against his father's iron grip, his lungs screaming for air. He tried to form words, to plead for his release, but all that came out were strangled sputters. He felt helpless, like a fish caught in a bird's talons, flailing desperately for freedom.

For Heaven’s sake, boy, just do us all a favour and DIE! His father's words cut deeper than any physical wound, a verbal blow that left him reeling.

His release came unexpectedly when the shrill ring of Blake Sr.'s cell phone pierced the tense air. With a final shove, Chase was unceremoniously thrown to the floor, his body crumpling under the impact. His father did not spare him a second glance as he answered the phone with the warm, cordial tone of a loving husband and a responsible family man. It was a stark contrast to the monster who had just moments ago attacked his own son with such callous disregard.

As Chase watched his father stride away, his hand instinctively went to his bruised throat. The red imprints of his father's fingers stood out starkly against his pale skin, a painful reminder of the encounter. He wondered if this was all life had in store for him. Who could he turn to for help? His mother? She was no better than his father. While she may not have been physically violent, her silence was just as harmful, an enabling accomplice to his father's actions. When confronted about Blake Sr.'s behaviour, she would dismiss it as 'tough love', a gross misinterpretation of reality. But there was nothing loving about his father's actions, nothing tender about the bruises that decorated his body.

Chase sat there on the cold, hard floor, his back against the wall, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he gradually regained his breath. After what felt like an eternity, he gathered enough strength to haul himself up. With each agonising step towards his room, his limp became more pronounced, a grim testament to the ordeal he had just endured.

Once inside the relative safety of his room, he lowered himself onto his bed, wincing as his bruised body protested against the soft mattress. He allowed his mind to wander, to escape from the harsh reality of his life and lose itself in the world of daydreams - a world where he was part of a loving family, a world where he was cherished by caring siblings. These fantasies were his solace, a soothing balm for his wounded soul. But even amidst these pleasant dreams, a nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind - they would remain just that, dreams.

As the hours ticked by, Chase found himself immersed in this alternate reality, a place where love and affection were not alien concepts. But as the daylight began to fade, he was yanked back into the grim reality of his existence. With a heavy heart, he pushed himself off the bed and hobbled towards the bathroom, the one place where he could find a semblance of peace.

The bathroom was his sanctuary, a place where he could shut out the world and its relentless cruelties. The sound of water filling the tub was a soothing melody that drowned out the cacophony of his thoughts. He reached for a bottle of muscle relaxants from the medicine cabinet, his secret weapon against the physical pain that seemed to be his only constant companion these days.

With utmost care, he climbed into the tub, his body protesting each movement with sharp jabs of pain. As he settled down, a sigh of relief escaped his lips as the warm water enveloped him, washing over his bruised body. He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his aching muscles, the relaxants working their magic.

His mind involuntarily wandered back to the day's events - the torment at school, his father's wrath. Tears welled up in his eyes, the salty droplets spilling over and mixing with the bathwater. His sobs were silent, the only sound in the dimly lit room being the occasional drip from the tap.

He tugged absentmindedly at his hair, a habit he had developed as a coping mechanism. Each pull was a painful reminder of his reality, no matter how much he wished it wasn't. He stayed in the tub until the water turned lukewarm, the muscle relaxants easing the throbbing pain in his body.

Finally gathering the strength to get out of the tub, he wrapped a towel around his waist. His reflection in the mirror was a pitiful sight - a young boy battered and bruised, both physically and emotionally.

Dragging his exhausted body back to his room, he collapsed onto the bed. His stomach growled in protest - he hadn't eaten all day. But the thought of facing his family at the dinner table made him nauseous. They probably hadn't even noticed his absence. To them, he was invisible, a ghost haunting the corridors of their perfect home.

With that thought, he drifted off to sleep, slipping into a world of dreams where he was loved and valued. Tomorrow was a new day, and though he knew it wouldn't be easy, he clung to the hope that it might hold something better for him.

Chapter 2:

Harrowing Day

The piercing shriek from the alarm cut through the stillness of the early morning, startling Chase from a fitful sleep. He grumbled low in his throat, his hand flailing out to slap the snooze button with more force than necessary. His entire body screamed in protest, the throbbing aches from yesterday's ordeal reigniting like a dormant volcano.

Sprawled on his back and gazing blankly at the stark white ceiling above, Chase found himself submerged in the haunting memories of his past. The years of relentless torment and abuse inflicted by those he once held dear, and their associates, echoed chillingly within the austere confines of his room.

At the tender age of 15, Chase had already endured a magnitude of physical and psychological torment that no individual should bear. It was a burden far too heavy for an adult, let alone for a teenager still navigating the tumultuous journey of adolescence. His youth had been unjustly marred by experiences that cast long, dark shadows over his existence.

As he lay there, the oppressive weight of his melancholic existence pressing down on him, he strained to recall the last time he awoke feeling truly refreshed, his spirit invigorated. Such moments seemed like distant echoes, lost in the fog of his troubled past.

With a sigh that seemed to rise from the deepest recesses of his soul, he mustered the strength to sit up. His muscles screamed in rebellion against the effort, a physical manifestation of his internal struggle. Yet, he persevered, pushing past the discomfort, an embodiment of resilience amidst his tumultuous reality.

Getting dressed was an ordeal, a silent skirmish with cloth and clasps that seemed to conspire against him. Each piece of clothing felt like coarse sandpaper grating against his tender skin, every rub a stark reminder of the recent torment his body had endured. The pain was acute and relentless, coursing through him like a storm of lightning bolts, each one searing a path of agony across his already ravaged body.

As he navigated through the house, an unsettling quietness enveloped the atmosphere, making every step towards the kitchen seem louder and more intrusive. His family was congregated around the breakfast table, their silence heavy and tangible, like a thick fog that had seeped into every corner of the room. The silence was not just eerie; it was suffocating, wrapping around him like a shroud and heightening his sense of alienation. He felt like a stranger in his own abode, a foreigner amidst familiar faces.

With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, he reached out, picking up a slice of toast and a glass of water. A tumultuous storm of anxiety and hunger raged in the pit of his stomach, a maelstrom of emotions that clashed and roiled. The result was a disconcerting sensation of nausea that made his head spin, leaving him feeling as if he was teetering on the edge of a precipice.

Stepping out of the house, he embarked on what felt like a treacherous journey to school. Each step was akin to navigating a minefield of anxieties, his breaths becoming increasingly shallow and ragged with every footfall. It felt as though he was attempting to draw breath through a thick cloth, each inhalation a struggle.

His injuries added another layer of discomfort to his journey, making each step a painful reminder of his torment. The nausea swelled within him, a sickening wave threatening to overwhelm him at any moment. Dread and physical pain intertwined within him, creating a toxic cocktail that added a grim undertone to his morning ritual.

As he trudged along, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could endure this daily gauntlet. The relentless cycle of torment and dread was wearing him down, chipping away at his resolve bit by bit. But for now, he pressed on, a lone soldier marching through the battlefield of his life.

Upon arriving at the school premises, a wave of disdain washed over him; manifested through sneers and sniggers from his peers. Their delight in his pain seemed to know no bounds, escalating as he stumbled on the stairs, tripped up by an unseen foot. The impact of his head against the unforgiving concrete steps jolted his entire body, leaving a ringing noise in his ears that drowned out the harsh laughter echoing around him.

Instead of extending a helping hand, the students eagerly reached for their phones, driven by a morbid fascination to capture and immortalise his humiliation. As Chase struggled to rise, a brutal kick from one of the older students sent him sprawling once more. His forehead split open upon impact, causing blood to gush out, creating a peculiar vision of red splattered across his field of view.

In the midst of his agony, he pleaded for mercy, only to be met with cruel laughter. Their enjoyment of his suffering served as a stark reminder of his pariah status. Even the staff members, who were supposed to maintain order and protect students, turned a blind eye, indifferent to his tormentors' actions.

Battered, bruised, and bleeding, Chase pressed his sweater against his forehead in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood. His once-clean shirt was now stained a gruesome shade of red, a visible reminder of the horrors he had endured the day before. Summoning every ounce of strength left within him, he managed to gather himself and stagger inside the school building, his destination being the sanctuary of the nurse's office.

The echoes of derisive laughter followed him like a malignant shadow, the students' scornful remarks reverberating in his ears. As he entered the cafeteria, his gaze was drawn towards a cacophony of amusement emanating from a large screen dominating one wall. To his horror, he saw a video playing that made his blood run cold. It was footage of his brutal beating and the unfortunate loss of bladder control that had followed. The scene had been cleverly filmed, with no visible faces, making it impossible to identify the perpetrators. However, the cruel reality was that everyone in the room knew the victim was none other than Chase.

The students in the cafeteria didn't need visual confirmation. They were intimately familiar with the recurring pattern of Chase's torment at the hands of Kenji, Blake Sr., and Blake Jr., his father and brother, respectively. The evidence of his recent injuries only served to solidify their knowledge. As they watched the video, the realisation set in that the figure writhing in pain on the screen was Chase himself.

In the barren wilderness that had become Chase's existence, three gargantuan figures loomed ominously, casting long, intimidating shadows that stretched across his life. These figures were none other than his father, Blake Sr., his elder brother, Blake Jr., and Kenji, a relentless tormentor who seemed to derive an ungodly amount of pleasure from inflicting deep-seated pain upon young Chase.

Kenji was not always the physical oppressor he later became. He began his reign of terror as a verbal antagonist, brandishing his razor-sharp wit like a sword, slicing through Chase's self-worth with every cutting remark and cruel jibe. His words were invisible daggers that pierced deeper into Chase's spirit than any physical injury ever could, leaving him scarred and bleeding internally.

However, the dynamics of this sadistic game took a sinister turn when Kenji bore witness to the brutal treatment Chase was subjected to at the hands of his older sibling, Blake Jr. Observing Blake Jr.'s ruthlessness towards his younger brother acted as a catalyst for Kenji's malevolent spirit. It emboldened him, prompting a chilling escalation in his approach to torment — from psychological warfare to physical brutality.

Kenji's hands, which had once been mere tools for communication, transformed into lethal weapons of pain. His touch left visible marks on Chase's body — a heart-breaking testament to his suffering that remained tragically overlooked by those who should have been his protectors.

Blake Jr., bound to Chase by blood, should have been his shield against such cruelty. Instead, he played a pivotal role in amplifying his brother's torment. The shared enjoyment they derived from Chase's pain acted as a perverse glue, bonding Kenji and Blake Jr. in a friendship as black as the torment they revelled in.

This unholy alliance, forged in the fires of their shared sadism, created a treacherous terrain for Chase to navigate. Each day brought a new challenge, a new battle to fight, as he struggled to survive amidst the towering figures that threatened to consume his existence.

Their camaraderie formed a grotesque tapestry of sadism, woven from threads of shared malevolence and a mutual enjoyment of Chase's pain. This unholy alliance only served to intensify Chase's suffering, heightening the sense of dread that hung over his life like an impending storm.

The anonymity provided by the faceless video served a dual purpose. For the wider audience on TikTok, the victim's identity remained a mystery, fuelling speculation and intrigue. For Kenji, it offered a layer of protection against potential legal consequences. After all, without a face, there could be no clear accusation - not that his father would ever risk tarnishing his image or involving himself in such a lawsuit. In fact, his father preferred to keep Chase's existence a secret from the world, ensuring that nobody would ever know that Chase truly existed.

Despite the sickening knot in his stomach, Chase couldn't help but admire the cunning manipulation. Kenji had managed to turn his suffering into a spectacle while conveniently ensuring he couldn't be implicated. The injustice of it all added another layer of bitterness to the already painful reality.

He numbly pulled out his phone, opening TikTok. The video on Kenji's profile had already accumulated over 6 million views in just three hours. Scrolling through the comments, he found no words of consolation. Instead, they were filled with requests for more videos of 'Pissy Boy'.

A member of Kenji's gang spotted him standing in the doorway. Hey, look. It's piss boy! He shouted, drawing everyone's attention. Chase found himself being dragged to the centre of the cafeteria, right towards Kenji. The chant of Pissy boy! Pissy boy! rang in his ears as he was paraded like a spectacle in front of his tormentors.

In the harsh glare of the cafeteria lights, Chase found himself tossed before Kenji like a ragdoll. Their stark contrast was glaringly evident - the predator and its prey, a lion ready to pounce on a fragile fawn. Kenji's towering presence, standing at a solid 63, easily dwarfed Chase's 511 stature. The smirk on Kenji's face was a clear indication that the impending confrontation would leave Chase worse for wear.

Despite his throbbing pain and suspected broken ribs, Chase attempted to evade Kenji's brutal assault. However, each attempt proved futile as Kenji's fists found their mark on Chase's stomach and face, leaving him gasping for breath.

The surrounding students, drawn to the spectacle, hooted and jeered, fuelling Kenji's sadistic performance. Chase's body bore the brunt of Kenji's wrath, each punch driving him closer to the edge of consciousness. His mouth tasted metallic, blood and saliva mixing as he coughed, his body crying out for respite.

The shrill ring of the school bell signalled the end of their free period, and the students scattered, leaving Chase crumpled on the floor. Kenji and his gang sauntered off, their laughter echoing in the now-empty cafeteria. Chase found himself sinking onto the floor, cradling his throbbing head, blood from his fresh wound staining his hands.

He rose shakily, tears carving paths down his swollen cheeks. He couldn't endure this any longer. Leaving the school premises,