THE FINAL STRAW || 13 Reasons Why

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CLEO WOKE UP in her room and let out a grunt as she put a hand to her head. A voice called out to her, "Cleo, are you okay?" Her mom asked as she appeared in her sight.

Cleo blankly stared at her, then let out a gag as she turned toward the floor. Laine pulled her hair out of her face as her daughter threw up all the food she ate that morning. When she finished, Cleo sat on the bed, staring at her mom. "Where’s Clay?" she asked.

The woman let out a sigh as she ran her hand through Cleo’s hair. "He went out for a while," she softly answered.

Of course he did. He wouldn’t have been able to look at his sister after what he learned about her and Hannah. How could he? The girl he was in love with was in love with his sister. "How long was I out?" Cleo asked.

"A couple of hours."

"What?!" Cleo shouted, disbelief etched across her face. Her mom gently stroked her hair, reassuring her. Cleo let out a heavy sigh and settled back on the bed, her eyes fixated on an invisible point in the room before she finally uttered, "What’s so lovable about me?"

When she heard those words, her mom wrapped her arms around her. "Don’t say that," she exclaimed. "Hannah loved you because you’re honest, compassionate, kind, and caring. Because you’re the most amazing girl ever."

Cleo couldn’t help but scoff. Someone kind, compassionate, and caring wouldn’t have disregarded a friend like she did. It would have been so much easier if Hannah loved Clay. Why did Hannah have to love her like that? Out of all people. Why her?

Cleo managed to get up from the bed, but her mom tried to stop her. No success. Cleo forced herself out of the room, ignoring her dizziness as she walked to Clay’s room. She opened the door, but the boy was not there, as expected. She let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through her blonde hair.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath. Today was Alex’s birthday, but she couldn’t find it in her to be happy. She couldn’t. Not anymore. "I’m going out," she said as she rushed back into her room, changing into her usual sweats.

"Wait!" Laine shouted when she saw her daughter rush down the stairs. "Where are you going?" she shouted.

Cleo ignored her mother’s pleas. Her mind was seeking peace, desperately. And the only place she could find it was up the hill. She pedaled her way up, anxiety rushing through her veins.

When she finally reached the little bench, she stepped off her bike and walked over to it.

Her mind slowly regained peace as her eyes were blinded by the sunset. The wind gently swept at her blonde hair. Her heart rate slowed down, leading her into a peaceful void. She let her head fall back.

The birdsong filled her ears as the sweet floral aroma tickled her nostrils.

Her peaceful moment was suddenly interrupted when she noticed a shadow sitting behind the bench. She slowly turned around, her eyes meeting those sea-blue ones.

A girl, possibly her age, was sitting on the grass behind the bench, her legs pulled over her chest as she leaned against a tree, where no one could see her. Her dark brown hair was tied into a ponytail, and a sketchbook rested on her knees.

Upon further observation, the page was sketched with familiar features—way too familiar. It took a while for Cleo to realize she was staring at her own face—her sketch. "Who are you?" she asked, only for the girl to get up and run away, dropping her sketchbook in the process.

Cleo got up. "Hey!" she shouted, but the girl was already far away. Who was she?

Cleo walked over to the sketchbook and opened it.

Her own face stared back at her from multiple angles—at school, in the courtroom, at Monet’s. That girl knew her a little too well.

A bile rose in Cleo’s throat when she flipped a little too far. Her eyes landed on a drawing of herself at the party—Jessica’s party...

The girl was there. The previous peace Cleo felt was now replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread.

That girl could have seen what happened at that party. If she followed Cleo around so much, maybe she followed her upstairs...

Then why didn’t she say anything?

She flipped to the front of the page, a gasp escaping her mouth when her eyes landed on a name. The letters stared back at her, as if mocking her.

Belle Walker.

Walker was Bryce’s name. Bryce, who raped Jessica. Bryce, who choked her in that room.

Who was that girl?

____

Tony didn't take long to arrive. He cautiously walked toward Cleo, concern etched across his features as he took a seat beside her. "I'm here. What's going on?"

Cleo didn't say anything. She simply handed him the sketchbook, open to the first page. Recognition crossed his features as he flipped through the pages, his expression darkening with each turn.

"She was sitting right there, watching me," Cleo said, gesturing to the spot behind the bench.

"Fuck, Belle," Tony mumbled, making Cleo jump from her seat.

"You know her?" she shouted, her voice weighed down by bewilderment. "Who is she?"

The Hispanic man let out a heavy sigh as he closed the sketchbook. "Yeah, she's Bryce's half-sister."

"Bryce has a sister?"

Tony's expression shifted to disbelief. "Yeah. She studied at Liberty High for two years."

"I never heard of her."

"She transferred here freshman year. Most people didn't even know her. They didn't really talk; different vibe."

Cleo crossed her arms, struggling to process the information. "Why would Bryce's little sister be following me?"

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "Belle's not like Bryce. She came to the garage a couple of times. She's quiet, kept her head down most of the time." He paused slightly. "She was friends with Hannah."

She raised her brows. "Friends with Hannah? And she's related to Bryce? How?"

Tony seemed to think for a while. "It was complicated. They drifted apart before everything happened, and I don't know why. Belle doesn't talk much. She's very quiet and observant... too observant, if you ask me."

Cleo clenched her fists. "She was at the party," she revealed, flipping the pages to the page that had stopped her in her tracks earlier. There she was, the bruises perfectly sketched on her face. "She knows what happened."

Tony's brows furrowed as he analyzed the sketch, detailed and scarily accurate.

"If she saw what happened..." Cleo said, her voice trembling with anger. "Why didn't she come forward? Why didn't she say anything?"

"I don't know," Tony admitted, his voice grim.

"Then we're going to find out."

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