The Leading of Paper Cranes

Chapter 2: The Killing Crease

Is it really supposed to happen this way? Currently I am sitting in a nurses bed at the school, contemplating now the meaning of life. Maybe Mr. Ramirez's tangents are useful. When I get back home, what will my parents do? Will they scold me for the death of my sister? Seems like something they would do anyway. I lay there holding a paper crane stained in red, one of the cranes that was hanging from the ceiling. Now I really wish I would never see her paper cranes again. Well maybe one, but that's not even a paper crane. Jazz rushes through the door, alongside Mauriel, another one of my friends. "We heard what happened, you okay?" Mauriel is busy trying to get a glass of water from the cooler on the other side of the room. "Here let me take that." Jazz snatches the crane away from my hands. I look at him with displeasure then with thankfulness. It seems as if he can read my mind. Mauriel approaches me with a glass of water. "You know who might have done it?". In my mind I have no clue, however I get a stunt of anger toward Jazz which dissipates in a matter of seconds.

The autopsy rolls in. "I am so very sorry for your loss Mr. Jence," the... doctor, autops..i..er? No Forensic investigator that's it, they say endearingly. "As the autopsy shows, there was a wound in the shape of a bullet, however it was not fired by a gun.". How? That seems impossible. Can someone just throw a bullet? "Excuse me, I'm just going to go outside for a moment." I needed this slight break from this mess. I walk around the school with Jazz. His eyes are as eye catching as ever. We walk to the art office, which is blocked off by tape. We peer inside. The lights are still on and the window still intact. The counters are how they were, not a single brush or scraper or palette displaced. The paper cranes were still hanging. The only thing missing was the body, for obvious reasons. We head back as the nurses office feels the safest place for me to be.

I crash into my bed. Jazz walked me home since I wasn't feeling well. Though he had to go before my parents spotted him. If they saw him they would actually kill me. Mauriel and Denisa can come no questions asked, however if it's someone else, they're sceptical. "Welcome home sweetie!" My mom opened the door like she was expecting me this late after school. "The school called, are you okay?", "Yeah It's okay." I said not even realizing the error of my words. My mom doesn't question though. Now the thoughts feel like they're rushing back to me and it makes me want to scream but I can't. Forget screaming I just want to feel like I can grieve. In bed I just laid there. Usually with my phone in hand, but not this time. "Roland, can you do the dishes!", mom screams all the way from the kitchen. Now is not the time. My sisters room feels like a castle without it's queen, and you think I can handle doing the dishes. It's not that I don't want to, but it feels like the last straw. I go down anyways. I see a paper crane on the counter. Probably in memorials of my sister. This time the minutes are actually hours. Normally this would take me not even 45 minutes. But I literally couldn't handle it this time.

A few weeks pass. It's time for Maveah's funeral. It feels like I want to lay in a coffin too. Maybe not actually, but along the lines of. My family is getting ready like it's their party. I wait outside thinking about something. Can't put a pin on it however it is something. In reality my mind is a string, a long string webbed as if a cat was playing with a ball of yarn. A web not like a spider's, but like as if a storm was personified and made my thoughts scatter. Picking through every shape this long string creates would be impossible. I try tracing from the beginning but noise is not a remedy anymore. My parents seem to be arguing over whether red or mauve lipstick would be better for the occasion. In my opinion going to the funeral in black —no extra fixtures— would be fine.

I head behind our car, so I can drown out the arguments with silence. I try tracing it again, but the line seems to be cut off by a dust storm big enough for only a singular piece of string to be visible. The singular thought of "It's my fault, I'm the guilty one. I should be the one left for dead... I didn't get to my cherished childhood paper crane in time.". I let that sink in, sink in deep, maybe too deep. Now I feel like I should've been scolded. Seems fitting anyways. Not to mention the guilt would've subsided a few weeks ago, the day of. My parents always choose the wrong choice. My opinion anyways.

"Roland!" I hear my father scream from inside the house. I did inform him that I would be outside didn't I? Besides, it's my signal to head inside to check up on them. I spot the crane on the counter of the kitchen with my parents looking into each other's eyes. Not with love but with anger.

"Roland we need an opinion,", my mother looks at me with her puppy eyes. I fantasize not having to give my own. "Red or..", I tap her shoulder as I walk the bridge into the living room. "Mauve, suits you better.", a sigh leaves my mouth without hesitation. She hurriedly heads upstairs like a child about to go play with her brand new toy in secret. I sit on the couch staring at the picture of my fragile sister. "Hey, why did you do that?", my father sits next to me with a stern face. "How dare you talk to your mother like that!". He seems to have unreasonable anger... again. "All I did was state a colour,", I snap back equally unreasonably. "She seems happy, is that not okay? Is it not okay to suggest an option?". He puts up a fit comparable to a child. I spend the rest of the time before we head out to reminisce upon Maveah.