Our Last Moment

Chapter One | Chai Tea

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C H A P T E R 1

If I had to describe myself in one word, I suppose I am an outcast, but I try my hardest not to believe it.

I started my day just as I always do. My alarm clock rang at exactly 5:30 a.m. and I did the usual: made my bed, put on my 1975 tee shirt with a pair of blue jeans, and did the bathroom essentials like brushing my teeth and tying up my blond locks as fast as I could. I had quite the excessive amount of acne, but I wasn't the type to throw a pound of foundation on or drench my face with a bottle of Proactive, so I let it be.

I walk down to what my mom calls the Heart of the House; the kitchen. But I disagree to that opinion. The heart of the house is my bedroom; the only place where I feel comfortable to say what I want, be what I want, and act how I want.

"Did you have a pleasant nights' rest, Autumn?" mom questioned as if expecting a yes.

"I suppose. I mean... it's not like I fucking dreamt about anything interesting." Mom is a catechism teacher and hates when I swear. She says it's a sin against our religion (Catholicism), but quite frankly I don't recall dropping the f-bomb being equivalent to taking Lord's name in vain.

I sat down enjoying my cup of hot chai tea in silence (wishing it'd stay like that). Mother offered me a plate of her delicious homemade french toast, so I took it and devoured the plate clean. Nothing beats her french toast!

A couple years back, she decided to enter our annual cooking contest that our church funds. She had always adored the sweet aroma of spontaneous foods, so she decided to take her culinary skills to the table and made her breakfast entrée. It became such a hit that people came to her after the event in search for a recipe. They didn't get one.

I buried my head under the table and scrolled through my phone till the screen started to hurt my own eyes.

"What's the matter, Sweetheart?" She asked "if this is about her, then I totally understand. I cry every night thinking about it. We will get through this pain together."

"I hope we will" I whispered, "I hope we will..."

It felt like my body was flooded with tears. You see, her was my sister. But she was not only my sister; she was my twin sister. She died at the age of 14 (3 years ago). She didn't die of cancer or because of suicidal actions. She died from murder. Stabbed 23 times and left to die in the crevice of multiple rocks deep down in a ditch, tossed right off the road.

I think about it everyday. The thought holds me back, and I try to avoid as many people as I can. How can someone so satanic murder a poor, innocent child? We were two peas in a pod; I'd tell her everything and vice versa. It kills me to imagine that I no longer have my best friend; the only girl that I could trust with what I was feeling inside.

It all happened when she had been receiving threats through typed letters dropped off into her locker. No name involved, of course, because of the idea of being anonymous. I was there when she received her first letter. It read:

To Mary-Elizabeth,

Each of us are given a number. Some people may have an 87 while others have a 12. See, none of us know our number, but I happened to figure yours out. Our number refers to our death. If my number is 51, I will die at 51. Yours happens to be 14. You have five months till you turn 15 in September. Five monhs till an unexpected death occurs. Mary-Elizabeth, you have five months till you die. Five months till you die by me. Use your time wisely.

- Anonymous

Our first intentions were that someone was playing a prank on her for fun and games. But the letters were endless. Every couple of weeks a new message was found on a bright, white sheet of paper folded enough to slide through the slits of her locker.

As the age of 14 seemed to be in-closure, she died shortly before our 15th birthday. I sense as if it was my fault. My fault for her death.

We were supposed to walk to our aunt, Patricia's home. I had an unexpected rehearsal for drama that Friday. I made my sister walk to our aunt's house without me, unable to guide her; to stand with her. There, she was murdered. That quiet Friday afternoon, an innocent 14 year old was murdered.

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I checked the time, and it read 6:42. Mom shouted, "Try and make a new fr-" but I shut the door before she finished. Here I am, 17 year old girl with a travel mug in hand filled with the tea I hadn't drinken, walking slow and quiet. Re-tracing my daily steps, as I do each morning.

I arrived to my bus stop, and I'm second guessing whether or not I should've worn a jacket. There's a good amount of wind causing goosebumps all over my body. No one was there (as usual). I'm the only one that stands at my stop in the morning.

The bus arrives moments later, and I jump on, step-by-step.

Most seats are taken, but I managed to find one without anybody there. I threw my headphones in my ears, slid the volume bar on full volume, and played my favorite soundtrack. I stared as we passed tons of houses and people. I engaged in the thought that each and every one of those houses were occupied with an ideal family; mother, father, about two children with an accompanied pet. The perfect life... the perfect family.

I paused and stopped worrying. My mind went blank and I closed my eyes, shuffle mode blasted, and took one last sip of my chai tea before the doors of the bus opened.