The Deceased

Chapter Seventeen- Answers we weren't looking for.

The pounding in my head jolts me awake. Sitting up felt like a train had run me over. How embarrassing had that been? Hit in the head with a Bible. What are they, in primary school?

"Oh god," I sit up, immediately wishing I hadn't. The nausea from my concussion suddenly hits me, knocking me over the edge of the bed to spill it all out, my headache piercing into my brain.

Someone who I immediately like had left me a bucket beside the bed. Everything I had eaten, which it turns out wasn't that much, ends up in that bucket.

There was also a glass of water on the bedside table. My first instinct was to chug all of it at once like I would a spearmint milkshake, then to pour it all over my face to relieve my headache, but all I could do was think about it. With all the murders around Canarina, I wouldn't trust a piece of paper let alone a glass of water that could somehow be poisoned. No thank you.

It's not that long until I find out the cause of my headache. A tight bandage is wrapped around my forehead. Someone patched me up. There's no blood that I can tell. After all, it was a book, but the job was almost professional. That immediately excludes Jane. There's no way she can be my savior. She can't heal anyone for shit. She's more into letting the doctors handle it. It makes me wonder if that bible was thrown hard enough for me to have needed patching up in the first place, why wasn't I taken to the hospital?

I don't recognise this room either. It was almost the opposite of mine. I had posters of David Garrett and Flyleaf all over my wall, whereas this person had pearly white wallpaper and framed/signed photo's of Woody Harrelson. While my bed had a different, more feminine feel to the covers, the dark wood furniture was about the only thing that made me think back to my room. Not Jane's room, and definitely not mine. Whose is it?

The burning in my throat fades away, enough for me to think about standing up. It, as i expected, wasn't hard. It's not like I got shot or anything. To be honest, all I really care about is finding out whose house I'm in.

There were two doors. The first one I opened led to a modern-looking en-suite. It's the first time I've caught my reflection in a mirror since I was dressing for Jeans funeral. Not as bad as I pictured. I mean, not as good as I hoped, but not bad. My hair was a bit on the oily side and the bags under my eyes have worsened. I don't know why. I sleep, more than I should be sleeping. They shouldn't be there. Flawless skin like Jane's would be great, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon.

I used the toilet for the first time in about a day, and before I leave I find myself eyeing off the huge shower in the corner of the bathroom. It looked heavenly, with one of those shower heads that unhook. Showering in a strangers house, though, is beyond the limits ill go to. Going to the toilet was enough to make me wary, but showering just seems too far. I would wait until I'm the comfort of my own home.

It's when I wash my hands that my ears prick at the soft touch of notes coming from behind the second door. They were faint, but as someone who's familiar with the sound of a piano, it's not hard to guess that someone else is in this house with me, playing it. But a piano? This house has a piano? Did I marry a millionaire in my sleep or something? No one I know lives this luxuriously.

Slipping on my short heels, I sneak to the door and twist the knob. It opens up easily into a hallway leading to a set of stairs. The piano plays distinctively below.

From the top of the stairs, I hear Jane's giggling. "Can you play Canon? I love that song."

A very different style from what was already playing, but I start to hear the familiar wedding song.

I step off the stairs and follow the sound. To my left was a very large kitchen, and to my right, by a large window with light seeping through the open curtains, was Jane and a strange unfamiliar man I have never seen in my life.