Possessed Soul

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

A couple of days after Calum's death, I found it hard to understand why no one suspected me, especially since I was guilty. My mom said I had the kind of face that made people trust me, with no second thought. And while a part of me felt responsible for killing Calum, I knew I wasn't myself that night. I knew that if I explained it to anyone, they would believe I was insane. What would I say? I saw my body commit the murder, but my mind wasn't in it. During that moment it had felt like a demon had possessed me.

As far-fetched as it sounded, Calum's death was ruled as a suicide. I knew Patrick had pulled some strings; there was no way other way, since the marks on Calum's throat were visible and he was bleeding profusely. If the authorities really thought it was a suicide, they would think he strangled himself and then he stabbed himself. So I guess it was a good thing he didn't have parents who would look into this. I had recently learnt that he was in foster care...

"Why do you think he did it?" Ryan stopped right next to me. He was dressed in a simple black jersey top with black dress pants. Everything about him was sad: his watery voice, the way he hung his head and his constant swallowing.

"I don't know," I shrugged. The funeral gathering consisted of just a few people from school, mainly teachers. There were very few pupils, but I did notice the girl with the electric blue hair, sitting with a very traumatised Derek. Calum's current foster family showed up, but none of his previous ones. I felt bad for him since it didn't look like he really had anyone to mourn him.

Ryan's face was pale and grim as he exhaled deeply. "People with ADHD suffer from suicidal thoughts."

"You don't think...?" I didn't get a chance to finish.

"I've experienced them myself," Ryan replied. His voice was shaky and his body trembling, like he might burst into tears at any second. I was glad he didn't, since I wouldn't know what to say to him if he did. I couldn't console someone who was in pain because of me.

I had never been to a funeral, but I had always imagined it was only the ladies who cried; the men hid their pain. Another gender stereotype, but it was true, and Ryan was a perfect example of this.

"Sage." I felt someone put their hand under my elbow. "Your mother's looking for you," Patrick told me, smiling at Ryan. Patrick was dressed in his black uniform, in keeping with the mourning theme.. His cap was missing, and his jet-black hair was neatly combed to the side; with his round glasses he looked like Clark Kent. I gulped nervously, since his appearance made me feel like he was going to interrogate me. This was a new feeling; I've never felt scared of Patrick before, with his toothy grin and slightly boyish face. I tried to push thoughts about what had happened to the back of my mind, but there was no forgetting the look in Calum's eyes when I kissed him, and the light that went out of his eyes as I killed him.

"Ryan." Mrs. Simpson grabbed her son's hand. "I told you not to talk to her." Her eyes were fearful as she looked at me. Her body was shaking violently, and her voice was ragged. She didn't look like she was well put together. Her cheeks were flushed and her face swollen. "That family is insane, it's been confirmed."

I didn't care if she spoke badly to me, but I couldn't tolerate anyone speaking badly of my mother. Who did she think she was? That family is insane. I agreed with her that I was insane, but my mother wasn't and neither was Patrick.

"We were just leaving," Patrick replied for me. That wasn't the right thing to say: it made it seem like he was hiding something. It was clear from her slightly raised eyebrows that Ryan's mother knew something was off.

***

Our house never failed to wrap me in warmth, probably because it was so familiar to me. It was hard not to love every imperfection, like the small hole in the door or the slightly cracked paint. It was comforting to head back here after attending the morbid funeral.

Home was the place I liked to spend my Saturdays, watching mom trim the neat flower beds, and I'd venture outside to smell the rosebuds. The pebbles huddled together, constructing the perfect place to put your feet when walking on the pathway. The gables were painted grey. I sometimes imagined them green like in Anne with an E, to make me feel better about my red hair. The paint on the walls were a rich beige colour that automatically reminded me of the Sahara desert. I had never been, but I imagined the sand dunes were a very pretty colour and curved upwards in the most becoming way. Our house may well have been a fairy tale cottage, because it was surrounded by trees. It looked like a tranquil painting that would stay in the same condition for hundreds of years...the only sure thing in my ever-changing life. It felt weird being in a familiar place, while foreign expressions sat on Patrick and my mother's faces. It looked like they were worried, but were trying to hide it by looking down at their hands and pretending to examine their fingernails.

"I don't know what's going on but even Mrs. Simpson knows more than me, and I feel like I deserve to know what's going on." I said all this without screaming, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could take their silence. Patrick was leaning against the sink, clearly agitated while my mother had a neutral expression plastered over her face.

"Mrs. Simpson?" my mother asked, looking at Patrick questioningly. We were in the kitchen; it was the place where most family discussions took place. They were usually less serious than this. It was usually about things like who had left the tap running or who had forgotten to lock the front door.

"Forgot to tell you." Patrick's Adams apple bobbed up and down uneasily, as he swallowed repeatedly.

"Of course, she'll choose now to have second thoughts about this whole thing. Can't she mind her own business!"

Patrick shook his head at my mother's tone, since she was always composed and rarely showed such strong emotions as these.

My mother put her head in her hands. She looked like she was crying with the way she was shaking. This wooden kitchen table, with its few wooden stools, seemed like the place where our little family would fall apart.

"What whole thing?" I enquired.

They both ignored me.

"We could relocate," Patrick suggested.

"We're going to have to," my mother responded.

There was a crack as something whizzed in through our kitchen window and missed my face by a couple of inches. I gasped when it fell to the floor, after having lost its momentum. It was a bullet. I didn't see any people, but I could see the outline of shadows; and from the looks of it there were more than ten people out there.

Patrick pulled me down to the floor as more bullets flew over our head. He laid himself on top of me as if shielding me from the blasts. I tried to look for my mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. "Mom," I whimpered, into the cold marble floor.

"Sage, baby," she responded, appearing with a large rifle in her hand. "You need to run." Angela Foster was not the kind of woman who should be allowed to wield a gun. Her usually serene grey eyes were almost black with fury. And I knew she would do anything to protect her loved ones. Even kill.

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