twisted beautiful things

epilogue

epilogue

'and i know it makes you nervous

but i promise you, it's worth it

to show them everything you kept inside

don't hide

too shy to say, but i hope you stay

don't hide 

come out and play'

(billie eilish)

>>>

two years later

gianna

The candles flicker with reckless abandon, shimmering in the dusty moonlight. The whole community pours through the campus, gathered in the square. Heads bent, prayers spoken, candles lit, they remember the lives lost at St. Briars University. They remember me. Us.

The ones who fought and didn't make it.

I told myself I wouldn't show up to this two year anniversary candle vigil, but I did anyway. The thought of seeing my friends is too tempting.

I sit on a bench in the grass, watching over everything. I see my face on a small shrine on the ground, covered in flowers and candles and teddy bears.

It's one small shrine among dozens of others.

It's hard to believe it's been two years-two years of maintaining the peace after the school was rebuilt. It's a college still, but less intense, no longer Ivy League. Still, I have made it my mission to look out for those less fortunate than others-those who are barely hanging on by the tips of their fingers.

I've been there before.

This is the second annual candlelight memorial. I'd refused to go to the last one; it was too painful.

Even as a ghost, I can still feel my gut tug at the thought of my friends moving on without me.

But it's okay.

I always, somehow, knew it would end this way.

Somewhere someone is singing softly, a familiar windchime twinkling in the distance. Multiple people have their heads bent in the fading sunlight, the candle illuminating their faces. It's sunset, when the sun is dipping low behind the mountains.

I have just enough light to recognize her.

It's Kennedy, brushing her way through the crowd, dragging what looks to be a little girl behind her. Her hair is swept up into a curly bun, pinned with a pearl comb. Her teeth are whiter than ever, and there's a glow to her that I don't recognize. Behind her is Atticus-stumbling through crowds of people, hurrying after Kennedy with a weary expression on his face. He looks older-less stressed, but older. Even though it's been two years, they still look the same.

I take a closer look at the little girl clutching Kennedy's hand. She's wearing a fashionable skirt and shirt, her curly black and amber hair in two pigtails. Her skin is caramel-colored- a mix of Atticus and Kennedy.

She's beautiful, and my chest tightens at the thought that once I could've been the cool aunt that spoiled her rotten and taught her how to talk to men. Taught her how to value herself the way I struggled to when I was alive.