Page 35 of Ramsay

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Willow

The weekend passes slowly and to while away the time, I contemplate the total annihilation of my school. During the week, Xander Hawkins cornered me near the restroom and blocked me in, devoting ten minutes to convincing me of the merits of a threesome.

The lemmings chanted cruel words at the start of every class, leaving behind creative notes with cartoon character renditions of myself in various sexual acts.

Boys I’ve never spoken to in my life asked me out while the girls looked on with judgmental sneers, and when I snarled to back off, I was labeled a tease.

The Sinners effectively turned me into the school whore. My only peace is in the form of my morning chats with Bone and the freshman who’ve taken to sitting with me all the time.

When Sunday rolls around, I emerge from my cocoon and head downstairs, finding my parents at the dining room table. This is not by any means unusual. Mom tends to sit and stare into space for hours in that very chair, but the air is charged with something that makes me pause before I trail into the room slowly.

Dad sits with his usual grim expression, his tired eyes pulled down at the corners. He used to be a handsome man with a hearty laugh and fun-loving demeanor, all of which is no more. I haven’t seen him laugh since...well, since.

Mom’s crying silently, tears trailing down her cheeks in a torrent and where worry made Dad grim, the same has sucked the soul from her. People used to exclaim over our similarities, how we shared the same beautiful dark hair and hazel eyes. Now, her hair is shot through with gray, and her eyes are perpetually red-rimmed and blank. She essentially gave up when Carmen never came home, and she's never recovered.

Glancing between them with frustration a lump in my chest, I suck in a breath because they don't see me. They can't see me even when I’m standing right here.

“What?” I ask.

Dad glances up and blinks, as Mom rests her chin in her hand, her frail shoulders shaking under the weight of her sobs. Pulling out a chair, I collapse in it and cross my arms before raising my brows. He better start talking because whatever is going on affects me just as much as them.

“We received a call from the police,” Dad says reluctantly, rubbing his hand over his bristly jaw.

“Wh-what?” I ask, my stomach clenching.

“Yes, it’s—Will,” his face crumples, and my eyes well because Dad doesn’t cry. He’s grumpy, angry, perpetually absent but never this. It's bad. It's very bad.

“Is she dead?” I whisper.

Mom flinches beside me, and Dad slams his hand on the table, making us both jump.

“This isn’t a joke,” he barks.

“I never said it was,” I say through numb lips.

“Paul,” Mom says, her hand trembling as she touches his arm, but he shakes her off and waves his finger in my face.

“Enough! I’m tired of the theatrics. This isn’t always about you. We received notification from the police today that they found a gravesite, with bodies...and they asked us to identify some of the jewelry.”

I’m mute, afraid to ask, fearful of his censure, but more so to learn shit that I can never unhear. Something monumental is looming over me, and just as the specter of drugs fulfills, I want to bury my head in the sand and ignore it.

Knowing in your heart someone is probably dead and having it confirmed is entirely different. And did he say bodies as in–plural?

Holy fuck.

“Did you see it, whatever it was? Was it hers?” I whisper.

Slowly he nods, his mouth quivering before his eyes well again. I look away because I can't see him like this, I can't and I hold back a sob when he says gruffly, “Yes, the necklace was your sister’s. It's one we bought her when she was just born. You have a matching necklace. Yours is a tree, though.”

Vaguely, I remember the necklace, now hidden away in a jewelry box and forgotten, the cheap metal probably now green. If ever there was a metaphor for my life, it’s that sad necklace tossed away and hidden, tarnished by the very air. I don't know what hers was, and I’m afraid to ask but knowing she took it with her when she left leaves an empty ache in my stomach.

Even then, she wanted a reminder of home.

“We don't know anything more. We’re waiting for the autopsy,” he chokes on the word, “results, but the shape, um, size may not be your sister. It means possibly it's not her.”

Mom explodes into tears, and Dad leans in to hold her, rocking her gently in his arms. The feral sound of her grief races across my skin like tiny pinpricks and I escape unnoticed, slipping into my room and lying across the bed.

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