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06: Late Arrivals

dedicated to @restrict because her comments in general crack me up and damn, her interest in this story is astonishing. it's really interesting to see how all of your theories are taking shape, you must let me know what you think happened to devin. thanks xx

06: Late Arrivals

            Devin’s Facebook page is a heap of sympathetic messages from people she either didn’t know or didn’t like. There is an abundance of pictures from her growing up, along with poems which mean nothing now but to the author of the post, show that they’ve done their part to show that they actually care. I sit and scroll through the page, hoping to catch a glimpse and see the last post that she done personally, but when it nears ten minutes and there’s another message from some random John Doe wishing Devin a nice stay with the angels, I decide that it’s not worth the effort.

            It feels like the diary has the potential to burn through my bag, I know it’s there but I’m frightened that something may happen to it. I’m scheduled to meet up with Charlie so we can actually sit down and talk. I know already that Devin’s Diary definitely won’t be the only topic bought up when he takes me to eat (he’s paying, of course) because Charlie is a persistent person and if he wants to talk about the past, then we very well will, whether I like it or not. Keeping an eye on Adrienne and Grant had been tiring, once they got swept up in the new crowd of people who enjoyed going to fairs when it was dark and the lights from the rides lit up the sky. I’m sure the Mayor overlooked the city in his sky-rise penthouse butt naked with another one of his whores kissing on his neck.

            It reminded me that I live amongst all of these people, yet I know nothing about what happens behind closed doors. I’m sure that only Caggie, Charlie and my brother’s friends know that my Mom can not cook a decent meal to save her life, and on Sundays, Dad takes out almost all of the breakfast food we own to do a big fry-up and then Byron’s friends will arrive for some food then leave soon after. Once the last plate is put in the dishwasher, we all scamper away for our last day of rest before the week starts again for all of us.

            I can smell the bacon in my room, like the scent is dancing through the crack between the door and the carpet. If the door was open then I’d be able to hear my Dad singing away to another one of the songs that played when he got married to Mom in ’89, and if I was downstairs with them, he’d be trying to get her to dance with him too. Sunday is when they act like they’re in love again, instead of seeming bored with their marriage.

            The chat box pops up in the right hand corner of my screen, followed by the popping sound. A smaller version of Charlie is tucked away in a small box, with his namesake beside it. Are we still meeting today? It seems foolish to tell him no, but I don’t want to see him and there’s not much else I can use as a distraction. Once I’ve told him yes, we’re still on; I log out of Facebook and set my laptop to the side. I keep my eyes on my bag for a few seconds, until I hear my Dad call me downstairs to answer the door for him.

            Dad is taking pancakes out of the pan when I walk past the kitchen, and Mom is already tying up the boots of her Timberlands because like always, the office calls. She makes a fuss about wanting to find her keys and actually get there on time for once, because “it’s embarrassing arriving late, you know”.

            “Kasia!” Dad calls, “Get the door!”

            “I can’t find the keys!”

            “I told you!” Mom shrieks, “The keys aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I told you Jonah!” The bowl which is supposed to have all the keys that we ever need is empty.