Never Forget

Chapter 1

Becca is still asleep in my bed when I wake up to take a shower and clean up any evidence of the night before. 

My tiny kitchen, with the beat up mini fridge, the dishwasher that does more harm to my dishes than good, and the stove that radiates the smell of the cinnamon rolls I had burnt a few weeks ago. I turn on the coffee pot and start taking red party cups full of mysterious substances off the counter and stuffing them into the trashcan. 

When Becca walks in, I actually get a good look at her since my vision is no longer so blurred I could barely see anything two inches in front of me. All she's wearing is my white Vneck from last night. Her long blonde curls hug her ribcage, right beneath her gigantic boobs. Her green eyes look dark and murky, and are surrounded by dark circles. I'm guessing that's a result of all the drugs she had in her bag. She has huge lips, the kind that Victoria's Secret models are all required to have. I'm taken over with a strange feeling of pride, as she is one of the hotter girls I had managed to bring home.

Me on the other hand, I'm not too bad looking. I was born with the same strange blonde colored hair that Claire was, but it killed me to look in the mirror after she died. I kind of went through an "I hate the world" phase, and I guess I still am, but I had died my strawberry blonde hair black. In a way, it suited me better than my real hair had. I had a pretty fair complexion, and dark brown eyes. Despite my seemingly lazy attitude, I do go to the gym regularly and am gifted with a six pack that attracts girl after girl. 

"Morning sleeping beauty," I give her a smirk and she returns it, sitting down at one of the two fold out chairs that surround my tiny table. 

"Good morning," She says cheerily, and I'm shocked to hear she has a British accent.

My coffee pot dings, so I pour us both a cup and join her at the table. The only light in the room is from the overhead lamp, and it's flickering slightly, threatening to die any second. 

There's an awkward silence, but Becca eventually says in an embarrassed sort of tone, "I had a lot of fun last night. Thanks. I really needed that."

I chuckle, feeling the heat radiate to my cheeks. This was always the worst part of hooking up with a girl. She always wants to see me after, and I always tell her I'll call, but never actually do.

"Yeah, no problem," I reply, trying to sound less weirded out than I felt. No girl ever really thanked me for fucking her. I mean, you don't say thank you when someone kisses you, right? Why would you say thank you to sex? It just seems too.... formal. 

She smiles, "You know, you talk in your sleep."

Oh shit, here it comes. She's going to figure out I'm a nut case. 

"You kept saying 'Stay with me, Claire Bear, stay with me, please' and it sounded like you wanted to cry," She raises an eyebrow accusingly, but doesn't voice her suspicions because she knows she has no right since this is nothing more than a one night stand.

I had the same dream every night since Claire's death. It was always the same. Only, I didn't know I talked in my sleep until now. 

I saw Claire on the bathroom floor, spread out, with a razor lying limply in her hand, and pills framing her fragile body. Then I saw me, holding her tightly to my chest, begging her not to leave me. Then there was always this bright white light, and then I woke up. I always do a once over on my body looking for her blood, even though I know that it is never there.

I don't answer Becca. Whether it was a question or just an observation, I don't need or want her pity.

"Who's Claire?" She stirs her coffee around,and adds another spoon of sugar.

"She was my fiancée, but she broke it off," I lie through my teeth. 

Becca shakes her head, "No she wasn't. I bet she was your sister."

Who the hell is this chick? "Um, no she was my fiancée," I repeat firmly.

She doesn't doubt me anymore, but I can tell she isn't buying it.

---------

When we finish our coffee and eggs, Becca takes her stuff from my room, stopping to flush the remainder of the drugs down the toilet. 

I stand by the front door, holding it open, waiting for her to kiss me once more and whisper, "Call me."

She shocks me, once again, when she only offers up a tight hug. She leans into my ear, "Let me know if you ever need to talk about her. I'm a good listener, I promise."

She lets go and I smile at her, starting to feel uncomfortable because she doesn't seem like the trashy kind of girls I'm used to.

"Of course," I manage to say, then when she prances down the stairs, I sigh and close the door.

---------

FLASHBACK: (The day after Claire died, in the hospital.)

Mom hasn't talked at all since yesterday. All she does is sit, staring at the wall. The color has drained from her face, and her blue eyes are fluorescent from the endless crying she's been doing.

Dad on the other hand, is losing it. When the doctors told us there was nothing they could do to save Claire, he threw a waiting room chair across the room, and refused to accept her death.

Then there's me. I think I'm the only one who will actually talk to the doctors who tried to revive my sister. I'm the one who kissed her forehead last before they took her off for the medical examination.  I'm also the only one who hasn't shed a single tear. The only emotion I feel right now is disbelief. At any moment, I feel like Claire is going to skip down the hall and call out "Jacey Poo" just like she always did whenever she saw me. 

When the medical examiner finally calls us into his office to discuss Claire's cause of death, even though we already know, Mom dries her eyes and Dad gets a wild look in his eyes. We all walk in together and the doctor starts telling us about the pills she overdosed on, and the cuts that spelt out "S-L-U-T" and "W-H-O-R-E" on each of her arms. Mom let out a slight shriek at this, and fell into Dad's arms, bawling her head off. 

The next conversation we had may be the only one I have had that I can literally replay every word shared.

"Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, did you ever beat your daughter?" Dr. Jewel asked solemnly.

Dad gasped, "Of course not! We would never lay a hand on her!" Mom confirmed this with the sob that escaped her throat.

"Well, she has a few minor fractures, mainly in her fingers, and she is covered with deep tissue bruises all down her spine, her wrists, and she even has one around her eye," he shook his head, his voice strained, "Was she ever involved in any abusive relationships?"

It clicked for all of us then. Claire had been seeing someone for the last few months, but she refused to say who it was. None of us understood why, until now. Claire killed herself because she was being abused.

That was the moment I swore to myself I would kill the guy who indirectly killed my twin sister. 

No matter what the cost, he would be stripped of a long, happy life just as Claire had been.

==========================================

So, let us know what you think please! :D

xoxo,

Haylie and Bri