Page 34 of Warmer, Colder

Will I ever get the apology I need to move on?

Is it possible for me to forgive her?

Could things ever go back to the way they used to be?

Not even an hour into my resolution to leave her behind and I’m already betraying my own best interests. I never learned how to say no to Becca. Not when it came to following her through heavily wooded areas that would scrape and tear my clothes. Not when it came to her asking if she could practice kissing on me. And not when it came to risking my life for her.

But that’s not the Becca that I’m dealing with anymore. She’s hollow; a Russian nesting doll of unsettling imposters.

I’ve been watching a reverse metamorphosis. A brilliant butterfly shoving herself into a too-tight cocoon that can’t even contain her properly, hiding beneath layers that she’s Frankenstein’d together to conceal herself from the world. Instead of shorts and crop tops that show off her long, slender body, she wears loose shirts and full-length pants in dark hues—even going so far as to raid her brother’s neglected closet. Whereas before I used to relish every inch of ivory skin she’d put on display, I’m lucky to get a glimpse of her neck or fingertips.

It goes beyond her appearance. She’s always beenlittle miss perfect, in school, her friendships, with her family. Maintaining the illusion of normalcy around her family has become precarious; the second that door clicks shut and locks firmly behind her, the facade falls, and I’m left with this warped version of her that shrinks before my eyes. Beneath the baggy clothes she hides under, her skin is starting to hug her ribs, her collar bones are just a bit sharper, and her cheeks are a little more pronounced.

I need to remember the real her. The Becca who turned on me when the accusations reared their ugly heads. The one that had stabbed me in the back with her denial. The one that shunned me like a dirty little secret that had become more of an inconvenience. That version of Becca is the one that I saw revived the night of my death.

Those eyes that watched the blade slash across my throat are the same ones that would drop to the floor or conveniently flit away from me as our paths crossed. The ears that allowed my gurgling protests to fall away into silence are the same ones that couldn’t hear me as I would call out her name and ask her if we could talk. The hands that buried me are the same ones that would decline my late-night phone calls and delete the texts I’d paid for out of my meager allowance.

The woman who condemned me to this purgatory is the same one who shunned me for that entire summer. The way she treated me was unforgivable.Should have been.I can’t love this version of her.

I don’t love her. I don’t love her. I don’t love her.

She doesn’t deserve my love, let alone my forgiveness. She needs to be held accountable.

I don’t love her. I hate her.

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

I hate the way I can’t bear to see her in pain. I hate that I allowed her to become everything and myself to be reduced to nothing once again.

I was doing so well. I was doing so well. I was doing so well.

“It’s not fair.” I vocalize the sentiment that’s been the running theme in my life. Things are never fair for girls like me. The ones who are just scraping by, offering up ounces of our blood to tip the scales in our favor every once in a while. “Every time I search for respite, it’s your heartbeat that draws me back down the path of destruction. You have me all tangled up, making a mess of myself over you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way this time. You were supposed to heal me, but you’ve destroyed me.” I’m so fucking sick of not being enough, I can’t bear it another second.

Even though I know my anger won’t be heard, I open the door and scream out into the yard, into the ether, into all of existence. “I fucking hate you, Becca Murphy. I hope my death haunts you every minute of every day. I hope you lie awake with guilt gnawing away at your sanity. I hope the suffering you’ve allowed crawls beneath your skin and wraps itself around your bones. I—” Whatever I was saying is swallowed by a gasp as a swath of black crosses my vision. The sight unearthing dread that is thick and tar-like in the pit of my gut. But within a blink, it’s gone. Unease nips at my heels as I step back into the guest house and lock the door. But I don’t feel much safer; the place that felt like a cozy reprieve now feels like a lonely island.

Chapter 15

Becca

December 10th, 2014 – Death Day

Ignoring the big pop-up for 988, I scroll down and open the thread again that details how to do it just right. None of the crying for attention shit. I don’t want that. I want to go into the abyss discreetly. I crave a quiet exit. Everything’s been too loud for too long.Ever since that night.The night when my luck soured, when the cards turned against me.

Just a few months ago, everything held so much promise. Twenty-three meant getting ready to graduate. Twenty-three meant getting my own place with my friends. Twenty-three meant the start of the rest of my life.

And why should I have expected anything different? The last twenty-two years have gone pretty well. I’ve never wanted for anything. I have a happy family. It’s never been difficult for me to make friends. I’ve always been conventionally attractive. School came easily to me. I didn’t get into trouble. I was on the path to a successful future. Some would go so far as to call me a golden girl.

That was before. Before that night. Before Nate. Before them.

As we all know, moisture tarnishes gold. The salt of their sweat and other fluids coating me, rubbing me raw in more ways than one. All that forced friction dulling my shine. I’m mottled with metallic abrasion. It’s a morbid mosaic of black and greendiscolorations, this body of mine. That’s why the skirts and tops that put me on display are resigned to the back of the closet. There they can’t attract perverse attention. There they’re not inviting unwanted touches.

Death looms close, its breath on my neck. A shiver rolls over me as I remove the sweaty clothes I’ve been wearing for the last few days. My sweatpants follow, then hesitantly, my underwear. What used to be a mundane act feels too exposing despite being in the privacy of my own bedroom. Even without other hands snatching them down.

Distant thumping of bass drifts into one ear and out the other. With it, I sway between this moment and another. In the other, heavy breathing heats my chest just over the spot where my heart is shattering. Instead of song lyrics, it’s the placations of a fragile ego.

You like that, Murphy?

Not so hard to get now, are you?

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