Elle Jones

Chapter 3: Getting Ready

With another heavy sigh, Austin told me what had happened to Elle: her liver cancer got worse when she begins to age. Her doctors tried to eradicate the tumor, but it was already too late as the blood flooded her opened stomach.

"Oh my gosh," I said to myself, pacing around my bedroom like a deranged animal. It's been a minute since I heard the news, and I couldn't stop panicking.

My hair looks like a bird's nest, my eyes widened, and my feet are already getting blisters from walking. Never in a million years could I believe that Elle Jones is dead.

She was like the Mother Teresa of Australia; kind, intelligent, and full of hope, Elle focuses on what the problems we face as a whole, and puts it on film for everyone to see.

For instance, she directed a 1986 movie called Tormented Flowers. It told the true story of an Elle's best friend, Marie Lincoln whose sexual assault at work became a driving force for women.

Although the movie was in black and white, everyone enjoyed it, especially the Oscars, Golden Globes, and surprisingly the Grammys. They called Elle one of the most successful directors who gave them the insight of what obstacles a woman faced.

"We need to do something," I say quietly.

"I know," said Austin. "That's why you and I are going to the funeral today."

I raised my eyebrow, hoping that it wasn't a trick.

"Really?" I ask. "Isn't the funeral reserved for her relatives and friends?"

"Yeah, but Elle and Kristy go way back in high school," says Austin. "Kristy says that she'll take us to the funeral, but you need to wear an evening attire."

I sighed, "A dress?"

"Yeah."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes," Austin scolded.

"You sound like Joseph." I snorted.

"It's a funeral, Jack." he reminded. "Not a public school."

"Shut up," I said, grumbling, "fine, I'll think about it."

"Okay," Austin said back. "Oh, and Kristy says to make sure you tell your dad."

My eyes stared at the phone in horror.

"My dad?" I repeated with a moan. "Are you fucking serious? He never lets me go on my own!"

Grunting he said, "Sorry, Kristy's orders."

Just when you think it can't get any worse. I thought.

" I will talk to Joseph. What time do you want me to come outside?"

"5:30."

"Okay," I slid off my bed and walk out of my bedroom.

The wooden floors led me to the living room, where the walls are boring white, the gray carpet is covered in food stains, two, worn copper couches, and since we're broke, we have a shitty television.

Behind the living room is a small kitchen, which looks more disgusting than the living room; it has ugly yellow painted walls, a beat up fridge, and plus, the brown tiled floors looked as if a cat scratched it.

Besides the fridge, there is a closet filled with everything you need to survive a zombie apocalypse: cookies, chips, first-aid supplies, brownies, two sacks of rice, and rarely used paper towels.

Above the working stove are three, dark brown cupboards-which lined across the broken microwave horizontally, like ice cubes-but underneath, is an oily black countertop, covered in breadcrumbs, a thin layer of peanut butter, and sticky strawberry jam.