Unforgivable Lacerations

Chapter Eleven

The cruelty of early mornings was the first hurdle which I had to leap over, waking up at an awful time and begin to get ready for the plane journey. Though thankfully, I didn't have much on the agenda, only breakfast- consisting of cereal, morning bathroom routine, and dressing. I had picked out the usual attire of skinny jeans, a white long-sleeve top, a cream scarf, and a brown leather jacket. It made me look slightly older and sophisticated for eighteen. 

After, I stumbled for my passport, iPod, earphones, purse, and the letter, throwing them all into my bag while checking I had enough money to quickly shop before going to the forensics- as I did have a couple of hours before my appointed slot. 

When I had finally gathered everything, I slammed the door, locking it, before running to my truck as I started the dramaless journey to Port Angeles. 

Simply, with no commotion, I bought my tickets to Seattle and waited fourteen minutes for the plane, watching the sun start to rise as the business men and women around me, only five of them, sat tapping at their phones, reading the newspaper, and reading a book. It was an eerie silence between us, sometimes broken by a stern cough or crack of the paper as the man beside me turned the page.  It didn't bother me, though, as I plugged my earphones in and quietly listened to an upbeat song with deep lyrics. 

When I had made it to Seattle, unharmed, I found the nearest yellow taxi parked outside the airport as masses of different people, clustered together, exited the airport through the sliding doors and found themselves in my way. 

Effortlessly, with my bag on my shoulder, I opened one yellow door of a taxi and asked if she could drive me to Westfield Southcenter, the nearest mall that was about a ten minute drive from here. I calculated quickly, looking at the clock on my iPod, that I had three hours of shopping. 

The street was packed, fast walking businessmen and women, yellow taxis speeding past and large windows advertising whatever the shop sells. I had just under three and a half hours to shop around. I wanted more books and clothes so I started walking down the long straight street.

It was a strange feeling driving down a crowded street, watching people get on with their lives instead of wallowing in grief like I was. Each second I was faced with another face, rushing to where they needed to be. These people, complete strangers, had, no doubt, families and friends to go home to, a warm fire to sit beside and someone to talk to. 

Someone to assist them if they were seeing their dead mother. 

I didn't have any of that. Family, friends, a warm fire, or someone to talk to. I didn't have a home, only what used to be. 

When the cabbie had delivered me to my destination, I paid, and exited, glancing at the large building that was mostly red brick, while the front was glass, centering a red sign, 'Westfield'. I didn't stop walking forward, dodging around people, until I was inside, looking up at all the floors of shops that were visible from the center. Just from the familiar shop labels, I could pinpoint what Westfield Southcenter housed, from bookshops, clothes, music, cosmetics, shoes, and bags. Everything. 

Needless to say, I stepped on the elevator immediately, on my way to Barnes And Noble, situated on the third floor. 

When the three hours were close to arriving, I stepped back into a taxi, asking for It Forensics Inc, a mere five miles away, with my hands full of bags that held books, music, clothes, and especially my main purchase, a black dress. Another one for the upcoming funeral I was yet to plan. 

The taxi took me away from the dense city life, driving to the outskirts where a smaller building, surrounded by quaint houses, was situated. 'Law Office' was the main sign, structured above the door, and underneath the second floor's windows. In all honesty, from outside I wouldn't have guessed it to be a forensic lab.