Page 71 of Vow of Revenge
I could imagine her standing in the doorway, hand on hip with her sassy smile. I let myself visualise the details, how she wore her hair, and I even let her wear the daring black dress she bought the other day… No, it wasn’t just the other day. It was a few weeks ago. I wanted it to be just yesterday. I wanted to tell her she looked beautiful in that dress. I wanted the dress right that instant.
I freed myself from the sheets and ran back to her room. My heart pounded. I needed to find that very dress. It was the last thing I remember her buying. I hated it because it was too short, and she loved it because it was too short.
The wardrobe was crammed. The smell of her perfume so strong, like my remorse. My head shook, there were so many things we still needed to do together. Our future kids were supposed to grow up, side by side, just as we did.
With the tags still attached, I carefully removed her dress from the hanger and held it for a second – just staring at the silky soft material.
“Go on, Freya, don’t be chicken,” I whispered, using her words with my voice. I knew that’s what she would say to me.
Stepping into it, I gently pulled it up over my stomach and onto my shoulders. The hem finished mid-thigh – ending a little longer on me than it had on her long legs.
Backing into her room, gazing at the long mirrors, the hairs on my skin lifted. I suddenly felt a wave of fear rattle my bones. The apartment was so quiet. It was eerie. I merely lived in a small part of the big world, where no one knew what pain existed behind my front door. A weight of unease pressed on my lungs, forcing out long breaths. My hair was dishevelled. I looked a complete mess, with gaunt sickly skin and sunken eyes.
It was only when I considered sorting out my hair that I saw it - her brush, left where she tossed it after getting ready to see Danny. That bastard. A thick lump stuck in my throat. I tried to swallow. The slow gulp made a loud noise that was followed by a whimper. Individual strands of dark hair wrapped the bristles.
Syrah’s hair.
Her beautiful silky hair.
A part of her – something real.
It was the only thing left of her.
My head ached from the violent sobs that shook my entire body. “I need out of here!” I yelled. “Syrah, please, help me!”
I trudged back to my room, leaving her brush exactly where she left it. My sister wanted me to wear the dress, she wanted me to go out into the world with it on and have fun. That’s exactly what she would tell me to do if she was here.
So I pulled out my favourite knee high boots and leather jacket. The red lipstick I wore to the Gala was the perfect addition, even if it was too much effort to apply. Sitting on the bed, I ruffled my hair, staring at my sad reflection. Heartbreak and bereavement had stripped me of radiance.
Suddenly, I didn’t have the energy to move.
I missed her.
I missed him.
A drink was needed to take the edge off my heightened emotions. I mustered just enough energy to put one foot in front of the other, traipsing down the stairs and into the lounge where all the booze were kept.
Syrah loved champagne. Calvin produced his own brand, corking fifty bottles with her name splashed in gold on a pearly pink label, for her twenty first birthday. There were only ten bottles left, we usually popped one open at special occasions, or when we felt like it.
This was far from a special occasion, but nevertheless, I popped the cork for my darling Syrah. The cork ricocheted off the lamp’s shade, landing on the couch. Bubbles oozed over the neck, spilling onto the wooden floor.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, scream or remain mute, fight or give up. Bringing the bottle to my lips I drank, guzzling the fruity liquid with urgency. Gassy bubbles erupted up my throat and I burped. I half giggled, hearing her voice in the back of my mind, laughing along with me.
It was then that it hit me. Everything had changed. She was really gone.
“I love you, Syrah,” I whispered into the lonely air.
Slouching down on the soft leather couch, I continued to swig from the bottle, until it was almost finished. I played music, songs that brought back memories of my sister and I dancing together, chatting together, drinking together.
Music surrounded me in her memory, feeding my loss, until the sadness became anger. The switch flicked and the beast in my belly woke up with a task to destroy.
Emotions mashed together with anger at the fore, leading the rest forward.
I wasn’t the same girl anymore. Just like my sister was a memory – so was, Freya Beaumont. I needed to change my life, to find peace within myself – to start over. I was heartbroken, hurting from the inside, dying in her absence. The world had fucked me again.
I lost my everything all over again.
Syrah gave me what my mother didn’t.
