Her Secret| ✓

08

Ilomilo- Billie Eilish

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☩ Journal Entry

THAT WAS WHEN I found her; I followed that bloody trail through the house, my breath hitched in my chest as I silently padded beside the streaks, the reflection of the moon was my only companion as it glistened on the floor. My mind reeled with the endless possibilities of what I might find, I knew that whatever it was, I would always blame myself.

I never understood my parent's attraction to this house, its lonely and dark halls, the nightmarish creaks as it shifted in the quiet night.

I could not see how the night would end, what happened to my parents' and Uncle Shane? Where was Emma and why did we hear those awful gunshots? All the questions were thrumming in my head, one kept coming back again and again despite my efforts to ignore it, why was I left alone?

Even before it started, I could tell something was wrong, it was simply too quiet. I stopped abruptly in the middle of the dark hall and listened, the sharp breath slicing down my raw throat, I stood balancing my weight as I waited for the heavy boots that I had sworn I had heard behind me—but after a door slammed shut down the hall, I heard nothing in the seconds that followed.

I held my breath for much longer than I needed to before gasping for air, I slumped against the wall as quietly as I could, my mind imagining the worst before I remembered why I was doing this. I plucked up what little courage I had left, saying a silent prayer that whoever or whatever had made the noise behind me was not toying with me. With my priorities in order, I crept over to the blood droplets and continued to tiptoe down the staircase.

I had to find Emma, and I needed to be stealthier if I were going to make it through that enormous house without being seen or heard.

Manoeuvring a giant turn of the nineteenth-century staircase in the dark was too difficult for words, one wrong step and I slipped in the puddle of blood. I grasped at the bannister before I was sent sailing down the stairs, clinging to it for dear life, my heart in my throat as my wiry legs sprawling out from underneath me in a soft thudding sound.

To my increasing horror, the splotches became bigger and close-knit at the base of the stairs, that would explain why I slipped. Was this my fault? Should I have kept my mouth shut? Tension gnawed at the lining of my stomach, but I kept on, determined I would find my little sister in the dark maze of a house. I fought back the urge to cry when I finally made it to the kitchen, to my left, the sprawling lawn, immaculate gardens stretching the length of it.

All my senses were immediately heightened, it was as if someone flipped a switch in me. A cool Autumn breeze slithered through the open glass doors; my heart sank as I noticed that the blood continued to the patio.

Every sound washed over me, engulfing me, the fresh air a touch too cold against my skin. I felt like an animal, without anyone close to me to bring me back, I thought I could just slip into the woods and forget all of this. The air was still, dew from the storm drenched the soggy grass where I stood, everything moved slowly—slurred and somehow jarringly still simultaneously.

Light from one of the bedrooms on the floor above me turned on, it might have been my room for all I knew, illuminating a patch of darkness in front of me.

The scene playing out before me was indigestible for my then child brain, seeing it—being aware of it chilled my veins. Bile crawled up the back of my throat, my skin went ice-cold, how had it happened?

Mother had knelt on all fours in her black nighty, her bare legs smeared in mud and crusty blood up to her shoulders. Her midnight black hair was uncharacteristically dishevelled, matted and streaky in places, covering most of her face from me. I drew a deep sigh as a wave of relief swept over me, but it did not last long. She wasn't sitting naturally. Her head lulled to the side and her shoulders held no tension, giving the appearance that she had crumpled in on herself. Her eyes were open, and she stared dead ahead looking into nothing, unblinking. I called out to her, her name fresh on my lips, but she did not respond. I took a hesitant step towards her, she smelled awful, like something dead.

My lungs ached from lack of oxygen, what was I supposed to do?

Eagerly, my eyes scanned over the yard hungrily searching for Emma, but there was no sign of her. My eyes strained and my toes ached from the height I had been maintaining, but the thought of finding her gave me new hope.

It is funny what you do not notice when something else swoops in and monopolizes all your attention; I did not notice the centipede crawling over my barefoot, or that the rain had begun to sink through my clothes. Instead, my attention was on the ground, by my mother. The safety boards on the well had been cracked, and in her clutched fist she held my blue hair ribbon—the very one I had put in Emma's braids this evening in place of her torn one before bed.

I do not think I had ever seen my mother in such a state, so lifeless—so struck down. Nothing around us—none of it made any sense. Then it struck me: she is dead. Am I happy?Preview

The scent of his cologne draws

I want him suddenly. This overwhelming need to do anything, say anything to get him takes over