Lauren Sanders is struggling to rebuild her life with her aunt and cousin after her family's tragic death. But what no one knows is the truth about two things: how her parents really died and her battle with schizophrenia.
One day, Lauren stumbles...
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I recall getting out of bed in the morning. It was the first morning without her. The first morning not being able to hear her feet stomping across the hall, as she raced inside my room to wake me. The first morning of not seeing her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushes her hair while I brush my teeth. The first morning not seeing her plate on the dining room table as we wait for mom's pancakes to finish cooking.
The house was desolate. Our happiness died along with her. All that remained were the memories captured inside the picture frames around the house and the things that reminded us of her in her bedroom. As time passed, her silence became more of a sense of solitude, as we all tried to find our own ways of coping without her. I still looked for her in the loneliness of all places, waiting to feel her warmth again.
It took four or five weeks for mom to start painting again. It took less than a week for my father to get out of bed so that he could cook for us; breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It didn't take me a week or three, not even a month or so, to embrace everything she left us with. It never took me how to be strong until I was left all alone months later.
I was caught in a circle, constantly trying to find a way out of the pain. The road to acceptance and letting go was a dark one that I was afraid to travel. I saw that the only option was to give up and that it was better that way. Instead of walking into the sunshine, I welcomed the darkness that had engulfed me and took refuge there.
And... I never imagined that one person was all I needed to get me to start moving, again.
"Margaret," I say, standing in front of her. Her mouth was half-open, and her body didn't move. It seemed as if the color drained from her face as she stared wide-eyed at the sight of me.
She whips her head back for a second before stepping outside of her house, closing the door behind her. She blinks her eyes, eyeing me from head to toe.
"Lauren," She manages to speak, "It's been a while."
"Two years, to be exact," I told her.
She nods her head and then says, "Wha-what brings you here?"
She scratches the back of her head as she stutters, ignoring eye contact with me. I look down at my fingers, fidgeting as I say, "I just wanted to really know what happened."
"What do you mean?" Her eyebrows were drawn together, confused at what I just said to her.
"About Elise. You and Elise. Elise and everyone else."
Margaret Johnson was the last person I saw with Elise before everyone started ignoring her. She attended Elise's funeral after she died. At the very back of the audience. Standing amongst the crowds, hidden, wearing a black, lace dress. She was wearing shades that covered her eyes, and she walked away when she saw me looking at her the moment I stood behind the podium.
"I don't really know—"
"Please," I grabbed both of her hands and squeezed them, "I saw you. I know you saw me, too. I just want to know the truth."
