Hello Darkness

Chapter Six

A warm woodsy-vanilla cream smell tickles my nostrils and the soft buzz of the Sunday morning radio station breaks me from my sleep. I stretch in the reclining chair and find Alma sitting on the couch diagonal from me. Her hair already on the top of her head in a neat bun—she can't even pretend she didn't sleep.

"Good morning. Breccan dropped coffee off for us," she says with a smile, handing me the white cup with a green Annalise's Coffee label on the side. I hadn't even heard him come in—or leave for that matter. "I didn't want to wake you, but I knew you would be upset if I let it get cold."

If that isn't the truth of the morning. "Thank you," I say, sitting up and taking the warm cup from her, my voice a little froggy. Annalise's coffee is my blood.

The radio crackles as the host's voice takes a somber turn. "Well, Dave, we've got some breaking news from the Vengeance concert." My head perks up and I look at Alma. Maybe there's news. "There's currently an ongoing investigation of the murder of Senator Maisano's daughter. Police are following leads, but are asking anyone with information to contact them immediately."

My breath hitches, and acid burns the back of my throat. Alma touches her cheek and then her lips. "I can turn—"

"Don't." I stare at the round coffee table. I need to hear this.

The co-host sighs. "What makes people do that? It's surreal when it happens in your hometown. Ya'know? You think you've found a town to settle down and raise a family—then something like this happens."

"You want to know the craziest thing about this story? There's a connection to another West Haven unsolved murder."

My chest tightens. When was the last time I took a breath?

"Remember the name Charley Beckett?"

My name—No. This is not happening again. Heat warms my cheeks. I feel like everyone's eyes are on me. Are they listening—do they know? Alma stands and darts across the room to the radio on the kitchen counter.

"Wasn't that the girl from that book? Uh... what was it called—Demented." I curse under my breath—that damn book.

She slams her hand on the button and the sound stops.

"No..." the whisper flutters from my lips. I slip from my chair, holding my breath, and fighting the urge to gag. My shaking hand misses the coffee table as I attempt to set my cup down in my rush to the bathroom—it sloshes to the floor behind me in a wet slap.

My mom says you did it. That true? It's seventh grade, and I'm cornered in the hallway after gym class.

Killer—smeared on the bathroom walls in permanent marker.

Blood red fangs drawn on my locker after recess.

I fall to my knees and heave into the toilet—like that will expel all the memories. When I finally stop, I rinse my mouth and lean against the wall.

I was twelve when that book came out. The author, someone unrelated and unconnected to our family, took it upon herself to write the absolutely unfactual account of my parents' murder. The murderer—me.

That's when the vandalism started, and it continued long after Nana filed the lawsuit. At first it seemed like teenage pranks, toilet papering the yard or a bat to the mailbox. Then they got worse and when school started my seventh-grade year; I became the target.

First, it was invisibility. My best friend, Natalie, wanted nothing to do with me. Our secret jokes and friendship turned into hateful glances and whispers. Then people stopped talking to me all together. As I approached, they would scatter and stare, like I was some kind of caged animal.

Then they got braver. As I used the restroom, three girls giggled outside the door, Natalie included. I waited until I heard the whoosh of the bathroom door before I stepped out. As I suspected, I was the punchline to their joke. Thick black permanent marker marred my reflection in the mirror. Killer.

Killer.

Killer...

I slip out of the bathroom my head pounding. "I'll be in my room."

Alma's leaning wide-eyed on the kitchen island. "Do you want to talk?" she whispers.

"No." I slink towards my room—shit, this feels worse than a hangover.

I keep my gaze on the grainy wood floor as I enter my room, refusing to even acknowledge the window, and I don't look up until I turn my back towards it and begin rummaging through my dresser for a change of clothes.

Maybe it's silly to fear a window. Still, a prickle crawls up my spine just like the night before... just look. I'll feel better once I look. There's nothing there. I would have noticed it when I walked in—but I hadn't noticed it... him... last night.

I slam my dresser drawer. I'm being ridiculous—I will not live in fear. Of course, there is nothing there. I spin to face the window, and—

Stop.

Blood red marks streak the window.

Breathe. I have to remember to breathe. Hello, again. The jagged letters spell across the pane. Not only had there been someone there that night, but it was the same someone from the concert—the murderer—I was sure of it, and he followed me home.