Held

M McBride T.

Description

A love story spanning decades as two men not only fight the world for their love and its changes surrounding them but also one another while they battle the one thing that tears them apart.At the tender age of fifteen, Matt and Justin instantly fall in love. While time grows and matures, so do they and their relationship. Years pass and are torn from one another as their lives take them in separate directions. The political and social constructs start to define their lives and the people who they become.Can what we believe holds us, end up being our own destructive force, potentially being the one thing that destroys us, crumbling our lives?Eventually, we all have to let go.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528966764
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

H eld
T. M. M cBride
A ustin M acauley P ublishers
2023-01-06
Held About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Preface Prologue Part One I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX Part Two I II III IV Part Three I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII Part Four I II III IV V VI VII Part Five I II III IV V VI Part Six I II III IV V VI Epilogue
About the Author
Australian born, growing up in a small town outside Sydney, McBride started his writing from childhood, creating short stories for his parents. McBride would continue his writing, experimenting in different fields.
Gradually, McBride moved into the film industry, writing short and full-length screenplays, including producing and directing his own work. Whilst working on film sets around Sydney, McBride came up with the desire to commence work on his premise for his debut novel.
Held is McBride’s first novel.
Dedication
For Faye.
Copyright Information ©
T. M. McBride 2023
The right of T. M. McBride to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 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.
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 9781528931687 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528931694 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528966764 (ePub e book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
First and foremost, I wish to thank my parents, Sue and Rog, who have believed in me and pushed me to be the person I can be, taking on this journey with me.
Preface
Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come; thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread;
and forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us;
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
Amen.
Prologue
Truth. What is truth but an inept social and emotional deconstruction of what is real and what is false. For there can be no truth without a lie and there cannot be a lie without the truth. Strange, yes, but in fact, honest. True. The only thing the truth can do is destroy. Yes, there are times and moments for which a lie within our lives can hold a beautiful notion and intent of truth. A beautiful truth in which holds the potential for promise. Unfortunately, the real beauty within this world is a beautiful lie. The truth holds love, affection, happiness, and yet there are also those moments where, if not careful, the truth, more than sufficiently, holds within it the ability of destruction, hate and even pain. Sometimes it can do more harm than good and yet it is a craving. A craving that we all acquire throughout the entirety of our lives. We ask for the truth when we don’t want to hear it and we don’t ask for the truth when we do want to hear it. Is this a juxtaposition or a beautiful truth in itself? He sits there and he ponders.
He sits there, thinking. Thinking of the times he expressed the truth to encourage pain, when he spoke the truth for self-encouragement, for self-relief, for selfish reasons only he can know. Those horrible truths for which promoted and indulged his self-happiness but destroyed another’s, that of course, he did on purpose. A purposeful action that he took upon himself because he wanted that person to hurt. He wanted them to bleed, to crumble, to remember. But it wasn’t just spoken, his truth. His truth was acted upon. They say actions can speak louder than words. He believes that he, as a man (now broken by his own truths), his actions of truth acted through him and then were spoken when he opened his mouth. A confusing concept, he knows, but a concept nonetheless in which he deeply believes in, no matter how wrong he may be.
That’s another. Wrong. How could this once proud, strong, intelligent and sexually confident man ever be so wrong. For all the while he believed himself to be right. Always. But what he wasn’t seeing was how wrong he was, and of course, as a man reaches the end of his journey, only then will he look back and understand, truly understand, what he has done.
He loved and he feared. He joyed and he fell as he rose and rose as he fell. The creases and lines residing on one’s face, all tell a story. Each crease and line representing a year within what some would call a short life. It is said that one can know when another has lived an extraordinary life by the amount of lines and creases that someone displays upon their face. Nearly one hundred percent of the time a complete falsehood. But there is a percentage for which it’s true. And for the man sitting in front of his window, it was.
Looking out through the window, he couldn’t help but compare the ridiculous and unforgiving double entendre he was looking at and how, after everything, it would finally be true. For the sun that shines so brightly, emanating a sense of warmth that only the sun can do, was dying. Slowly and gracefully dying. Into the horizon it falls. Like all great things, it must. If the sun never dies, the moon can never live. It might be seen during the day but it isn’t actually living. But the moon can only be given birth by the death of the sun and the sun can only be given birth by the death of the moon. Such is the way of life. As he sits here, he knows he already realised this truth years before. For the simple fact of it all is that a child can be born into this world only if he dies.
And so, we are back to the sun and the striking resemblance it holds to the man’s own life. For with the sun, he must die along with it. And, as they die together, they will also give birth to something beautiful. A gift of hope. Though it may only be a small amount of hope, it is still a gift. So, he sits there and hopes. Hopes for a beautiful beginning for the child to come and take his place. Hopes that with his death, gives birth to not only a child, but a happier world. As conceited as it sounds, it is coming from a man who thought of nothing but himself for most of his life and only loved, so he believed, to only benefit himself. What he didn’t know was how wrong he was.
For the man had loved in so many ways, and he loved, ever so deeply, with a gentle touch of a humanity he never really knew he had within him. In return, he was loved just the same. The only person who was able to see him for who and what he truly was—a boy. This lover, with a face the Greek Gods would look down and admire and compare to that of Aphrodite. A broad and innocent smile that gave just a hint of mischief, knowledge of another’s secrets and two dimples which could melt even the sternest of men and women. His smile never betrayed him; his seeming innocence and soft nature was often mistaken for just that, but underneath resided a strength and unrivalled intelligence, a fierceness very few ever saw.
His name was Matt Survino. Christened Matthew James Survino, he was often nicknamed Matt or Mattie, depending on who he was with. Although brought up within a deeply religious Catholic household, he never, not really, ever drew much from it nor did he seriously follow it once freed from the dwelling he grew to despise and love at the same time. But for Matt, it was Justin. It was Justin who became his anchor and he Justin’s, who he had forgiven all sins and eventually loved more fiercely than God. As Jesus died for the sins of man, so would Matt dying for Justin’s. No matter what, he would sacrifice his soul so that Justin may be forgiven, rising with the angels while he fell with Satan’s demons. Justin was more important. Justin was everything. What Matt didn’t know, was that he too would rise.
The man who sits in front of his window looking out at the dying sun as it slowly begins its journey, sinking below the rolling hills of a southern landscape, breathes deep and sighs. As he does so, he weakly takes hold of the frayed edges of his sweat-stained bathrobe, wrapping it tightly around him as the cool night breeze edged its way through the room’s window. A robe he hadn’t taken off for months. Vomit and blood still laid traces in its matted threads. He didn’t care. He liked the dirt and the grime. It’s what he deserved. After it all. After everything. He deserved it. Who was he to argue with God? Who was he to question the Universe and the decisions made within its greatness? The answer—none. This man was Justin.
Justin. Once beautiful with a careless and carefree nature, who loved life so much, to the point that he unknowingly allowed it to destroy him, was now a crumpled, sick and distant man who had only reached his thirty-sixth year. His once fair skin, now sickly pale and sunken down to his bones. The thick blonde, wavy locks he knew so well, had now all fallen out. His bright blue eyes, now slightly glazed from partial blindness, bore dark, deep circles underneath them. But it was his weight which scared others the most. Dropping to a near thirty to forty kilos, all one saw was basically his bones. An appearance that made it seem like he had just walked out of a German concentration camp. Sitting in his own soiled pants and a t-shirt he had worn every day for two years, he had all but given up on medication. Saw no need for it. He was dying anyway so why prolong the process? ‘Let it all be over and done with,’ he would say.