I Unlove You

I
UN
LOVE YOU

BY MATTHEW TURNER

Smashwords Edition

Published by Turndog
Publishing

Copyright
©
2015 Matthew Turner. All Rights
Reserved

THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY

To
write a book is strange because you spend so much time lost
within your own mind and whimsey, yet it takes a true army of
people to bring it together into some form of sense and substance.
This is the part of the book where I thank those in my life who
helped transform these pages into something more, and to the kind
people I
’
m lucky to call friends, family, and loved
ones.

These latter folk tend to keep me sane(
ish
).

I
’
ll begin with my parents, two people I love a
great deal but never share this knowledge enough. To say you
support me, help me, love me, and believe in me is an
understatement, and I wake up each day thankful for you both, and
it
’
s the two of you that drive me to be
better
…
do
better
…
make myself proud because I know if I achieve this,
I
’
ll do you proud, too.

To
the rest of my family and closest friends, you know who you are.
I
’
m thankful and appreciative to you too, but once again
don
’
t show it or say it enough. I apologise for this, but
here I am to say I value you and love you. Without you, I
couldn
’
t do
this
- and when I
say
this
, I mean life in general.

And
Rosanna
…
as I write this I haven
’
t known you long,
but I feel like I know you better than any other person on this
planet. I love you. I love how you love me back. I trip and stutter
far too often, but you
’
re there to keep me
upright. Thank you for this. I hope you
’
re always there
to keep me standing.

Like I say, it takes an army to share a book like this with
the world. I may have wrote the words, but it
’
s Dianne
Hall who helped bring these words and sentences and scenes to
order. Your editing and guidance made all the difference, and I
look forward to lots of future projects as well.

As
for Ruth Wilkinson and your talented artistic design
skills
…
well
…
all I can say is thank you for producing a beautiful I
absolutely love. I know I drove you insane with my darn perfection,
but I think we created something meaningful, don
’
t you?
Here
’
s to you, Ruth. You did a stellar
job.

And to the Beta Readers and Early
Readers who not only provided the finishing touches to this tale,
but helped share it before anyone else had chance to, you should
flick over to the next page. I think you may like what
awaits.

Finally, here
’
s to
you
…
the reader
…
the fine individual who reads these very words.
Whether I know you personally or not, I appreciate you and value
you and look forward to getting to know you better. This journey
I
’
m on isn
’
t mine,
it
’
s
ours
. The fact
you
’
re part of this matters, and I hope
you
’
ll delve further down the rabbit hole after
you
’
ve read this novel (
more on this after you
’
ve read the
book
…
)

And
finally-finally, here
’
s to
The Kid;
my son; my light and my muse. You
’
re
beautiful and changed my life for the better. I
’
m so
proud of you, and I want the world to know that I wake up each day
striving to make you proud of me.

Thank you, all.
Let
’
s toast to literature and the finer things in
life.

Matthew Turner

A
Big
Thank You To All Those Wonderful People Who Helped Transform This
Book From Good To Great. To This List Of Beautiful Beta & Early
Readers
…
Thank You. I Appreciate you

THE
LETTERS
OF AUS & B

BY MATTHEW TURNER

Set
during the weeks leading up to when
I
Unlove You
begins,
The Letters of Ausdylan &
Beatrice
introduces you to
the novel
’
s two main characters, their relationship, and
what love, life, and living means to them.

These 30 short and intimate letters are the ideal companion
to
I Unlove You
, so before you delve into the main story, you may
like to download this short prequel for free.

And
yes
…
before you ask
…
there are a few hints among these
letters that answer some large questions
I
Unlove You
unravels.
Intrigued and wish to transform this reading experience into
something more. . . ?

DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE BOOK HERE

Dedicated To The Kid. My Son. MY MUSE.

NOVEMBER 15
^TH
- A BATHROOM FLOOR:

Beatrice Butterworth is a bitch. That
’
s how the
dream ends, me shouting and falling into a dark and eerie abyss. My
eyes shoot open, and for a few seconds I
’
m at peace.
There is no pain. There is no despair. There are no lies or deceit.
There
’
s nothing but a soothing, calming, numbing
nothingness, until everything turns against me and transforms into
torture.

“
Urghhh,
”
I groan, my head throbbing and
throat dry.

I
close my eyes, light
’
s
burden
’
s too great. My mind continues its unstable
spin. Clenching my fists, I try and force my hands to my face, but
I
’
m unable to move. I
’
m too heavy, far too
heavy, as if something or somebody sits on my chest.
What can I remember? What the hell
happened? Where on earth am I?

The
last thing I recall is standing outside of work, catching my breath
after storming out of Tony
’
s office. Did I
really say all those things to him? Did I tell him to sit down and
shut up whilst I stood in
his
office? I couldn
’
t have. I
wouldn
’
t have
…
only, I did. I
remember it. I remember the white room and his drained face. It
doesn
’
t seem real, but it is.

“
What the
hell?
”
I whisper, each word whistling through my cracked
lips.

Blinking, I open my eyes long
enough to explore the strange place where I lay: blue and grey
tiles reach up to a cracked ceiling; an extractor fan vibrates in
the corner, covered in dirt and murk; and a patch of green mould
encircling a brown centre. I appear to be in a bathroom, and a
rather grim one at that.

I take a deep breath and focus my
thoughts, but all I do is disturb my fragile stomach. I hurt, all
over. Not just aches and pains of muscles and tendons, but a
throbbing surge running up my left arm. I tap my right fingers
against the hard, tiled floor, and run my nails along its surface
to my thigh and onto my frozen skin.

I
hadn
’
t realised until now, but I
’
m cold; numb,
even. Running my hand up and down my right side, all I find are
boxer shorts, as damp and cold as my skin.
“
What the hell
happened?
”
I mumble, using all my strength to roll on to my
side.

The
pain running up my left arm intensifies, the pounding in my head
gets heavier, the rumble in my stomach an unbearable tumble.
“
What have
you done?
”
I mumble again, struggling up into a sitting position and
evaluating the chaos around me.

Two
fallen and finished bottles of cheap whisky lay to my right, and a
half-eaten burger to my left. All alone in this bare bathroom,
I
’
m surrounded by a toilet and a sink, a cracked mirror
above it. No towels, pictures, or semblance of life. No toilet
roll, toothbrushes or shower. Just me and my mess, and a pile of
vomit inches from my hand.

“
Oh, God,
”
I say, edging away from
it.

I search the area for my clothes,
but find nothing on the floor except the empty bottles and
discarded burger. Cuts and bruises cover my knees and shins, and a
discoloured purple patch, consumes half my left arm. At least that
answers the mystery behind my throbbing pain, although how it came
to be remains a riddle.

Closing my eyes, I focus and think, but all I remember is
standing outside the office. I suppose I drank, but how much?
I
’
ve suffered through horrendous hangovers before, but
never like this. This isn
’
t me. I
don
’
t do this. Neither do I confront my boss the way I
did.