Paper Cuts (COMPLETED)

Chapter Seven: The Big Chill

I pulled on the black lace gloves, and crouched to look in the mirror. I ran my hands over my straightened brown hair, and the smoky shadow on my lids looked better than anything I'd ever tried to apply to myself before. For once my fringe didn't frizz up, straight as the rest of my hair. In spite of it all, I commended my reflection for it's ability to sharpen up.

The dress I wore hung off my frame, topped with a white peter-pan collar that I'd sewn on myself. The torso was lined with pearly white buttons, and my semi-opaque stockings ran down into modest black court heels. I lined my lips with a dark lipstick and stood, straightening my dress out.

"Sarah?" shouted Mum from downstairs, "Come on! Let's go, quick!"

I sighed, turning to the side to look in the mirror once more, and then I mentally slapped myself. It felt wrong to be so vain in times such as these. I left my room and descended the stairs, heading straight down the corridor to the front door. Mum stood there and smiled softly.

"You look nice."

"Thanks."

Mum wasn't dressed in black, but rather her gym clothes from earlier that morning. She wasn't attending the funeral, but the outfit seemed wrong anyway.

We climbed down the steps to where her cold grey Audi waited, rivulets from the previous shower sitting in fat streams on the wind-shield. I hugged myself against the cold air, and jumped into the passenger seat.

Mum got in and started up the car, the heating blasting generously through the vents. She drove out to the cemetery, lush and green and colourful even under the gun-metal sky. I reached into the back seat and dragged my coat forward, looking at the stream of people in black carrying umbrellas up and over the top of a hill. Even from here, I could make out the four girls as they led the procession.

"Aren't you going to get out?" Mum provoked, and I sighed, opening the car door. I had to do it, I knew I had to. Just get it over with, and go home.

"Bye," I said, and she smiled. I closed the door and she sped off, leaving me standing with my coat folded over my arms at the bottom of the hill.

I arrived late on purpose, hoping that I would be able to slip in and out again unnoticed. Intending to stick to that plan, I climbed the hill slowly and carefully, my heals sinking into the rain-soaked dirt.

At the top of the hill, the crowd of black-clothed people huddled together next to an open grave. I practically tip toed to the edge of the crowd, away from the four girls, and beheld the matte black coffin covered in droplets of rain before me.

A priest stood before the coffin, preaching about Clara and her youth, but I didn't listen, nor could I listen. The coffin seemed to still every part of my body and mind, settling the dust of my thoughts until one remaining image seared into my mind.

Clara's cold body, lying atop ivory satin sheets in a pretty dress, covered with creams and foundation to make her look less dead. Clara Aitken, the girl who'd showed me how to love cats, the girl with hair to make anyone jealous, about to be buried beneath the earth.

It's strange that in death one forgets every bad thing about the deceased, instead seeming to remember every fondness they'd felt. Or was that just me?

This morbid thought spun around my head, gaining speed, as they lowered her coffin, and as people individually stepped forward to sprinkle dirt into her grave. My eyes stuck to where her coffin lay, six feet below my suede heels, and they didn't move until a cold hand gripped my shoulder.

I gasped silently and turned, dragging my sluggish head around to find a short woman, rather large around the middle, with platinum blonde hair and running mascara, smiling up at me.

"Sarah," sobbed Mrs Aitken, "I'm so 'appy you came. I know you and Clara had a falling out, but I'm glad you're 'ere. I know it would 'ave meant a lot to 'er."

I offered a smile back and reached down to embrace her, "I'm really sorry for your loss, Mrs Aitken."

Mrs Aitken pulled back slowly and nodded, then dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes before meandering back to her daughter's grave. I shivered, but if from the cold or the knowledge that Mrs Aitken had just buried her daughter, I couldn't tell.

"What are you doing here?"

I froze, knowing my mission of stealth had failed as I turned to face Thea, Eliza, Abbey and Lola. They all looked at me coldly as tears continued to fall down their faces. Thea's face, though, was more angry than sad. She stepped forward slowly, and I felt myself step back at the same time.

"Why are you here, Sarah?" she repeated, her tone growing steely and cold. I didn't have an answer, and Thea continued to prowl forward.

"You don't deserve to be here," she hissed, "She wasn't your friend."

"Yes, she was."

Thea's face grew livid as fresh tears began to drip down her face, "No, she wasn't! She died because of you, Sarah. It's your fault," she seethed, and I felt my face grow hot as a lump formed in my throat. People turned around and watched as Thea bolted her accusations at me.

"It's all your fault!" She cried out, and the other three lurched forward to grab her, comforting her as she burst into tears. People were staring at me, likely confused. Perhaps it would be best to leave before that changed. I tried to turn away, but my feet wouldn't let me. Thankfully, the others led Thea away and I was alone and able to move once more. I turned back to face the downhill trek towards the road, where my mother would retrieve me.

I fumbled my clutch open for my phone, and it dropped into the sodden dirt at my feet. I cursed under my breath, crouching on shaking knees to retrieve it, but a familiar hand got to it first. I stood back up, not trusting my balance as I did so, and raised my eyes to a head of curly brown hair and warm brown eyes.

"Hey, Sarah."

The boy handed me my phone, and I took it warily, looking away from his face almost instantly.

"Hi Will."

Will turned to head back to the funeral, but, for a reason I do not know, I called out to him.

"Thanks."

I held my phone up, and he nodded as if to say 'it's fine'. It was a menial thing for me to say, but for some reason it seemed more important than anything else. He meandered away, and I huffed.

I opened my phone and called Mum to come and get me.

The ride home was, thankfully, silent. Mum didn't try to pester me with details, instead letting me rest my head against the window. As I stared up at the slate sky, one sentence repeated itself in my mind.

It's all your fault.