Confessions of a Bitch

Black, White and Red Roses

My bedroom door is locked as I sit on the carpet, looking through the photographs taken from Victoria’s camera, trying to see if I missed certain clues whilst looking through them last time. A cold cup of strong coffee stands beside me as my eyes hungrily scan the photographs. It reminds me of the times dad and I would spend, looking for action figures in one of the children’s books I had as a child. “The easiest clues are hard to find.” Dad would say as frustration would take over my bones at my lack of progress in finding the action figures.

“Why?” I’d ask as I’d furrow my eyebrows.

“Because they’re right in front of you,” Dad would reply as he pointed to the figure right in front of my eyes. “You see, it was right in front of you.”

“Yeah!” I’d exclaim as I’d hug him.

It’s funny how quickly times change. Long gone is my children’s book and the rose patterned arm chair, mum bought at an antique shop. Long gone are my carefree days and innocent days, spent oblivious to the world, feeling immortal.

Now, my friend has been declared missing, possibly dead, a stranger by the name of Viper texts me, and Alyssa has the entire school, wrapped around her finger.

Grumbling under my breath, I pick up the photographs and place glue tac on the back of them before sticking them on the wall. One by one, the black and white photographs of Old Man Black’s place fill the space of my wall. I stand back and squint. There should be something. There has to be something.

I need answers.

Part of me wants to ask dad for help. He has always been good at solving things like this.

I throw my hair into a ponytail as I pace around the room, trying to piece events together in my mind. My problems began the day the media assignment was given, but the moment the bullet hit Old Man Black’s head, it was too late to turn back.

I can hear the clock ticking, reminding me, my time is running out. I can’t run out of time. It isn’t an option. It has never been an option.

I pick up my phone. David has the tapes. Maybe an exchange can be made between us. Maybe this will put an end to all my troubles.

You’ve never been one to give up easily, my mind says. Why now?

“She’s my friend,” I mumblw under my breath as my nails click softly on the screen.

Bitches have no friends. They walk alone.

“Bullshit,” I reply. “Every bitch needs an accomplice.” The call doesn’t go through, but instead, ends up on voicemail.

Shit.

I end the call and I’m about throwing it on the bed when a text arrives.

Looking for answers? Good luck finding them.

                                                        V.

Rage builds in my veins. My hands begin to tremble as my blood boils. Before I realize what I’m doing, it’s too late. The phone is on the ground, surrounded by shards of glass. I’m screaming, howling like a wounded animal. “Who are you?”

**

Hotpants isn’t at school, but Alyssa is.

Dressed in the latest fashion, she walks across the hallway with a bag the size of the European continent, on her arm. I stifle a giggle. She looks utterly ridiculous.

“What are you laughing at?” She asks, glaring at me. I don’t reply. I begin moving away when she grabs my arm. “I said ‘what are you laughing at?’”