Kia Ora all.
I said I would have this chapter completed by Christmas and here it is, COMPLETED BY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!
Of course, when I set myself a Christmas deadline, I thought I had another whole week to go before Christmas. Then I realised that I had MISCOUNTED, and in fact, I only had four days.
Yet I said I would do it.
What a jam.
So on Christmas Eve, I was up at Five Thirty in the morning and writing.
I then went to bed at THREE that night (SANTA was in bed before me,) only to get up today—Christmas Day—at FIVE IN THE MORNING.
And that's kind of sucky, by the way, because Grandmas' always take photos of you on Christmas and I have circles under my eyes that are darker than a racoons.
But it was worth it, because I wanted to give a Christmas present to all you darlings who reviewed me!!!!!
. . . Even if I did have to torture you with a little BAD EMO POERTY first.
But it's all ok, because I now have Two Hundred reviews!!!!!!!! YEYA!!!!!!!!! HUGE thank you to my two-hundredth reviewer: an anonymous chikee-dee styling herself as Mariah, ( . . . Hot name, dude. Really. You have to be a real sexy hot biatch to have such a pimping name as "Mariah" . . .) So a huge thanks to Mariah-the-second.
So :
TO: All my beyootiful reviewers,
FROM: Me, the eternally grateful Mariah.
The Daughter Of
"BURNT"
I don't think it would be all that overly indulgent of me to say that over my seventeen years, I have experienced my share of pain.
I should be on JACKASS, really I should. I'm a NATURAL with the dumb ideas.
Like that time when I decided it would be a great idea to pinch Grandma's umbrella and jump off Granddad's tool shed. (A/N: I've SO done that. Who else? Come on, hands up, we're all friends here . . .) THAT one was definitely a TEN on the old pain-o-meter.
See, I know now that stuff that SEEMS like a really good idea when your about six and high on "Raro" cordial actually turns out to be NOT such a great idea once the Raro wears off and you're in hospital.
Lesson learned, thanks.
…Seriously though, how come Mary Poppins was able to FLY with nothing but an umbrella and a really good tail wind, whereas I was NOT? I mean, what makes that bitch so damn special, anyway?
My point IS, that I had thought that Mary Poppins imitations were painful. And boy are they. But this . . . this thing today with Nick . . .
This had the Mary Poppins thing beaten hands down.
Not even a fair fight.
. . . God . . . someone just put a bullet in my head, would you?
Oh, no wait, its OK, you don't have to. I know a ghost who'd be only too happy to do the job.
This is fucked up, man. Life is FUCKED UP.
I leant back against the dimly lit brick wall of the restaurant that had been the first building that I'd come across since I'd left Nick—over four hours ago—and sighed quietly.
. . . it was starting to get quite dark now . . .
I wondered what I was going to do.
It wasn't so much the whole 'being stranded' thing that was bothering me—although that was certainly something to keep in mind—It was more about . . .
What to do now?
I gritted my teeth and pushed myself off from the wall. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the restaurant door open and walked in.
"May I help you?" I was instantly accosted by a pretty girl with short, spiky black hair and a clipboard.
She looked nervous.
Like robbers walked around in Trelise Cooper sundresses.
"Yes." I said shortly. "Your payphone. Where is it?"
Because my cell-phone? My for emergency use cell-phone? In my handbag. And where was my handbag? In Nick's car.
And somehow, I didn't think insurance would accept my reasons for not retrieving it:
"Why didn't you return and claim your property?" An official, disinterested voice.
"Umm . . . because I kinda had to leave in a hurry . . ."
"Why was that, Miss de Silva?"
"Because Nick was getting all homicidal . . . ."
"''Nick'? Who is 'Nick'?" said in a very sceptical tone, deigned to cast aspirations as to my sanity.
"Umm . . . You know what? Forget about it. I don't need my credit cards. My phone. Car keys. The photos of me and my best friend that were taken before she was MURDERED . . . Don't need them. And the bag was Louis Vutton too, but, you know. Don't need that either. So, uh, say hi to the family for me. Buh bye."
HELL NO.
"I'm sorry miss, use of our payphone is restricted to . . ." The waitress trailed off, perhaps seeing in my expression that I was really not in the mood for any of her restaurant policy crap.
Probably a good thing she did stop with her "I'm sorry miss" shit, too, else wise she just may have gotten that clipboard through her cranium for her efforts.
"Um . . ." She shot a quick look behind her, "Sure, follow me."
I murmured my gratitude and followed her up a wooden staircase up to what I was forced to assume was a bar, having never actually been in one before.
However, the raucous laughter and yelling were a bit of a giveaway.
As was the quiet man in the corner, drowning his troubles with shot glass after shot glass of a clear liquid that I doubted very much was mineral water.
I know the feeling buddy. I know the feeling.
The bar itself was a cosy room, the decor comprised entirely from worn decorative bricks and polished wood; the effect was rather rustic and comfortable. The lighting was dull and there was a large television high on the wall, showing some sports game or another.
But most importantly in the corner rested a black wall-mounted payphone.
I walked directly over to the phone and picked up the receiver, holding it to my ear and listening to the dial tone.
I went to slide my change in, but paused, thinking over whom it was I thought I was going to call.
I got nothing.
I slowly replaced the phone back in its cradle, keeping my hand on the receiver as I began to mentally examine my contacts list …
My memory then chose this very inconvenient time to remind me of my hasty flight from home after Alanna and Daniel . . . after Alanna and Daniel were – were murdered.
I remembered speeding through Carmel, (and speeding in Carmel is never advisable, as trying to avoid tourists who are attempting to make sense of road signs in a language that is not their first is always a game of chance,) wondering who I could call for help. . .
Then I had called Nick.
And help me he did. He had calmed me down, reassured me that I wasn't responsible, and promised me safety. Then he'd welcomed me into his house with open arms . . .
Well I was responsible. And I wasn't safe.
Infernal irony that I should NOW have the gift of perfect recall, yet when it comes to remembering whose sleeping with who on "The Hills" My memory use to delight in failing me completely.
Although, to be fair, I don't even think "The Hills" characters—or indeed actors—could remember who was sleeping with who, either.
My hand slid off the phone receiver and I moved dejectedly over to one of the many black leather booths' and slid down, sighing heavily.
Staring blankly at the empty seat opposite me I placed my elbows on the table and leant forward to rest my chin in my hands.
This was shit.
Keith wanted to kill me? Mess with my head? Make me alienate everyone around me?
He could come and pick me up.
I sighed again.
The bar was noisy and crowded, so no one really noticed me, which was good, as I barely noticed them either. I was more preoccupied with my memories.
All I could hear was the sound of the ocean waves crashing over each other and a voice . . . the deep voice that I loved, saying over and over again:
" . . . Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did. . ."
And then, like a bad movie that you're too lazy to get up and turn off – It carried on. I could hear a voice softly reply, choking out the words:
" . . . I don't love you."
My eyes drifted shut and suddenly I was on the beach, actually standing there, ON THE BEACH, and they were right there in front of me.
I stood there, mesmerised by the scene in front of me, before I glanced down as the sea swilled around my feet. However my head shot back up and my gaze once more locked on the couple as I heard him repeat himself.
". . . Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did . . ."
I watched silently as the man—man? Or boy? . . . I wasn't sure—reached down and gently stroked the girls face with unsteady hands, watched as she cringed away from his touch.
Like he was burning her.
When really, it was she who was burning him, torturing him.
I wanted to warn her to shut up. Not to lie. But it was like I was frozen in place, devoid of motion and unable to speak as I watched her slowly turn a tearstained face back to his and whisper, " . . . I don't love you . . ."
". . . I don't love you . . ."
"I don't love you . . ."
"I don't love you."
And suddenly I was saying the words along with her.
"I don't love you."
"I don't love you."
"I DON'T LOVE YOU!"
No . . .
NO!!!!!!!
Suddenly I was screaming, screaming, as again and again I heard those words, those terrible words mocking me . . .
"I don't love you."
"I don't love you."
"No . . . No, please," I—the bystander—had begun to cry. "Stop it . . . I didn't mean to . . ."
But he couldn't hear me.
I crumpled to the ground, tears running down my face, but unable to look away from the man on the beach as he reached out, again and again to the girl, only to get pushed away, again and again . . .
"I'm sorry," I whimpered, "I didn't mean to . . . I had to!!! "
I tried to raise my voice so he could hear me, but no matter how loud I spoke, he wouldn't look away from her, he couldn't hear me . . .
"I love you, I do!!!" I tried to tell him. "I LOVE YOU!!!!"
But it was too late.
I was back at the bar.
He hadn't heard me.
And now . . . now he never would.
I clenched my fists together tightly and forced the ghostly echo of their voices out of my mind. I'd created this little flashback (was THIS the great power that Paul had mentioned? An ability to see the PAST? Because if it was then he could KEEP his sucktastic power) and now I forced it to abate.
Eventually the sounds of their—OUR, I corrected myself forcibly.
OUR.
No good would come of me wandering around encouraging my own lunacy.
—OUR voices faded out and I was left alone.
Alone in a room crowded with people.
Once more the noise of the bar swelled around me as I buried my face in my hands. More and more tears spilled over, and I couldn't prevent the sobs that shook my body.
This was too much. This was cruel, I couldn't do it, and I couldn't TAKE this anymore.
This is what my so-called "Gift" had done. It had made me hurt everyone around me, made me distance myself from them in fear of their lives . . .
Is this what being a mediator meant? Was this the price of helping people?
Because I couldn't do it. I couldn't. I wasn't brave enough, I wasn't strong enough . . .
Then a sudden prickling at the back of my neck alerted me to a ghostly presence.
It wouldn't be Keith, of that I was certain. Keith wouldn't be considerate enough to just front up and kill me now, he'd rather let me wallow in misery for a while first, I knew.
It would be some other pathetic and impudent little ghost who believed that it was my life purpose to solve their every little problem, regardless of the trouble it caused for me . . .
Not now . . . please just not now . . . I just can't TAKE their INSIGNIFICANCE right now! I'm not cut out to play GANDALF to everyone's FRODO, OK????????
'Ghosts,' I growled, without shifting my gaze from my own hands as the slight tightening of the air indicated materialization.
I then started when I felt a cool hand grasp my own and someone slide into the seat beside me.
I looked over to see Stacy.
"Please don't kill me for coming," she said in greeting.
I didn't say anything.
"Your anger is suffocating us all," she explained. "It hurts." Perhaps she knew that I didn't really care much about her fellow ghosts right now as she said quickly, "But that's not why I came."
I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger. "Sorry Stacy, But I'm really not in a very helpful frame of mind right now," For old times sake, I attempted to keep my voice relatively civil, but I don't know how great that worked out. "So you can tell whatever gimp ghost sent you that NO, I cannot tell his grandma that he's sorry—"
"That's not why I came either. Melinda, please. . ." She trailed off, her voice imploring me to look at her.
I did, and found her to be looking at me with an expression of deepest sympathy in her brown eyes.
My face crumpled, and if I'd had any tears left at all, I probably would have begun to cry.
Wordlessly Stacy reached out and pulled me into a hug.
I rested my head on her shoulder and just stared unseeingly into the distance.
Stacy patted me gently on the back just like she'd done when we were little and I'd scraped my elbow when I'd fallen out of a tree. Mum hadn't been there so Stacy had kicked the tree for me and then stepped in to wipe away my tears.
With a fistful of leaves instead of a hanky, but still.
"Do you have any idea who to call?" Stacy asked gently, trying not to provoke me, I guessed.
"Not so much," I mumbled.
The bar was still really busy, so my talking to myself and leaning on—and being supported by—thin air went unnoticed. And I was too preoccupied to care if it didn't. What did it really matter if a bar full of strangers thought me crazy?
I was probably going to be dead soon anyway.
And on that cheery note . . .
"What about calling Suze?" Stacy suggested.
"No." I instantly dismissed that.
"Jesse?"
"No."
Aside from the obvious that mum and dad were already in too much danger from Keith—I WOULD NOT make that worse—they also would not let me go after Keith. No way. Therefore, they had to think that I was still safe with the Slaters.
"Wait, do you even know where you're going?" Stacy said perceptively, straightening up to look at me.
"No."
"You couldn't go back to the Slaters?"
"Not so much."
"Yeah," Stacy's voice was teasing, "well, I do think you've pretty much killed your welcome there. All you need to do now is run over someone's cat and the residents of Slater manorwould probably be happy to stone you to death."
Yeah, thanks Stace.
Stupidly, I felt my throat dry up and my eyes begin to water. I took a deep breath and tried to control myself.
Basically, I was THIS close . . .
"Maybe," Stacy continued, trying to cheer me up with—horrible—jokes, "You should just throw yourself under a car and save them the trouble."
"That's not a half bad idea." I muttered tiredly, sitting up and straightening my hair. "It would definitely piss Keith off that he hadn't got there first. And that's what's important here."
"You're not seriously—"
I sighed. "No, I'm not. If only it were that simple."
See, what I need is a plan that would ideally mean the demise of Keith-y and the safety of everyone else. Including myself.
But I'm not such an optimistic fool, and have accepted the possibility that I might not be so lucky.
But I will NOT let others die because of me.
Not anymore.
And that's when I pulled it together. I had a job to do. Time enough for depression later.
I then happened to glance up at Stacy's face and catch the look of terror I saw there.
"Relax, Stace." I reassured her referring to my earlier, suicidally inclined comments. "It was a joke."
I think . . .
"Melinda, I'm worried about you."
"Aren't we all?" I replied dryly, standing up and walking back over to the payphone. "I've decided that I'll ring Arabia. She can take me t-to-" I stuttered slightly, "-the Slaters . . ."
Is it pathetic that it hurts to say his name?
Yeah.
It's pathetic all right.
I picked up the receiver held it between my shoulder and my ear as I slid my change into the phone—then I paused.
"555-3291" Stacy supplied.
"Thanks." I dialled the number that Stacy had dictated.
She answered on the third ring. Which was a relief, because I wasn't sure if she'd pick up an unfamiliar number.
"Hello?"
"Hi."
"Melinda?"
"Yuh-huh."
"What's up? Where are you calling from?"
I laughed a little. "Um . . . Oi!" I called to the barman. "What's the name of this place?"
He gave me a strange look.
Probably thinking I was off my face and making a mental note not to serve me anymore.
"Fountain's Years," He called.
"Huh," I remarked absently. "That's a real shit name. Did you get that?' I asked Arabia.
"Yeah," she replied. "Melinda are you OK?"
"Oh yeah I'm fine—"
"Is Nick there?" she interrupted me. "Can you put him on please?"
Not really, no . . .
I thought fast "Oh—no, he's not, I just went for a walk and . . . my car battery went flat. " I laughed again. "It's pretty embarrassing really. So, uh, would you mind coming and giving me a lift back to Nicks?"
"You went for a WALK . . . and yet your CAR is broken?"
Oh.
"Yeah . . ."
"If you say so . . ."
"I do . . ."
"Fine. But how come," she grumbled, "that I'm the bitch call? Isn't that the boyfriend's job?"
I tightened my grip on the receiver.
I deserve an Oscar for this. Or at the VERY LEAST a Golden Globe.
"Oh, don't you DARE tell him." I faked a giggle. "I'd never hear the end of it." Then I swallowed tightly and carried on, trying to keep my voice cherry. "So will you come pick me up?"
"Yeah, sure, I know Fountain's Years; great crayfish. I'll be there in five minutes. Kay?"
"Thanks," I replied, infusing my voice with just the right amount of exuberance and embarrassment, "Bye." Then I hung up.
I don't know why it was that I hadn't told her the truth about Nick and myself. Ostensibly it was because I didn't want any of her overwhelming sympathy . . .
But if I were completely honest with myself . . . I would admit that there was a possibility that I was trying to repress what I'd just done. Block it out . . . pretend it had never happened . . . that Nick and I were still happy . . .
No.
NO.
That was finished
I BROKE UP WITH HIM.
AND I DID IT TO KEEP HIM ALIVE.
I did it . . . to keep him alive.
That's my job. Because like it or lump it, I'm a Mediator.
Father Dominic would be proud of me. Being all selfless and stuff.
. . . Pity no-one ever warned me what a major pain in the ass it was to be a martyr.
The Daughter Of
Arabia was three minutes over the five she had promised. I met her outside and returned her sunny smile.
Stacy farewelled me with a sad sort of smile and a wave, once she'd seen that I was safely in Arabia's car.
I greeted Arabia with a bubbly "Heya!" and perhaps I did do over do it a little on the cheeriness, but I don't think she noticed.
Arabia always drives with the radio ludicrously loud—so she can sing along, or, in most instances, rap along—so I was pretty much free to turn my attentions to my next problem.
Problems such as where the TRuck I was going to go now.
No way could I stay on with the Slaters. I dunno about Paul, but Chenaol might actually kill me for hurting Nick. She really does love him . . .
And you NEVER piss off a model. They're hungry, you know?
--BY THE WAY, what is UP with Models' these days? Someone should really sit Nicole Richie down and tell her that it is definitely NOT cool to be able to fit into a ten year old girl's clothing.
Anyway. Going home wasn't an option either. I couldn't put Mum and Dad in that sort of danger.
Likewise with dad's not-so-hot idea about dumping me at the rectory. ASIDE from the obvious "Nun-that-hates-me" predicament, I would never risk Father Dom's welfare like that.
Sister Ernestine's I might, but no WAY Father Dom's.
To cut a long list short, I couldn't stay with anyone I didn't want dead.
. . . Wonder if Cindy's got a fold-out couch?
I'm joking, by the way.
Well, I'm trying to.
I never said that could be funny when under stress.
My only real option was to pay for accommodation . . . hopefully I wouldn't have need of it for long. All I needed was enough time to sort myself out (and lead Keithy away from my family and Nick,) and then I was off to go FAT ASS KICKING.
So … Accommodation it was. That dinky little motel on the outskirts of town would do, no-one would guess that I'd be there.
Everyone thinks I'm too high-maintenance for shit like that.
And I so am . . .
But just this once, I'd suck it up.
Thing was though, to achieve this, I'd need some help.
Because mum and dad would really not like my plan. Clearly, they had to think I was still at Paul and Chenaol's.
However Paul and Chenaol would know that I was not at Paul and Chenaol's . . .
And I'm pretty sure that they would not lie for me—However much they might hate me for going all "You're not what I want" "I slept with Chad" "I don't love you" on their son's ass, they probably would not be very cool with me sticking a big fat "Kill Me" sign on my forehead.
. . . Not that that was ACTUALLY my plan for taking out Keith.
Yet. We'll have to see how desperate I get.
. . . yeah, again, I know. Not funny.
But I'm trying. I really am. I'm TRYING to keep going.
So, anyway; NO, Paul and Chenaol would not understand. Nor would they help me.
So I was in a bit of pickle really.
Then, as if Arabia had read my mind, she suddenly stopped rapping along with the radio—However the head bobbing did not cease—and without taking her eyes off the road, (God I wish I could multi-task like that,) she asked me, "So how are you and Nick?"
I took a deep breath and waited a couple of seconds for the slight feeling of nausea to pass (which it didn't, how could it?) before replying; "We're good."
I paused for a second as something occurred to me. Maybe I shouldn't let her believe that we were still together . . . quickly I dismissed this.
"Actually Arabia," I leaned forward and flicked off the radio. This was no time for her multi-tasking; her full attention was crucial. "I need your help."
She acquiesced instantly, not bothering with tedious questions. I was glad of this, because right now explanations were a luxury I could not afford to indulge in.
"You see . . . I'm working on a surprise for – him."
OH MY GOD MELINDA! A SURPRISE???? HOW FUCKING PATHETIC!!!!!!!!!
And Yeah, OK, I was still struggling a little to say his name out loud. Shut up, your mums fat.
"Nick?"
Inwardly I grimaced. "That's the one."
"A surprise?" She repeated, frowning.
"Um. Yeah. Sort of. It's complicated."
UNDERSTATEMENT.
"—Thing is," I continued, not pausing long enough to give her time to ask questions, "I'm scared he'll . . . Find it. Find the surprise. So I need to, uh, go somewhere to work on it in secret for a while. Like your place. Can I tell Nick I've gone to your place?"
She won't swallow this. She just won't. A three year old could tell that I'm lying.
And sure enough; "What's wrong with your house?' She said suspiciously. "And what do you mean "tell" Nick you've gone to my place? Where are you ACTUALLY going?"
"Oh, um . . . my place is no good. We're, Uh . . . redecorating. Mums redecorating."
I ignored the second part of her question.
"You're redecorating? But I spoke to Suze yesterday. She didn't say anything about redecorat—"
"DAMNIT ARABIA!!!!!!!" I yelled.
Then I had another idea.
A better one this time.
"Ok." I said, making my voice casual. "You love Scott right?"
"What's that got to do—"
"Just answer the question."
"Yeah," she sounded confused. Who could blame her? "Of course I do."
"But sometimes you just want to strangle him?"
She laughed at that. "Oh yeah. Last night he actually showed up and tried to initiate a make out session when "THE HILLS" was on."
"Idiot."
"Yeah." She agreed.
"Well, at the moment, I'm going to KILL –uh . . . kill Nick—"
It hurt less to say it fast.
"—If I have to live with him any longer . . ."
Yeah, this ones better. MUCH better that "a surprise."
That one was LAME.
Although it was pretty painful to pretend that HIM and me were still all happy couple-ish . . .
" . . . So the thing is," I continued, "I need some space. Except I can't go home because dad will be all I told you so, that boy is no good for you, and I can't stand that. So PLEASE can you tell the Slaters that I'm staying with you?"
"Where will Suze and Jesse think you are?" There was no suspicion in her voice this time though, which was a good sign.
"They'll think I'm still at the Slaters."
"And where will you actually be?" Arabia asked shrewdly.
Lie Melinda!
LIE!
" . . . I'm going out of town for a few days. Cousin of mine in . . . San Francisco."
"Cool."
"Yeah. Cool. So . . . will you help me?'
"Sure, sounds like fun. Almost like being a secret agent."
Well if that's what floats your boat . . .
Right now, lets go over the plan one more time, just so I don't get confused:
I'm going to a hotel.
Arabia thinks I'm in San Francisco.
Slaters' think I'm at Arabia's.
Parents' think I'm at Slater's.
Of course I do know that this is all going to blow up in my face pretty quickly. Duh. I'm not a complete idiot. But hopefully it will buy me enough time to do what I need to do.
Then all that's left is if I CAN pull off what it is that I need to do.
If not . . .
Well, lets not go getting all emo again.
I'm not a very good cool emo. Last time I gave serious consideration to topping myself.
Who KNOWS what I'd do second time around.
That's when we pulled up in Nick's driveway.
"Ok," I said quickly, leaning over to give Arabia a well earned hug. "Thank you, I'll catch you—" I almost chocked on the next word, "—Later!"
I hope.
"Ok, Buh Bye! I'll see you when you get back from your cousins!"
Yeah, Ok.
Arabia blew me an air kiss and then accelerated down the Slater's drive and turned out onto the road with one last wave at me.
I stood on the front door step for a second, then, taking a shady look around, I darted off back down the steps and ducked around to the back door.
I don't know how many of you have ever tried to sneak into a mansion, but let me tell you . . . its no piece of pie.
The Daughter Of
OK. I'm in.
. . . You know, the whole breaking and entering thing would be so cool if the circumstances were a little different.
I'm just saying.
"Thanks Aida," I murmured to the maid who had let me in.
Aida? Remember her? You know, the emo looking one who was tipping cigarette ash into Paul's mineral water when we first met?
Yeah. Myself I think she let me in because she was hoping I'd rob the place.
Fat chance. Again. Thieves' don't wear Trelise Cooper. I won't say it again.
Without further unnecessary preamble I made my way up the twisty staircase and headed towards the western wing of the house, where the room with all my stuff was.
A part of me—quite a large part too—said that it was stupid to tempt fate by coming back here. It was just stuff.
But another part of me retorted forcefully; HELLO. Vintage Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses in there!!!!! They're worth at LEAST as much as Chenaol's boobs!!!
. . . Not that I make a habit of asking models how much their boob jobs cost.
The latter argument won, needless to say.
Dolce and Gabbana at stake here people.
Dolce and Gabbana.
You would have done the same.
I'd just gotten to the door of the room I had been staying in when it all went terribly wrong.
I heard noises through the door and I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
Footsteps?
WTF?
I pushed the door open just a crack and peeped through.
Nick . . .?
What in the name of erectile dysfunction was he doing in there?
Silently, I watched as he sat down at the head of what was once my bed and reach over to press a button on the CD player that rested on the bedside cabinet.
Noise flowed out, and I instantly recocnised the artist.
"My Chemical Romance: Welcome to the Black Parade". I'd WONDEREDwhat I'd done with that CD. Now I remember, I was listening to it just last night.
Seems like an entire age ago.
A much happier age, needless to say.
Then I recognised the song that Nick was playing.
"I don't love you"
I began to shake, and my grip on the door tightened for support.
No . . .
When
you go
Don't ever think I'll make you try to stay
And maybe
when you get back
I'll be off to find another way
When
after all this time that you still owe
You're still the
good-for-nothing I don't know
So take your gloves and get
out
Better get out
While you can
This wasn't RIGHT. This was beyond human endurance.
When you go
Would
you even turn to say
"I don't love you
Like I
did
Yesterday"
Sometimes I cry so hard from
pleading
So sick and tired of all the needless beating
But baby
when they knock you
Down and out
It's where you oughta stay
Nick was unnaturally still, and I knew that the irony of the song had not escaped him.
Like it could.
A singing telegram would have been more subtle.
And after all the
blood that you still owe
Another dollar's just another blow
I wished more than anything that I could go in there and comfort him, and tell him that it wasn't true, I DID love him, but it wasn't SAFE for me to love him . . .
Yet I knew that I could never tell him the truth.
So just like in that pub, I was just forced to stand in silence and watch the agony in front of me without being able to do anything.
Helpless, AGAIN.
So fix your eyes
and get up
Better get up
While you can
Whoa, whooa
When
you go
Would you even turn to say
"I don't love you
Like
I did
Yesterday"
Well come on, come on
His breathing had become more laboured, and I could knew that he was fighting his temper.
This was CRUEL.
And it's my fault . . .
I could have spared him this.
Was the alternative really that much worse?
When you go
Would
you have the guts to say
"I don't love you
Like I loved
you . . .
YESTERDAY!!!!"
Yesterday. A forgotten day . . . a day where a happy ending seemed like a possible outcome . . .
I don't love
you
Like I loved you
Yesterday
I had to stop this. The concequences didn't matter. KEITH didn't matter. I just couldn't continue to do this to him.
I didn't expect him to forgive me, but ANYTHING had to be better than this.
My mind was made up and my path decided on, I was just about to open the door fully and enter the room when something stopped me.
I
don't love you
Like I loved you
Yesterday . . .
I had a vision.
I was back in the Mission Courtyard. In my arms I held Brian's lifeless body, his broken neck allowing his head to loll repulsively.
Desolately I raised a hand and smoothed Brian's hair away from his face so I could say goodbye properly . . .
But suddenly it wasn't Brian who I held.
I let out a yell of horror.
It was Nick . . .
Nick was dead.
His flesh was bloated and his skin was sickly pale, with a grey tinge that, even as I watched, was slowly creeping over his skin, contaminating it . . .
His body in my arms was rigid and brittle, yet he was heavier than he'd been in life . . .
"Dead weight . . ." a snide voice supplied.
I ignored it and began to frantically search for a pulse. Maybe he was OK, maybe he was just – just – pretending . . .
Then I noticed his eyes.
And I knew the truth.
His eyes weren't the intense blue I remembered . . . instead – instead they were . . . BLACK . . .
Entirely black, no iris', no pupils, no whites . . .
I stared at horror at Nick as he decayed in my embrace.
His eyes stared back at me, dark and empty . . .
I thought I was going to vomit.
Then I heard it.
"It's you're fault Melinda . . ." Keith's voice whispered in my ear, gloating. "You CHOSE to kill him . . ."
"No I didn't . . ." I mumbled, talking more to myself than that fuckwad of a ghost. "I didn't . . . he's alive. HE IS ALIVE!"
And then with a jolt I was back in the corridor at the Slater's home. And Nick was alive and well right behind the door I was still gripping tightly.
I noticed then that my knuckles were brilliant white, and taking a deep breath, I slowly forced my hands to unclench.
That was another vision, right there. Of that I was completely convinced.
I think I'd just been spying on what could be the future.
It hadn't happened yet.
And if I had my say, it never would. NEVER.
--What was it they alway say in that book with the hot vampires? "The future is subjective."
Well that's it. The future is subjective.
Obviously I'd just had an insider's preview of Keith's future plans for Nick.
. . . I felt like throwing up as a result.
So I can't walk through this door right now and talk to Nick. Instead I have to make it excruciatingly clear to EVERYONE that he means nothing to me.
Absolutely nothing.
Certainly nothing worth killing.
Because I would never let him die, not like that.
Not because of me.
Then all of a sudden I heard a violent smashing sound that, I'll admit it, made me jump.
It was the sound of smashing glass. And it had come from inside the room.
I pushed the door open a fraction more and peered in.
. . . Oh. Seems Nick came up with a solution for shutting up Gerard Way.
He'd wrenched the CD player out from the wall (tearing the cord and inducing a whole shower of bright blue-white sparks, I might add,) and thrown it at the mirror.
It completely shattered.
. . .. ya think he's mad at me?
The electricity from the cord cracked and sparked and eventually ignited, beginning to consume the wooden Bureau that had supported the mirror.
Nick barely batted an eyelid.
He just stared intensely at the fire that was beginning to creep up the wall, like he was egging it on . . .
There was something strange about this fire. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Instead of puzzling over this, I just stood there transfixed by the twisting, stretching orange flames as the fire grew and grew (almost doubling in size every few seconds). The fire leant closer and closer towards Nick who still did not move, just kept doing the Tyra-Banks-FEIRCE-eyes thing at the flames.
I was unable to tear my eyes away from the burning destruction taking place right in front of me. I felt dawn to the beauty of them. Slowly, I opened the door and began to walk towards the searing heat.
I am ashamed to admit that I didn't snap out of it until I was gently pushed aside as Paul Slater moved past me—Don't tell me. The hotshot lawyer spends his spare time volunteer fire fighting—and walked into the room.
What happened next was EVEN FUCKING STRANGER.
Paul merely walked up to his son and put his hand on his shoulder, and then turned his OWN gaze to the roaring blaze.
Almost instantly they died.
No.
Not even died.
Just DISAPPEARED.
And what was STRANGER STILL???????
The room was untouched.
It was perfect as it had been before the fire. Nothing was burnt, there was smoke, no ashes . . .
Nothing except the cracked CD player and shattered mirror.
It was like the fire had never existed.
Ok. Now ether I'm ON something, (possible. Who KNOWS what was in that KFC that I was forced to eat earlier today,) or that was some SERIOUSLY WHACKED OUT SHIT.
Nick started advancing towards the door, murderous expression still in place and I cringed. There wasn't time to hide, and I couldn't think of a good explanation . . .
"Oh, Me? Doing here? Nothing. I'm uh . . . Cleaning. Yeah. Cleaning. Haha . . .?"
But he strode angrily right past me! I don't think he even saw me! Despite the fact that he WALKED RIGHT PAST ME, I was completely convinced that he had not in any way noticed my presence.
Boy he musta been MAD . . .
A little out of his mind, even.
I didn't have much time to dwell on this, however, as Paul called out to me. "Melinda? You can come in."
. . . but do I really want to, Paul? Honestly? You're a fire controlling FREAK OF NATURE.
"Um. Hi." I said lamely, as I stepped through the door and into the room.
"Hello." Paul said wryly.
I stood there awkwardly for a second, unable to resist from turning to stare at the unmarked wall, that only seconds earlier had been crawling with flames.
"You came to collect your belongings,, I believe?"
"Uh . . ." I tore my eyes away from the wall. "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Quickly I walked to the closet and tugged down my black oversize suitcase. I then began to scoot around the room, haphazardly throwing my stuff in the rough direction of my suitcase.
I could feel Pauls eyes on me, however, and after only a few minutes of this skin crawling sensation, I couldn't take it anymore.
"So . . ." I said hesitantly. "How about this weather, eh?"
"Delightful," Paul laughed. "So you finally decided to end things with him, did you?"
HEY! THAT IS NOT SMALL TALK!
"What do you mean "FINALLY DECIDED"?" I snapped.
"Come now Melinda," Paul cajoled, retrieving my brush as I overshot the suitcase and it landed on the floor. Then he chucked it in the suitcase. "Noble little martyr like yourself? Ghostie killing off the ones you love?" his enunciation was deliberate. "It was only a matter of time."
I didn't know what to say to this, so I ignored him.
He persisted. "Where are you going to go Melinda?"
I ignored this too.
"Please tell me where you intend to go."
Still, I ignored him.
"Don't be stupid, we can help you—"
That's strange. I really thought he'd want to hang me after what I did to his son. But here he is trying to HELP me?
Random.
"—Come on Melinda," and his expression was earnest. "Please don't do something stupid just because you believe it's your duty." He sneered the word. "It's not you're responsibility—"
"I'm going to Arabia's." I cut him off, lying breezily.
I could tell by his expression that he wasn't quite sure wether to believe me or not, but had decided not to pursue it. Instead he decided on another approach.
"You saw the fire, didn't you?"
"Yes." I answered frankly, finishing off my wardrobe and starting on the drawers. "What the hell was it?"
He sighed heavily.
"Supernatural flames. A Shifter trick."
I dropped the t-shirt that I was holding.
"Say that again?" I commanded, slowly turning around to face him.
"Come on Melinda. Didn't you notice something strange about the flames?"
Um, YES.
They started with some STARING.
They got real big real fast.
I wanted to WALK INTO THEM.
They STOPPED with some staring.
They left no damage.
And now that I thought about it . . .
There was never any smoke either.
He grinned a little at my silence. "Yeah. Didn't you know that Shifters are good with fire? What has the Jolly Rancher been teaching you?"
What the fuck was a Jolly Rancher?
"I thought . . ." I said slowly, "That Nick was a just a mediator."
"Yes . . ." Slater wore the hint of a smile. "But he was a really pissed off mediator."
"So, you're saying . . ."
"That my charming son was pissed off enough at you to try and burn the house down with some supernatural fire? Yes. That you also have the potential to burn buildings down with the same supernatural fire? Yes."
"How?" I breathed.
"Depends." He answered. Immediately I saw where this was going. "What do you intend to do after you finish here?"
His words prompted me to resume throwing my belongings at my suitcase.
"I think you should know," I said by way of answer, "That I don't really need you to tell me this stuff. I can just google it."
"Google." He snorted, expressing his contempt. "What is it with you kids and bloody google?"
I scooped up all my underwear and carted it over to the suitcase to tuck them all in amongst all my other stuff—no way was I gonna chuck my knickers about the room with Paul there.
How EMBARRASSING.
Then that was it. I was finished.
There was nothing else to keep me here.
With one last brief look about the room—my eyes lingered for a split second on the wall which had been a flaming inferno a little while ago, and now stood completely unmarked—I hoisted my suitcase up into my grip and then promptly dropped it.
I'd forgotten what a heavy packer I was.
Paul laughed at me, and then swooped down to pick the suitcase up without a problem.
Slaters. They're all show-offs.
Oh. Oh fan-fucking-tastic. For what must be the BILLIONTH time today, here come the tears.
"Paul," I said, keeping my eyes locked on my suitcase as I reached out to take it from him. I'd probably give myself a haemorrhage trying to carry it, but what else could I do? "Um. . ."
What does one say on occasions such as this?
Somehow sorry doesn't even begin to cover it.
Yet . . .
"I'm so sorry." I whispered, not adverting my eyes from the handle of my suitcase as he relinquished possession of it to me . . . My arm just about popped out of its socket, by the way.
"Aw, Melinda," He grumbled. "Will you jab me in the eye if I hug you?"
" . . . What?"
"Nevermind." He said. And then hugged me.
I tensed slightly, expecting his hugging me to be too weird for words, but it wasn't, actually.
His hold was comforting, and felt familiar.
Then I realized why this was.
It was almost like being hugged by Nick, back in the old days. Only without the sexual undertones—because that would have been weird.
It was then, when I was standing there, thinking only of him, of Nick, that I made my big mistake.
I looked up into Paul's eyes.
. . . And saw Nick's ice blue eyes staring back at me.
I was cruelly reminded of Nick's lifeless black eyes in my earlier vision. My body went rigid.
I'm sure Paul could feel me start to treble slightly, and he pulled back and looked at me, a worried expression on his face.
My eyes locked on his, I watched as I imagined that familiar stare growing dark and lifeless . . .
My expression horrified, I ripped myself out of Paul's grasp and tore over to the bedroom door, pulling it open and rushing down those stairs without a word of explanation.
I just kept hurrying towards the front door, the unbearable weight of my suitcase long forgotten.
"MELINDA, WAIT!!!!" I heard Paul yell.
But I was already in the front entrance hall.
I almost made it right to the front door when she stopped me.
Aida.
I let out an involuntary shriek.
She just came outta NOWHERE!!!!!!!!!!
Wait.
. . . she just came outta nowhere . . .
Sure enough, closer inspection of Aida revealed the signature glow of the Undead.
"What the Fuuuuuuuck?" I asked myself.
"Slow, aren't you?" She commented.
"MINIONS???" I screamed back up in the direction of the staircase, knowing that Paul would soon pop into view. "You have ghostly MINIONS to do your bidding?"
Aida sighed. "I killed someone. Two someones' really. Saint Paulie up there decided to take the law into his own hands. Hence, servitude."
. . . that would be about the longest speech I'd ever heard her make.
Nevertheless, after hearing that she killed a couple people, I took a small step back.
She noticed, and grinned.
I tried for a quick lie.
Because she might have been thin—like size zero thin—but she had all sorts of ghostly powers on her side, and I knew without a doubt that she could kick my ass.
"Aida. Come on. I can't take anymore of this."
And it was true. I felt like I was going to collapse from sheer emotional exhaustion. I really could not take anymore.
"Want to piss him off? Let me walk right past you."
"Yes . . . That was what I was thinking." And she sidestepped me neatly, unobstructing my path to the door.
I exhaled tiredly. "Thanks,"
"Welcome."
Now time to get the fuck out of here.
"Melinda!" called Slater, now at the bottom of the stairs. I spun around to face him, but deliberately kept my eyes completely averted from his face. I was truly terrified of what could happen if I looked at him.
"You forgot something!" He threw my bag at me.
It was the Louis Vutton bag that I had left on the beach.
Nick . . . Nick must have brought it back here.
I reached out and just managed to snatch the bag by the tan straps.
"Chenaol and I want Arabia's number." Slater said then, getting all parental. "I assume Nick will have it?"
"Yup!" I said, falsely bright, just keen to get the fuck out of there.
"We'll call often, I assume that won't be a problem?"
"Nope!"
Ok . . . just say goodbye . . .
"Ok, then. You can go. Bye."
GOD MUST HAVE DECIDED NOT TO HATE ME AFTER ALL.
"Bye!" I called as I slipped out the door and fumbled in my handbag for my keys. Finding them and unlocking my car door, I hauled my suitcase in the vehicle and slamming the door shut.
I put my key in the ignition and turned it with a jerk before I stopped my foot down on the accelerator and sped away from the Slater Mannor.
For good.
The Daughter Of
You know, accommodation in Carmel-by-the-Sea is not exactly cheap.
Here I was paying for this room with my College tuition savings.
Shh. Don't tell daddy.
--Well its not like I'll NEED College if I'm dead.
And if I DID actually end up making it through all of this, hopefully mummy and daddy would be so thrilled to have their precious daughter back safe and sound that they wouldn't notice the mysterious disappearance of a couple thousand dollars . . .
Yeah right.
There's one for a Tui billboard.
My point was, that as much as I was paying for this room, you'd think they wouldn't be so meticulous about sending the hotel staff up to check on me every twenty bloody minutes.
OK, YES I am a minor. But I'm not a freaking ALIEN!!!!!! You don't need to keep WATCHING ME!!!!! I WILL NOT TRASH THE PLACE!!!!!!!
Gawd.
Way to earn yourselves a harassment lawsuit guys. Really. Thumbs up.
In other news . . .
My stay at the hotel has been all right, I 'spose. For the first day or two I was SO bored. NO SingStar . . . NO chance of a "The Hills" marathon to TiVo . . . Not even any colouring books.
Suckville really.
Musta been Keith's new strategy. BORING me to death.
For a while there, it was definitely working.
. . . I knew EXACTLY who was with who on "The Young and the Restless."
. . . I knew that the bathroom floor was comprised of exactly 30525 grey tiles.
. . . I knew that there were two hotel employee's who regularly engaged in sexual activities in the linen closet beside my room.
. . . Also, that hotel walls are not all that thick . . .
To sum up: isolation? Not for me.
But then I kinda got my act together and instead passed my days Googling hocus pocus stuff that might help me get rid of Keith.
I'd told Paul that I could figure this stuff out.
And I was adamant that I would.
Although I will conceed that sometimes I do get bored and resume counting floor tiles and watching "The Young and the Restless".
But I'm only human.
I've found some interesting stuff on "Shamianism." But mostly my Internet trawls have just presented me with page after page of utterly unhelpful speculation:
Like the fact that ancient tribal Shamans used to use Cannabis to heal their villagers.
--Cool, let get high.
And that there is apparently a "Trickster" aspect to each shaman's "Personique."
--So we all have our inner Voldemort. Good to know.
Also some Shamans become corrupted by power.
--Really? I didn't notice.
And there's a "Shaman" Character in Dungeons and Dragons.
--Wouldn't know, myself.
There was a heap of shit on healing people too. That didn't really help me much either. SORRY, I DON'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW HOW TO DO A SPIRITUAL HEALING DANCE. I mean, I want to KILL someone here, not HEAL them.
Sorry, but it's the truth.
But in that department—the researching how to kill someone—I wasn't having so much luck with.
I guess blogging about how to exorcise your friends is sort of frowned upon.
So after HOURS of crap surfing, I had found this, one, solitary sentence that gave me hope.
"An ability to harness energy and direct it at the outside world."
Yeah, OK, it was nothing GROUND BREAKING, but I found it illuminating all the same. From it I inferred that if I was really lucky I could just screw my eyes up real tight and CONCENTRATE on what I wanted.
I mean, it certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd made really weird stuff happen by JUST CLOSING MY EYES.
I mean, EXAMPLE NUMBER ONE: that thing at the hospital, where I'd seen that weird silver cord thing connecting mum and dad.
EXAMPLE NUMBER TWO: When I managed to transport myself to Shadowland (or "The Astral Plane" or "the Spirit World" or whatever else you prefer,) when Keith crashed Nick's car—and I've managed this little trick a few times now.
EXAMPLE NUMBER THREE: When I'd given myself front row seats to the "Mum and Dad getting freaky in mum's old room" show.
AND EXAMPLE NUMBER FOUR: When I'd turned myself into a THIRD PERSON in order to witness myself breaking up with Nick. Over and over again.
And FURTHER PROOF TO SUPPORT MY THEORY: Nick's little bonfire that he's created in the Slater Manor simply by getting really really mad and WILLING it to happen!
So THEN I got the shit hot idea that I too could do all sortsa cool stuff with my mind, maybe even like moving stuff!
Just like Magneto off X-MEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!
. . . Did not work.
But I did manage to break a lamp!
Although, in the heat of the moment, I'm not sure wether it was my mind that smashed the lamp to the floor, or my arm, in a fit of random clumsiness.
Meh. A minor Detail.
I still had to pay for the lamp.
But I refuse to give up. Which is why, right now, even though its six in the morning—Six! I know!—I am sitting faithfully in front of my computer screen doing RESEARCH..
Although I would like to point out that researching is actually nowhere near as exciting in real life as they make it seem on CSI.
Ohh, this site looks promising:
"Troiyt and Shamanism in Dialogue."
I clicked it. And then . . .
WHAT???? WHAT? NO!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK NO!!!!!!!!
"Error, System failure."
SHIT!!!!! Shit shitty McShit shit . . .!
My computer screen began to flicker and fade, and then all I was left with was a blank screen.
I jabbed repeatedly at the ON button.
Nothing.
I just killed my laptop.
No biggie, right?
I mean, I only need it to try and fins something that might SAVE MY LIFE.
. . . I am so screwed.
I was on to SOMETHING there, I'm certain!!!!!!
And NOW WHAT???
I highly doubted that I was going to be able to find answers to all my ghostly problems on the home shopping channel, (which was what else I had been passing my time doing).
"I'm Fifty years old and have a Bowflex body!"
No. You're Sixty years old and have a very talented plastic surgeon.
This was so FRUSTRATING!!!!!!!!!
Now I had nothing. No leads, no hope, no information . . . nothing.
Thanks for that Microsoft. Thanks a bloody lot. I am going to send you a really ANGRY LETTER!
Hang on. Wait a second.
But I DO have a lead . . .
I have Mrs Grey.
She'd said something to me about a red mustang convertible the night that Alanna and Daniel were killed . . . I hadn't really been concentrating on it as much of a lead because A) it was so circumstantial, and B) It would be EXCRUCIATINGLY challenging to attempt to follow up.
But it was all I had.
I got up from the hotel desk and grabbed a handbag, throwing a few essentials into it, then I snatched my car keys up, let myself out of the hotel room and headed off own the corridor.
To be honest, I didn't know if my visit would achieve anything at all. But I had to try.
Please, I prayed silently, please me find something . . .
If only I had known then exactly what it was that I was to find at Mrs Greys.
I never would have bothered getting out of bed.
Merry Christmas!