Newton's Third Law of Motion

Renata. Saturday, November 5th, 2013. 3:07 am. Alternate Universe.

My mother has OCD. And when she was younger, she was obsessed with stories of hope and rebirth, and still is, mostly because that’s what her boyfriend’s last name meant, so much so that when they married and had me, guess what my first name means? Yup, you got it.

            I don’t remember much else about my life except for my compulsive boyfriend and Lord of the Rings. According to police reports, my hair was an unruly coppery red with countless curls, and my eyes were sky blue. But my boyfriend always told me that they were two oceans, the color of the blue in Red Spotted Purple Butterfly wings.

            Sometimes, when I am alone up here, dark emotions still poison my head. Fury and hatred for my murderer, fear for the people I love, whether the killer will chase them. But tonight is different. Every single night, before I lie on the white sycamore tree limb to sleep, I picture my murderer’s face. But I am not anywhere near the tree tonight. Instead, my eyes are pressed against frozen glass, trying to read my boyfriend’s handwriting on a small purple index card. He wrote it in red. And the words would chill my soul to the bones, if I had any. I glance at the black watch I wore the night I was killed. 3:07 am. Happy three year anniversary of my death.

            I have always watched over my boyfriend, to see if he showed any changes in his condition. Nothing. In fact, he skipped school even more, and when he showed up one time, on the second year anniversary of my death, he broke another boy’s arm. That night, rips appeared on my heart. He was expelled. End of story.

            My perfect world was close to shattering as it neared today. The days were shorter. Instead of the summers and springs I so longed for, a bitter, snowless winter settled in. it broke my heart, even if I couldn’t feel it.

            The crimson red letters on the index card are a plot. A plan. I caught sight of the words: “syringe”, “anesthesia”, and “kitchen knife”. And the name “Arsen Ichtacas”. My murderer. I am absolutely shocked that he didn’t just call the Cops when he figured out who my murderer was. That’s when my hands started shaking. I pound pitifully, hopelessly at the beyond-bulletproof looking glass. But it’s no use. I’m already dead. I’ve been dead for 3 years. I can’t possibly go back. I’m not in a coma. I’m dead. I’m not down there. I’m up here. I’ve been up here. The doors are locked. Ice forms where my hands pound on the frozen glass. It spreads, obscuring my vision. For a split second, I think I’ve shattered it. Then a blinding white column of life force knocks me back quite a few feet. I scramble to my knees. The glass fades. I can’t see my boyfriend through this window anymore. What do I do now? I camp out by the entrance for 2 years. I’ll catch you, Merikh.