Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

XX

A faint voice keeps calling my name. I try to answer, but I can't. Whoever it is does not give up as they reach out again. But it makes no difference. Their efforts are to no avail. I can't do anything. They are too far away. Not she, however. She's near, far too close to me. I could almost touch her.

"Clara," I whisper. It has to be a dream. How can I see her? I'm not in a trance, nor am I in a panic attack. How is she here? "Clara!" I shout out to her, and she stops, twisting around so I can see her clearly.

Her face is grim. But it is the exact same as mine. If not that I've known my sister for more years than I have most people, I could have sworn she was my reflection. We both stare at each other, me watching her expectantly and her regarding me lethargically. Her eyes are not rumbling out water like in our usual encounters. She's no different from the last time I saw her, save for the white cloth currently cloaking her body. She looks so real...so undead. My head hurts.

It must be because she seems so much like a human that I am not so afraid of her. Aside from the tireless, persistent ache clomping me upside the head, I feel normal. And apart from the fact that my sister has been long dead, there is no other clue pointing out the reality that I am speaking to her ghost. What does she have to say to me?

"Why..." I start then finally remember to take note of my surroundings. We are not at Tony's house. But, where we are is familiar. Strikingly familiar. It takes a mere second before I recall the pink walls of my aunt's house. "Aunty Benedicta's house? What are we doing—"

Clara rushes forward. The wind picks up. I follow after her.

It's strange. I can feel everything. The heat sticks to me, torrid and stuffy. I remember this day. Teenage Clara and I messed up the air conditioners in our aunt's house. Afterwards, we were unable to turn it back on. Ah... It was the reason for the oppressive, stifling heat that would not stop stuffing my lungs.

Two girls are lying on the sofa. My eyes flick from Clara to them. One has her hair in a net that has sparkly threads woven through all of its surface. The other has her hair in a short bun like I do now. She hated her when her hair got in her face and always held it up and away from her eyes. I know because she's me.

I'm watching us. This was a moment that happened in reality. I can't deny it even if I tried. We are in my memories. Is there something she is trying to show me? I whip around, searching for something out of place. There's nothing to be found.

The three, round mahogany tables form a small circle in the centre of the room where they've always been and where I've known them to belong. The sofas are a light pink that is almost cream in colour as usual. The rosewood curtains are draped over the floor-length windows. Not a thing is unconventional from what I've known them to be.

"What do you want me to see?" I ask, turning to her. My sight clouds with my dread when the streams of water begin to fall out of her eyes. It is impossible to tell if she's crying or if the two openings are just leaking. But then again, it can't be tears. Teardrops would not be water fast-rushing down without stop. That makes virtually no sense. No normal person cries literal buckets of tears. Except that she is not human. My sister is a ghost that I'm speaking to.

A shiver dashes down my spine as I behold her again. Her appearance is no longer similar to mine. She's morphing into something unrecognisable. Her brow drops into a deep frown, her dress soaks with the tears from her eyes, her statue wavers, on the verge of vanishing.

"Clara!" I cry, reaching for her. There's nothing to grasp. "What did you bring me here for?" Is she trying to torture me for what happened? It's possible, but that would be an absolute lost cause as I don't feel guilty for her death.  I've never done so, nor do I plan on starting now. So, this will not accomplish anything.