The Crimson Chariot

18 | The Red Mourning

February 24th, 2013

To Janet,

I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry for giving you false hope for all these months when I felt like I was winning. Turns out, I wasn't.

I was on my way back to my dorm after dinner when I passed by Mr. Price's office. Normally, I wouldn't care but it was when he yelled, "Victor!" that I couldn't help but listen to what they were talking about.

I knew that Mr. Price was friends with a couple of parents, including Amara's but little did I imagine he'd be associated with the Covingtons in any shape or form. The hushed voice from beyond the door only made me more suspicious of him. In that moment, I wasn't even sure if I should exclude him from my target list. Paranoia perhaps, but what happened next solidified my thoughts.

About a minute had passed since I'd been standing against the door. The voices stopped and heavy footsteps approached the door I was so pressed against. I ducked behind the wall just in time as Mr. Price slammed it open and walked out in the other direction. A part of my brain told me turn back but it was too late. My curiosity got the best of me. I wish it hadn't.

What I found on his table were a bunch of files, reports and newspaper clippings of people who'd gone missing in the country, from as recent as a week to as old as several years ago. However, out of all the names, all the faces, one in particular stood out. It was the picture of a pale girl with dark brown hair. The name Karla Rojas was scribbled on the bottom right corner of the image in black ink.

She looked like she was about our age. Hints of a public school building lingered in the background. The picture felt like it was taken from behind a bush, focusing on Karla as she and a few other students were occupied with some conversation. What made her stick out was her choice of clothes, more mismatched and messy than the rest of her peers. Perhaps it was just the way she dressed but something in her appearance made her look less well-off than her friends.

Right then, before I could even comprehend what was happening, I heard soft footsteps behind me. Someone called out my name, and I turned around to see it was Ethan standing in the doorway with a confused look on his face.

He asked me what I was doing in Mr. Price's office. I tried coming up with an excuse, anything that could explain why I must've been there at that time of the night but no sooner than I tried to come up with one, he spoke again — words that I remember so clearly as I write this.

"Trying to dig up dirt on Price just like you attempted with me?"

My heart must've stopped at the moment, because everything else he said is a haze to me. I vaguely recall him challenging me to be careful, that thanks to everything I'd been doing in these past few months, I now had a target on my back. I recall his dark, evil eyes as he said that to me, the crooked smile on his face as he hissed his warnings.

I don't know what he's about to do, nor do I know if I'll be alive to tell you the rest of the story as it unfolds.

I feel lost. I feel scared.

I'm so sorry.

Jeremy

***

Grief is one hell of a parasite. It's something that crawls into your skin without you even realizing it, latches onto you before you can even understand it's there and thrives off of your guilt, your regret that you're used to bottle up within you for long durations of time.

It's frightening to think about, yet it isn't rare for someone to experience it at least once in their lifetime, that same parasite, tugging onto you for dear life as you feel your own slipping out of your control.