The Dead Girl.

Life Without, 11

As Roddick was leaving school that day, Stevie Sykes stopped him.

"There's a bunch of artwork leftover from Teague," She said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "Her mother already told me to throw it out because she's got enough to deal with with going through her room and all, but I feel awful just throwing all that hard work out. I was wondering if you wanted to take a look at some of it, see if there's anything you wanted to keep? I know you two were close so..."

"I'd love to." Roddick said and followed her up to the art room.

There were paintings and sculptures and sketches spread out promiscuously throughout the various desks and tables. "I'm doing a bit of cleaning, excuse the mess." Stevie apologized, sidestepping a bucket of soapy water and paintbrushes. The wooden handles looked like a bouquet of of petal-less and colorless flowers. "Teague's stuff should be near the light table. Take whatever you like."

Roddick nodded and began to sift through countless papers, canvases, and folders. After a few minutes of searching it became very evident that everything Teague had drawn, painted, or sculpted (in some instances) had been of birds. Birds in flight, birds perched upon delicate branches, black birds, parrots, sparrows...

"I had forgotten she had done that, done all birds." Stevie said, suddenly appearing at Roddick's side. "Some kids in the class were joking that she had the bird flu, but she kept at it. Every project, a different kind of bird. I don't even think she owned a bird."

"Is this a parrot?" Roddick held up a particularly nice piece of a red, orange, green, and yellow bird contained in an antique and ornate cage. The title was scrawled at the bottom; I know why the caged bird sings.

Stevie shrugged, playing with the pull string on her apron. Blue and purple splotches were splattered across her midriff, blossoming like a bruise. "Who knows why Teague did anything she did?" She asked sadly. "You know as well as I do Roddick that most of what she did was out of impulse. Her brain was working too quick for the rest of her to catch up."

The red and yellow bird looked up at Roddick from the paper, its beak curved into a mocking smile. "Yeah, I remember." He said, clutching a small clay figure of a finch tightly within his palm. "It doesn't seem like it'll be a week in two days."

Stevie pursed her lips and reclined against the wall. There was a smudge of red paint at her temple. If he looked quickly, it looked like she was bleeding. "Roddick, correct me if I'm out of line here, but did you punch Kenny Richardson today?"

The clay finch was beginning to disintegrate under the strength of Roddick's grip. White powder stained his fingertips and floated from his fist like snow. He nodded.

Her eyes widened and she stared at Roddick as though he had transformed into a leper before her very eyes. "But...why?" Stevie began shuffling around the classroom, packing away boxes of colored pencils and pastels. Roddick waited for more babble to issue from her mouth, but when she did not reply for several minutes, he was shocked.

"Teague wasn't the only one who acted on impulse." He said trying to sound more sure of himself than he felt.

"And look where that got her." Stevie mumbled under her breath.

Roddick gasped in pain. The clay finch had cracked in two and it's beak had scratched his palm. Blood blossomed up from the skin and mingled with the ink that already existed there.

"Here, let me get you a paper towel," Stevie said embarrassedly, running to the sink. "How deep is it? Is there anything left in the wound?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. Really. I'm fine."

Stevie studied him suspiciously as she pressed the paper towel to his palm tightly. Her expression clearly said that she did not believe him, but also regarded him as someone that she had never met before and had no intention of trusting.

When he got home, Roddick threw all of Teague's artwork onto his bed and then collapsed onto his couch with his head in his hands.

He felt like he was in a dream. Surely he could have not punched Kenny Richardson, surely that was a figment of his imagination. He hadn't been sleeping properly; every time he tried to, he was bombarded with the image of Teague's broken body lying upon the pavement. Sometimes when he would awake he could still smell her on the pillow next to him or feel wisps of her hair tickling his skin when she breathed. If that all seemed so real, so clear, then surely the memory of watching black and blue blossom under Kenny's skin as he stared at Roddick's curled fist in horror was imaginary too.

In a fit of rage, he began to pace around the apartment. If he was quiet enough, he could hear the tenants downstairs cooking supper. The mundane noises of pots and pans being thrown around in the sink infuriated him; if he was not allowed to continue on with his normal life, then how was it so easy for others to do? Didn't they realize that the world was seeming a little less bright now a days? That the course of reality had been significantly altered beyond repair?

Of course not, Roddick remembered suddenly. The thought was a body blow. Soon it would be a week, and then a month would pass, and then even the people who knew her and who were forever changed by her death would suddenly only think of her when they needed a moment of catharsis.

He hurled threw his lamp across the room and watched the bulb explode against the wall. Sparks flew. He kicked the coffee table over and buried his face in a pillow so that no one would hear him screaming. At least sadness was manageable- it could be manipulated and transformed into moments of convenient grieving. The anger that he was experiencing was venomous and unpredictable and he knew if he wasn't careful it would swallow him whole.

"I loved you!!" Roddick shouted to no one, gripping his hair until his knuckles turned white. "I fucking loved you!! I would have done anything for you!! Why didn't you tell me?! Why didn't you let me help you?!"

He was crying again. The tears slid down the pulsing veins on his throat and splattered the collar of his shirt wet. The wound in his palm had split open again; he could feel hot and sticky blood trickling down his arm. With a grunt he ventured into the bedroom for a fresh shirt, tearing out the drawers two at a time.

Something lacy and black caught his eye in the pile of discarded polos and button-downs.

Roddick picked up the bra with a sickening sort of confusion. Her name was sewn into the inseam and scrawled on a scrap of muslin in sharpie. She had safety pinned a note written on looseleaf around one of the straps; For when you have to be without me. Your lover. :)

She must have slipped it in the drawer without him knowing. Roddick sunk to his knees and cradled the silk garment wishing that it still contained her warmth. He held it up to his nose; it still faintly smelled of her, however.

He wasn't concerned with how long it had been there just waiting for him to discover. But he was beginning to think, and her artwork caught his eye as it lied innocently on the bed. Perhaps the question wasn't what Teague hadn't already told him, but what she had.