A blank canvas. A fresh start. That was the phrase running through my head over and over again as I took in the empty room. A fresh start.
I always insisted on not painting my walls when we moved, usually preferring to decorate the bland walls in my own way. I had always loved writing, my poems and stories and favorite quotes in black calligraphy on the white walls of whatever room I moved into. Usually I only did one wall, having to repaint it just a couple years later when we moved, yet again. But now, since dad retired from the Marine Corps, this most recent relocation was supposed to be permanent.
My mom had grown up on the tiny, overcast reservation of La Push. She had defied tradition by attending an east-coast school and there met my dad, a pale-as-can-be city-boy. They fell in love, secretly got married, and had my older brother, Toby, and then me and my twin sister—
I stopped myself there. We had moved here to start over, to get rid of the reminders. Even though I tried to fight it, my new room gave way to the stronger, ever-present memory…
A typical history classroom. The desks, the maps, the projector, white board, textbooks—and the not so typical smoky air, the crying, cowering students and the teen boy with a gun. The teacher had fallen ten minutes previously, trying to block the doorway with his scrawny body. That same body that was now lying facedown, the red pool around it long finished growing.
"Alright," the boy said, his voice hoarse, his hands shaking, "Now which one of you is Cheyenne?"
Two small, identical, tan-skinned teen girls stood side-by-side, hand-in-hand, one with blood on her light sweater.
"I am!" they said together, and then looked at each other with wide eyes. One had blue eyes, the other green.
"Tell me the truth, or I'll shoot you both!" the boy yelled, cocking the gun. One of the girls, the one with green eyes, slapped a hand across her sister's mouth.
"That's me!" she said quickly, tears no longer falling. "Don't pay attention to her, she's always trying to take the blame for my mistakes. Right, Dakota?" she asked, glancing at her sister and best friend. The other girl shook her head, but was ignored by the other teens.
"Why, Annie?" the boy asked pleadingly, "Why did you dump me?" The gun was now pointed at her head.
"I just couldn't deal with your obsession. I needed some space."
"You couldn't just talk to me?" The boy was crying now.
"You wouldn't listen. You weren't right for me." She said firmly, looking him in the eyes, watching his handsome features twist in a mixture of rage and pain.
"That's where you were wrong, Annie." He put his finger on the trigger. "We'll be together forever."
The trigger was pulled. Then he pointed the weapon at himself and it went off again. When the hysteria died down, there was a new body on the ground: the boy no one suspected, no one noticed except for one kind girl. The other body never touched the floor.
Cheyenne Wilson sat on the ground, sobbing quietly, her beloved sister's body cradled in her lap. She knew there was no hope of saving her.
My head cleared and I was leaning against the wall, tears streaming silently. I stood up straight, trying to ignore the ache in my chest. I pulled my shirt to the side to circle the small, round scar on my shoulder with my fingertip. That bastard had shot me first to get us to cooperate. I dried my eyes, trying to get rid of any trace of another "episode" as my mother so delicately calls them. I appreciated the gesture, but I knew that no matter where we moved that day would follow me forever. It really didn't help that I looked at her face every morning in the mirror. He had never learned my correct eye color, the only physical feature separating me from Dakota. Maybe if he had she wouldn't have had to go. I walked into my bathroom and splashed my face, erasing the redness. When I finished I looked around again.
My dad had had this new house custom built, letting me design my own space. I had chosen one long room, more of a loft than a bedroom. I had my own bathroom and a huge walk-in closet. I had also had shelves sunk into the walls and massive windows, letting in as much light as possible. I walked over to these windows now, looking out over the breathtaking view of the forest around me.
I sighed, pulling the gauzy curtains back across the window. I turned to the boxes of possessions behind me, a resigned look on my face. I started on the books, alphabetizing them on the shelves by author, just like a library. The shelves covered nearly a whole wall, and I was worrying that it wouldn't be enough space.
Ever since it happened, I had become a perfectionist, throwing myself into the smallest tasks, trying to lose myself for the maximum amount of time possible before reality set back in. I remembered my grades going up as soon as I had returned to school, and the one, incredibly insensitive teacher who had made a joke about the whole thing being for the best. He said that Dakota had obviously been distracting me, so maybe now I would pass the finals. I skipped his class a lot after that.
I shook my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts that seemed intent on breaking down any barrier I set up. It took me about three hours to get my books put away, making it lunchtime when I finally made my way downstairs. I slipped on my robe and slippers, trying to get as comfortable as possible. My robe was probably my favorite article of clothing. It was a very short, black silk robe that was totally comfortable but just the slightest bit scandalous. That had been me before. All about the scandal. My dad had gotten the kimono-style robe for me when he spent a few months in Japan a couple years back. He had also gotten Kota a pink one—
Stop it! I scolded myself, feeling a headache coming on. I made my way down the stairs, pausing at the bottom before moving into the kitchen. My mom looked up from the stove long enough to give me a sad smile. I returned it, knowing it didn't reach my eyes. I hadn't really smiled in so long, sad or not. My theory was that I had died as soon as the bullet entered Kota's small body. My parent's wouldn't hear of it, though. They thought I just needed time. That Dakota would have wanted me to carry on, with or without her. I agreed, but I wasn't ready. I didn't think I could be fixed. I had been broken beyond repair.