|Altaira|
Al-tare-ah

August 2014

   It stayed there for a while, smothered in dust. It was a gruelling venture- too tiring to embark alone by foot or by hand, not unless it was covered by a film of latex, mild allergy forgotten. The newspaper was a worthy foe.

   I could see it without touching it, I suppose. The date, a bold Times New Roman, in probably a size 14, touted 'September 1989'. The upper-case letters, once loud and proud, but now faded at the edges and washed out at the intersections by what appeared to be tea stains, said something I could not quite make out without squinting. These were the times I wished I did not try on a pair of glasses at age eleven and liked it.

   Scrolling along the rug that had more craters than the moon, my wheelie chair met my drawer where I grabbed the glasses and rubbed the sleep from my eyes before putting it on. I let out a yelp as the unpadded end of the left side scraped against the bridge of my nose. I'd have to get that fixed- eventually.

   Now more than ever I needed a way to multitask, find a way to put the newspaper in my bag after reading it, along with my usual items, while making false promises to my therapist that I would follow her rules for mindfulness and OCD grounding.

   "Are you alright?" The voice practically squeaked from the high static that came with all our phone calls. I guess it was apt, she did have to pretend she cared, she was getting paid for it after all.

   "Sorry, got distracted."

   "That's fine. You will still stick to your task schedule as usual and write them down?"

   I scrunched my nose in distaste as I edged closer to the document on the desk. Would a few sprays of Dettol on the desk work, after I had effectively removed it and perhaps placed it in one of those slim, laminated wallet folders- maybe A3? Yes, that would work.

   "Of course."

   "And though I am no longer with the practice there are ways to find me should you wish to keep me updated."

   "Aha!' I yelled in triumph and then placed both hands over my mouth. Of course that didn't stop my therapist from thinking I was dying to know what never-ending assignment she was setting up for me, probably feeling a smidge of guilt for not managing to fully fix what I had. I didn't blame her though, the NHS had limited sessions for everyone and maybe I was getting better. I mean, I was before the incident.

   Finally I had my gloves, I had my spray bottle, I had my hand sanitizer- perfect. Now to see if I was settling down to read a tale of a runaway killer, or of SpongeBob finding his Gary, yet again. Unsurprisingly, and to my utter disappointment, it was neither.

THE ASHMOOR TIMES

ASHMOOR AWARDS SPONSOR COUPLE THEIR HIGHEST HONOUR

Power couple alumni, Samuel and Odessa Ellis, donate towards a new department right in the heart of Ashmoor.

   Except it wasn't just a 'department' was it? Reading on, the words 'new campus' stuck out like a sore thumb. My mind helpfully conjured the half-finished application to Cambridge, and then my sixth form career's advisor advising me on how I was 'way too smart' to stay in this city, this town, and give up like that. Voted most likely to succeed. Well that worked out well, didn't it?

   My stomach gurgled with anxiety, urging me to stop reading this boring drivel. I sacrificed my desk for this? Who on earth would send an article from 25 years ago? The envelope, which had no dust as it was clearly new, had no return address either, sender unknown. Of course. Pranksters were getting smarter these days, gone were the ding dong ditchers of yore— or was I consuming too much daytime American TV, but on the laptop because who used TV's anymore?

   Frustrated, I shook the paper and, as if on cue, a little Post-it note fluttered down, of course onto the floor, of course, leaving dust marks from the paper. Great, I had to hoover that too. Picking up the note I squinted— this time with style, and examined the scribble. It was in a scrawl, which, along with the message itself, was surprisingly very familiar. It was in a neat position; peckish, almost shy of any level lines, but ample in its flicks and swirls, both dreamy and confident, or so my brief studies on graphology on lazy evenings had taught me.

   To my starbird

   Be with me always— take any form —drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

   A tad melodramatic to the untrained eye, but this was a passage that I could recite backwards, along with the 64 others in my book. Just to make sure, I bought out my well worn 'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Bronte from the shelf above my desk and went to the page... yup, the very same. Except maybe for 'starbird'. My stomach swirled. It was the dual meaning of my name; Arabic for a bird, and the femine name for the brightest star in the constellation Aquila. Only one person was daft enough to call me that uncreative nickname and she was dead. A year ago in fact. There was no possible way she could've written anything. And yet this was as clear as day, her handwriting, her scented page torn from the notebook I gifted her with before she ventured into the greatest mistake of her life— or death.

   I almost fell out of my chair, spilling my coffee, as the girl on my laptop screamed hauntingly. I couldn't decide if she had it worse, as she ran from a conveniently placed killer, or if I did from the haunting message beyond the grave. I scrambled up, reaching for the scroll pad and closed the app with a thorough tap, pissed that the Netflix rating system didn't allow you to actually rate how good or bad a series was anymore. So instead, for scaring the life out of me with its poorly timed jump scares and incessant sound effects, I gave it a very, enthusiastic thumbs down.

   The coffee stains on my shirt created the perfect backdrop for my confusion. June couldn't possibly be alive. Whoever was doing this was playing a sick joke. Though even sick jokes wouldn't know a nickname only between June and I. Unless she told them, my subconscious so helpfully interjected. How well did you know her on her final year?

   'I dare you, Altaira. I double dare you. And if it scares you, then we're both winning.'

   I wanted to barge into wherever she was and tell her that the phrase from our childhood still didn't make sense. Instead I gnawed at my nails and then dug my fingers into my palms. June Whitlock bit her nails, that was her thing. I didn't see what all the fuss was about.

   I wish I had a valid reason for what I was about to do, but with June there was no reason, we just were. She helped when I needed her and it seemed that this time she required something of me. At least this way I would get my life back on track. It didn't take a genius to know that she hadn't sent this to me. Written it, sure, but not even the great Houdini could pull this off and live. Even then it had been a year. A year to recuperate, a year to function without her presence, without becoming a sobbing mess. Did I- could I go through this again? A rule of thumb my sixth form teacher taught me was to never go looking for snakes, for you just might find them.

   With a grumble, I pulled my laptop forward. While trying to keep my rising anxiety at bay, I started drafting a letter to Mr Whitlock. But how does one convince him that it is of utmost priority to go to the very place his daughter died? Do I show him this note? Maybe not. He would think I'm playing the cruellest prank since his daughter committed 'suicide'. It seemed everyone believed she did. A brief moment of insanity, a closed case. If only people knew her like I did. Just then, my bedroom door flew open. I scrambled to stash the paper into my drawer, dust forgotten, as my mum stepped in.

   "Don't mind me. Just here to take the decorations off." Mum said, pointing at the 'Happy 20th' buntin that stuck across the wall from corner to corner, along with the sparkling confetti and paper lanterns. The theme was pink, as if people needed to be reminded that I was a girl the second time around. I clutched the one helium balloon that had my name on it, before she could take it to the bin outside, a gift from a high-school friend.

   "I'm keeping this." I said.

   "Maise's gift was beautiful," she affirmed, glancing at my gold, teardrop pendant. I clutched it tight as my palms tingled.

   "Hey mum?" I said as she gave an 'mhm' while she unattached a 2014 banner bolstered tightly on the wall.

   "I'm thinking of going to Ashmoor. Their literature department is unrivalled."

   Mum watched me for any quirks, jokes and decisions, apparently I expressed them all the same- as a half-arsed job. After a brief stare down she scrunched her nose and made her way to the door.

   "We'll discuss this in a few."

   Well that was more than I could ask for. After she opened and shut the door firmly behind her I twirled in my chair, reaching for the article once more. This time I looked for clues beyond the pretentious couple it was practically salivating over. If a newspaper was human, then this was an obsessed, lovesick fan. I was halfway down when a sudden squeak had my heart hammering.

   "Hello? Altaira? Are you still there? Can you hear me? Damn these shoddy connections. OK Google, remind me to call my phone company to give them a mouthful," my therapist complained, from the phone now lying on the floor.

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