Page 22 of Quake
9
Juliette
February nineteen.
I came home early that night, heartbroken that I’d just been stood up by the guy I’d fallen madly in lust with. We were meant to go out and have dinner—takeout from the fish ‘n’ chip shop on the beach—then go to the eight thirty session of Ghostbusters at the Moonlight Cinema. Him, me, a beanbag for two, the ocean at our backs, the big screen before us, and a tub of popcorn to fight over. Then he’d walk me home and kiss me on the porch.
But he never showed.
I’d walked home in tears, my heart smashed into a thousand pieces. I’d opened the front door, oblivious to the fact that down the hall, Melanie was lying in her bed, taking her last breaths.
Later, the police detective assigned to the case told me I’d disturbed the perpetrator before he could finish…but he had. Finished, that was. She was past saving. We all knew it even though no one wanted to say it. Nobody ever did.
The press,the vultures. They circled for scraps, they wrote stories, and when they couldn’t find anything, they made it up. All for money.Money. They sensationalized my sister’s murder.
I did what I had to. I had no choice.
* * *
Thankful todayof all days was a Sunday, I hid inside my tiny flat, not feeling up to facing the world.
Every year, without fail, the papers would report on the cold case, dredging up the details of my sister’s murder. Over and over again. Then there were the news reports.
As the years went by, they’d become less and less until they only reported on the anniversary. To a certain degree, I could understand that the police were still looking for leads, but to my parents and me? It just felt like rubbing salt into an open wound.
Perhaps we would just have to come to terms with the fact that they would never catch the guy. Either way, Mel was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. That was something we definitely needed to come to terms with. Me especially. She was my twin, my constant all those years, and now I was alone.
Taking the manuscript ofThe Fighterout of my bag, I sat on the couch and opened to the first page. It’d been a few weeks since I snuck it from the office, my quest for the next great, undiscovered novel falling to the wayside. I’d allowed my fear to overcome me, and I’d slipped back into bad habits. Not anymore.
Today, on the anniversary of Mel’s death, I would renew my battle. I reckon she would be all over that.
My phone started ringing, the sound startling me in the calm Sunday morning? silence. The unit block was quiet, everyone still sleeping in or having lazy breakfasts.????
Glancing at the screen, I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue. It was my mother. Knowing she would only panic and be more difficult to deal with the longer I ignored her, I answered the call, my burst of positive energy fizzling out.
“Honey,” she said. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”
She was crying again.
“Hey, Mum,” I replied, settling in on the couch. I would be here for a while unless I said something to inadvertently piss her off. It was a high possibility.
“You should be here,” she began, scolding me. “You should be here to put flowers on your sister’s grave.”
Our yearly bonding over Mel’s death usually saw me spending the day with Mum because Dad couldn’t handle her anymore. We would spend a few hours tending to Mel’s grave, placing new flowers, making sure the headstone was clean and the grass was being cared for. I wasn’t there this year, and I was relieved. Mum always made a scene at the cemetery.
“Mum,” I said, trying to keep my annoyance down to absolute minimum. “You need to get out a little more. Stop dwelling.”
“Get out?” she asked, sounding offended. “How can I get out on today of all days?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. It was just…she’d held onto her grief for far too long, and now it was all she could feel. Pain had become familiar to her. I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t think Mel would like it, either. That was one of the biggest reasons why I’d moved two states away.
No matter what any of us did, Mel’s murder still haunted us. Some more than others.
“I don’t like you living in that city,” she went on, her disappointment in me crystal clear. “You should be here with us.”
“You know why I moved,” I said, almost snapping at her. “I…”
“You had to get away from us,” she scolded. “We were just too much for you.”
