On May 22, 2009, my best - and only - friend was murdered three blocks from his home.
Rene was 18 when he was killed, three months shy of his 19th birthday. We had spent the day together, skateboarding at the park. At a quarter to nine, we had bid each other farewell, and had begun walking in opposite directions toward our respective homes. I had no idea anything had gone amiss until Monday, when I arrived at school and one of Rene's friends, an acquaintance of mine, informed me that Rene had gone missing shortly after 10:00p.m. on Friday.
Naturally, I was worried. Rene wasn't the type of person to go anywhere alone. Especially at night. He was the biggest scaredy cat I had ever met in my entire life, and was petrified of the dark. However, I had faith Rene would be found, alive and well, if not a bit shaken up. It was entirely possible he had forgotten something at the park and gone back to get it, getting lost on the way, and being caught on some dark, deserted street, alone. He was probably fine.
This is what I tried to trick myself into believing. That Rene was fine, if not worse for wear, and we would be back together, skateboarding, in a week's time. As much as I wish I had been right, however, I wasn't. Rene's body turned up, abandoned, pale and cold, on the Thursday of that week. Examination of the body revealed his neck had been slit, and his lifeless body dumped in the back alleyway behind a row of houses in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. Rene was dead.
I attended his funeral. It was quiet; the only guests close family and friends, and a few people from our school. His mother gave a teary-eyed eulogy, breaking down near the end. Rene's father had to fetch her from the podium at the front of the room. I was allowed to say a few words for Rene, before the body was taken to a back room to be transported to a graveyard, and later buried. It was a closed casket ceremony.
I watched as Rene's body, lying in a pristine white casket, was lowered into a massive hole in the ground. I cringed each time a shovel full of dirt was tossed on top of my best friend's body. It was all I could do but break down and join the mass of Rene's weeping family. I would miss the friend who had become a brother of sorts to me. His death tore a hole within me, a hole that would take a long while to heal, if it healed at all.
This is what I think about during my plane ride from El Paso, Texas to Port Angeles, Washington. I stare, glassy eyed, out the tiny compartment window, my eyes not focusing on specifically anything, watching the ground disappear beneath the airplane's massive wings. No one is sitting next to me during the ride, and after an hour of reliving the worst moments of my life, I sink down, laying across the seats in my row, and fall into a fitful, restless sleep.
My mother and I, for a lack of better words, have differences. She is a beautiful, large chested woman who hails from the country of Estonia. Her hair is long, cascading golden blonde, with bright, expressive blue eyes. This contrasts vastly to my dark red hair, pale skin, and dark green eyes. While my mothers stands an average 5'3", I tower over her, my skinny, bean pole body reaching to a height of 5'7". We are completely different beings, which causes me to wonder where exactly I acquired my unusual traits. Sometimes, I wonder if my father wasn't the scruffy, brown haired, brown-eyed man I've come to know, but possibly, the mailman.
The differenced between Yvette, my mother, and I, don't stop at appearances. I'm a subdued, laid back personality. I'm quiet, shy, and, above all, increasingly different from those around me. My penchant for wearing mostly black and my interest for counter culture causes many to wonder how my beautiful, popular, above all normal mother to raise a child like, well, me. I think I can answer this question.
My mother and I don't get along. She hates me, to be honest. She hates me, from the tips of my exceedingly long eyelashes to the bottoms of my worn, scruffy converse. And she makes it abundantly clear, from her constant screeching, beating, and neglectful attitude. Even my name, Vale Alexander, translates to "zero," or, "mistake." The Alexander comes from my father. It is no surprise I prefer to go by my middle name, Alex for short.
A recent disagreement between my dear, loving mother and I ended in a large gash down my back, starting between my shoulder blades and ending just shy of my right hip bone. My mother swears I fell into the mirror in the bathroom. In no way was I pushed. And since I refuse to dispute this claim, there was little anyone, including local authorities, could do about it. I may dislike the woman, but I don't want her to end up in prison. At the same time, however, I don't want to be around her, either. The only thing I requested was to go live with my father, whom I haven't seen in a good three years. Yvette jumped at the chance to have me out of her house, and my father seemed elated I wanted to see him after all this time.
And so I ended up on flight 293 to Forks, pointedly trying to keep from putting pressure on my back, which has yet to heal. In the space above my seat sits my black duffel bag, stuffed full of my belongings, the only things I own. A few dollars folded crisply into a worn wallet that used to belong to Rene's father, an extra pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, a pack of colored pencils, and two simple pencil sharpeners. Buying her only son things wasn't on my mother's list of priorities. The only things she ever bought me were clothes. Everything else was gifted to me from Rene, the only person I ever told of my home life.
The flight is, approximately, three and a half hours long. I spend the majority of this time asleep. I only awake when the flight attendant, and average looking girl of maybe 25 rouses me from my light sleep to alert me that the plane will be landing soon, and to ask if I can please put up my tray and lock it in an upright position. I do as I'm told, then rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch, yawning audibly and looking around at my surroundings. There are very few people on this flight, maybe twenty of us in total. It makes me wonder why the airline even bothered with a direct flight to Port Angeles from El Paso. It doesn't seem that there is too much traffic from these particular cities.
I'm not complaining, however. Whatever gets me here the fastest, I guess. The pilot comes on the intercom, alerting us that we will soon be landing at Fairchild International airport. He asks the passengers to shut off any electronic devices, and I sort of wish I had one to turn off. Then he asks if we will please fasten our seatbelts and prepare to land. Thank you for flying American, blah blah blah.
Everyone files swiftly out of the small aircraft and into the tunnels that lead to the airport. I walk behind everyone else, clutching my black bag and running my fingers along the worn straps nervously. I haven't seen my father in such a long time. Charlie and I were close when I was younger, but as time progressed and I fell deeper into a sort of social stunting, we grew apart. I was never dad's perfect son, never one to play football or join the swim team. In fact, my running track and cross-country only appeased his want for a more athletic son slightly. As the years have gone by, I think my father has come more to accept myself and my eccentricities, but that doesn't keep me from being nervous. He could take one look at me and put me on a plane right back to El Paso. I seriously hope he doesn't.
I emerge from the dimly lit tunnel to a bright, airy waiting area of sorts. Stepping out into the middle of a wide hallway, lined with black plastic seats, it doesn't take long for me to spot my father, dressed in his police uniform, standing off to the side and ringing his hands nervously. I see I am not the only one worried about out meeting. I take a deep breath and approach him, waving slightly when he notices me out of the corner of his eye.
"Alex," He breathes, relieved to see me. I smile a bit, watching as he takes in my rather unruly, sleepy appearance. His eyes skim over me, from the torn hems of my black jeans to the long sleeves of my black t-shirt and torn holes of my hoodie, where my thumbs peek out, nails painted in chipping black nail polish. His arms extend in an awkward sort of invitation. I take a long step toward him, drop my bag next to his feet, and hold on for dear life.
"I missed you so much, Dad," I mumbled into his collar. My arms are wrapped securely around him, head buried into his neck, taking in the smell of my father. I had almost forgotten the cologne of coffee, beer, and second-hand cigarette smoke that was my father. I'm warm and safe and instantly at ease.
Charlie takes a moment to register that I'm with him, before closing his arms around me and squeezing a bit, if only to assure the both of us that I'm really there. He pats my back, rubbing his hands in circles in a rather soothing sort of motion, until I release him slightly. He buries his nose in my hair.
"Good to see you, Peanut." All the tension in his voice is gone, slowly released in the words of a relieved greeting. I can't suppress a grin at his use of my old nickname. We sit like that, a moment or two longer, before releasing each other and stumbling around awkwardly, searching for something to say. My dad rubs the back of his neck. "Guess I should take you home, then?" It sounds more like a question than a statement. I smile and nod. Already, I'm glad I'm here.
Being driven from Port Angeles to Forks in a police squad car is about as embarrassing as it can get, especially when it's your dad driving and you're a seventeen-year-old. I duck my head as low as I can get it, trying to keep from being seen through the window by anyone I could come to know in the future. After enduring almost and hour and a half of this silent torture, we finally arrive at a small white house located conveniently near Forks High School.
"It's not much," Charlie admits, motioning toward the house as we both unbuckle out seatbelts and step out of the white cruiser, "But it's home." He watches me for any sign of discontent, surprised when all he can see is slight awe on my face.
"It's great, dad. Really." I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk up the steps toward the front door, my dad on my heels. As he unlocks the door, I look around. The house is bordered by trees, which lead to a dense forest type of area. There are two stories to the house, and from what I can remember, it's got two rooms upstairs, a bathroom, a small kitchen, a living room, small formal room, and another bathroom downstairs. The house is cozy, quiet, and above all, perfect. We step inside and Charlie shows me around. His kitchen is, notably, bare of food. I'll have to go to the store soon to pick a few things up.
"You want to see your room?" He sort of suggests it, leading me up the stairs without waiting for my reply. Immediately to the left is a thin hallway, with two doors, and to the right is a small sort of hallway-type area, with only one door. "That's your room," he points to the door to the right, "and that's the bathroom," he points out the door closest to the staircase, "And that other one is my room." His room being the last door, at the end of the hallway. "We share a bathroom. Sorry about that." He stares at the feet, as if a bit ashamed.
"It's fine, dad, really." I try to assure him. He nods.
"Well," he hesitates a minute, "I'll leave you to get settled then." I smile at him, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Before he can disappear for the night, I reach out and put my hand on his arm.
"Dad?" I say. He turns to me. "Thanks." Something comes into his eyes, happiness, I think. He smiles at me. I watch him turn and walk back down the stairs toward the living room, where he turns on the TV. I can hear a game going on, an announcer's voice blaring through the whole downstairs. Holding my bag closer to me, I step forward and open the door to what will be my room.
It's small. That much is apparent. Pushed against the corner near the back of the room is a full sized bed, a window just above the side of the bed, and the view obstructed by a rather large tree. Across from the foot of the bed is a desk with an old computer, and a small bulletin board. On the same wall as the door is the closet, with sliding doors that reveal a small space for storage. It's a thousand times better than anything I ever had living with his mother. I set my bag on the floor next to the bed and closet, then climb on and sprawl out, arms stretching above my head.
Yes, life in Forks, Washington, should be nice.
A/N – So, here it is. The first chapter of a renewed Dusk. It was wonderfully fun to write. As you can see, the changes, while minor, are prominent. I changed names to better fit personalities, I changed appearances to better fit cultural and stereotypical descriptions, and I changed, over all, the pacing of the story. I think it is much easier to read now, as well as much more informative. I will assure you, the information I have included in the story is accurate. The flight time, average heights, dates and weekdays, procedures, everything is as close to the real thing as I could get it. The funeral and funeral procedures are also as accurate as possible, based off my own experiences. Hell, even the airport's name, Fairchild? Even that's correct. The only thing I had trouble with was Vale's mother's name. I seriously considered naming her Helena, as that is a more popular Estonian name, and Yvette is more popular in France, however, I think the name Yvette is better suited to her personality, and so I've decided because she is such a minor character, it really doesn't matter all that much. Besides, people in America name their children after all sorts of things. Who is to say that Yvette's parents couldn't have named her Yvette? Anyway, I seriously hope you enjoyed this chapter, because it was a hell of a lot of work to write. Thanks for reading.