03
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Holy Heart Cathedral
September 11, 2018
12:05 p.m.

EVERYONE GRIEVES DIFFERENTLY.

Those are my father's go-to words for every heart-shattering situation.
He used them after Cecilia's abandonment, her desire to transform her life into something meaningful weighing more than the life she already created with us. My five-year-old self didn't understand what he meant by them, but among all the haze and confusion, I never cried. There was still hope and my father's words.

Now there's no hope and my father's clinical phrases are not enough.

Psychology says that there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Denial is an instant reaction to protect the body from feeling pain, the one that decides the amount of feelings that can attack at once. It usually constructs an impenetrable bubble around the inhabitant, an alternative universe where the loved one is still alive and the pain subsides. Anger is the feeling that's used as a distraction, a shock of adrenaline that courses through the body, making it feel something that's not pain. The nothingness of a loss is structured into something bearable, something that ignites the anger and allows it to explode on anything or anyone.

Bargaining is the flicker of hope when there's nothing else left, the shaking of the hands and the shortness of breath as someone pleads for another chance. Here, the body speaks to a divine entity, begs for their loved ones back, and offers empty promises. Depression is reality's sharp edge as it pops the safety of the bubble, the insufferable pain mingled with all other feelings striking at once. It's, above all things, the notion of life's finitude, the state of mind in which nothing seems to make sense. Acceptance is the light at the end of the tunnel, the one that promises understanding and happiness. It's not about forgetting that the loved one existed, rather accepting the reality of the situation and moving forward with it.

These stages seem to hold some reason, a perfect concept that defines the process of loss. As pretty as they may seem, there are side effects to them. A person doesn't have to experience all of them, they can skip a few or stay in one, it's not an ordered process. This means that, while some do reach some kind of acceptance, others get stuck in depression or anger forever.

Not so pretty anymore.

The way I see it, Psychology uses it as a handbook to deal with people. We don't understand how the mind of a person works when losing a loved one, so we try to understand by establishing some rules. It's easier to handle when you have something visual to guide you. It's a representation of the things humans do to avoid pain; to avoid death. That's what life's about, really - anesthesia before surgery, medicine to cure diseases, psychology to understand the inner workings of the mind.

I don't know how these stages fit into my situation, but some part of me doesn't care at all. If I have to place myself in one of the steps, then I will be considered a bad friend. There's numbness growing inside of me, a void that seems to tear me open. If I say the words out loud, scream that I don't feel anything, that I'm numb to the pain, I will be called a monster. The focus will be on me, instead of the real monster living among us.

Then they will dig through my life with their claws and discover my guilt. The nagging begins to pound in my chest, relentless and wild, and I close my hands into fists to steady my raging heart. The sight of the white open casket before me eases the beating of my heart, but it drowns it into nothing once again.

A porcelain doll is resting down inside a white coffin. At least that's what I believe when I look at the girl that's sound asleep in the open casket. Melody almost seems alive with the vibrant colors that radiate from her face. The pink blush that covers her cheeks gives her a warm tender exterior, but a touch to the skin uncovers the lie. Her flesh is cold and whiter than before, a clear sign that she's slowly departing. The thought makes my heart beat a little quicker, the void settling once again in my chest.

She already departed, what remains is just a shell.

I repeat this over and over again, until the nausea bubbles in my stomach and my head aches from the pain. In some twisted way, she and I are exactly alike in this moment. It feels as though there's nothing inside of me, just a void sucking every feeling that threatens to replace the numbness. Just like her body right now, mine's limp, motionless, empty. She's just an empty vessel, a shell of a part she used to be - and I'm beginning to see that I'm transforming into the same thing. Life happens without me, people move forward while I stumble back, nothing waits for me with open arms. I'm invisible.

I feel dead.

Melody's shell of a body is covered by a white baby doll dress that camouflages on her pale skin. A white, lace choker necklace is hiding the deep horizontal gash that pierces through her neck. I inhale a sharp breath, closing my eyes tightly, trying to erase all memory of that night. Blood so fresh and skin so white flash through memory, and I open my eyes to the sight of an unmoving Melody.

No blood. No wounds.

My attention returns back to Melody, the girl that will soon be a distant memory, a corpse rotting under piles and piles of dirt, a passing human that no one will remember a hundred years from now. Heck, thirty years from now. But, for now, she's the one that's radiating with forever beauty in this depressing room.

There was a time when we thought we were invincible. No one could reach our high, the feeling of being above everyone else. Nobody could stop us from feeling like royalty, superior beings roaming this earth with grace in each step. We represented immortality, forever young and beautiful - low shorts and tight crop-tops, a cigarette in one hand, the neck of a beer bottle in the other, infinity waiting for us at the end. We had our whole lives waiting at the end of adolescence - now it's just flashing before my eyes.

Days used to be hours, hours used to be minutes, and minutes used to be seconds - the world slowing down for us, life through the perspective of infinitude. We drowned in the fragrance of sweet youth and drank from the waters of beauty. Her death changes everything. She's the symbol of mortality, the youth dying before their time.

Now I can't stop thinking about my own mortality. My life before her death was an illusion, a result of my intoxication with freedom. As time advances, I will too and, soon enough, I'll pass through my death date over and over again, until the clock strikes and I'm turned into nothing. Oblivion waits for the soon-to-be forgotten, its darkness unknown to the human knowledge.

Melody's both a symbol of mortality and immortality, a beautiful paradox. She will be forever young, her memory intact to this moment, but life's no longer in her. If there are such things as souls, then hers departed to another lifetime, another oblivion, another universe, some other place and time that's not here; that's not with us.

Her physical body, though -

According to Biology, decomposition starts a few minutes after the body dies, a process called autolysis. After she was left to die, Melody must have felt each heartbeat beginning to fade as her heart stopped pumping blood; she probably gasped for air, her fingertips recoiling on the pool of blood as cells were deprived from oxygen. Every tissue and organ in her body began to break down and damaged blood cells spilled out of torn vessels, settling on capillaries and veins, until her skin began to lose color. By then, her skin must have been a deadly white, fingertips tinged with violet. With her discolored skin came the drop of her body temperature, and then the stillness.

My head pounds, the world around me turning into a blur for a second. The thought of her last few minutes is too much to bare. She probably clung to a sliver of hope, knowing that I was on my way to meet her. She probably thought, 'I'm going to be okay, it's all okay. Alexa's coming soon, it won't be fucking long'. But, it never happened. I was late, and she was already dead. Once again, I'm a disappointment in her life - in death too, it seems.

My shoulders slump and the rhythm of my breaths turns slower. My eyes continue to skim Melody, landing on her intertwined hands and neatly positioned legs. When I notice the scar on her left leg, the one that once was a pale pink and now is a deadly white, an image comes to mind.

Pale legs dangling from a blue swing, gray eyes shining bright against the sun's light, the sound of tumultuous laughter in that distant time that only resides in my memory. It's all so vivid, so filled with colors, but all that is left of it are hues of white and red.

Gray eyes, opened and unmoving, replace the memory of a pleasant summer afternoon, and I can feel how it all starts to crumble down. I can feel my heart ripping apart, how the memories are tearing it apart, how it will all break me apart.

A firm hand squeezes my shoulder and the scent of strong cologne invades the gentle smell of the red roses that surround the white coffin. I turn around and meet Logan. His eyes are red, as if tired from crying, but they are still filled with crystal tears. He seems tired, almost out of life, and I'm surprised about how casual his clothing is: a black turtleneck paired with some gray trousers and a pair of black sneakers. His curly top is wet, and I wonder if it's raining outside.

"She is so beautiful," he says, his breath heavy beside me.

I can only nod, not finding words to create a proper conversation. We stay in silence, side by side to each other, staring at something that no longer possesses a soul.

"They said you were there," he says and clears his throat before continuing. "When... when she died."

I shut my eyes and sigh. "I," I mumble, my bottom lip quivering, "I wasn't there when she died. I found her dead," I say a little louder, anger appearing for the first time in days. My veins are swelling, blood warming under my skin, heart pounding against my chest.

He nods, brushing away tears with his thumb. "I'm sorry."

I stay silent. My ears are sensitive to the sound of steps against marble floor, people already leaving to return to their peaceful homes, pretending that nothing happened. They want to believe that it's a suicide, it's better than knowing that a killer is out there, living among them. It has to be a suicide because monsters can't exist in Levittown, they just can't. Not after what happened with W.S.

Logan clicks his tongue. "This ain't no suicide," he says, looking at me. "The motherfucking police knows this and, yet, they need to 'inspect the scene of the accident to determine if she was murdered.'" He mimics what every official report says, his eyebrows furrowing and lips turning into a scowl. "Who the fuck slashes their own throat and hits their own fucking head?"

Anger.

I gulp down the lump in my throat. "Calm down, Logan," I whisper, looking anywhere but at him. "You're attracting attention."

"Who the fuck cares?" he yells, his voice breaking at the end. "My girlfriend was killed. I'm sorry I don't believe in fucking injustice."

My throat closes with an unbearable pain and a low whimper escapes my parted lips. "I'm, I'm sorry, Logan. Come here." I open my arms to envelope him in a tight hug.

His cries sound muffled against my embrace; his voice, broken. "This is just a nightmare," he assures, tightening his hold around me. "Just a dark and twisted nightmare."

It is a nightmare, but a realistic one. "I wished it were an actual nightmare," I whisper, inhaling hard. "But we're going to get through this, Logan," I manage to say, even though my throat feels dry. "We just have to be strong, I guess."

We disentangle from our embrace. My lips curve upwards, not enough to produce a smile but enough to demonstrate my sympathy. He returns it more brightly, but his eyes give him away. He's empty, alone and depressed.

I turn around and, as I walk away, I hear his low whisper: "You're the beat of my heart. You're the light in the dark."

Something inside of me is alight with recognition, but it soon vanishes when his words process in my mind. He really does love her. A pang of guilt crushes my chest, it swirls in my stomach, revolting and aggressive -because I know that she never felt the same way.

The church is almost vacant, the reception almost over. Everyone is leaving her behind, alone in a church she never loved. Nari stands close to the entrance, her straight hair falling on her face as she nods to whatever her parents are saying. Song-Ho Lee stands tall and dark as he puts a strong hand on his daughter's shoulder, Ann Lee nodding along to everything he says. They soon join the rest of them outside.

Every wall surrounding me is white, it's all white, except for the black attire everyone's wearing. I'm sick of the color. I'm tired of it all. The tight bun I have styled on my hair is making me dizzy or I blame the bun for my dizziness, either way I undo it, curls resting on my shoulders.

Before walking outside, I see Sebastián from a distance. He's sitting down with his head bowed down, his long dreadlocks covering his face. His head shakes from side to side, dreadlocks moving along with it.

Denial.

I hesitate for a second, stepping forward and then stepping back. Before thinking about it, I turn around and walk outside.

My earlier assumption is denied when I'm greeted with a bright and sunny day. The sky is a clear celeste blue, a stranger to gray clouds and the madness they can bring. Birds are chirping all around me, their soft melodic tune mixing with the sweet pungent smell of earth and fruits. It's as if the universe itself is mocking her death. It should be raining with thunder and lightning. The sky should be invaded by a gray so dark that the bright and vivid colors that surround Levittown turn opaque.

My veins begin to swell, heart palpitating dangerously as I'm stricken with the notion that not even the atmosphere respects Melody's memory. It fills me with rage the fact that there's no justice because the universe took Melody at the tender age of seventeen.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

As I wait for my father to arrive, I skim the crowd of people that's leaving the church, until my eyes stumble upon waves of blonde hair and a sharp jaw.

Christopher is giving his back to me, one hand buried deep inside the pocket of his black trousers, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. He's talking to Micah and, from a distance, it seems like they're whispering and conversing in hush voices. Micah tilts his head toward me, and Christopher turns around to meet my eyes.

For a second, I forget how to breathe. His long-sleeve black shirt makes him look paler than what he is. I notice the puffiness on his eyes, the dark under eye circles that surround each of them, the pinkness that protrudes from the white.

He grins at me, but I look away, heart beating wildly in my chest. I shut my eyes and control the wild beating of my heart by breathing slower.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

"Alexa," a gruff voice says, compelling me to open my eyes. "I'm sorry for making you wait so long. I was talking with Melody's parents, giving them my condolences."

Hearing her name makes my heart stop, if only for a second. I look back to encounter with Mrs. Tryniski's empty eyes, her head nodding vaguely at whatever is being said to her. It's as if she's not there at all. The sight makes me whimper, so I return my attention to my father.

"It's okay, dad," I say, managing a weak smile.

His lips form into a tight line, and he only nods. "Come, let's go home."

As we stroll on the sidewalk, my eyebrows knit together. "What about your patients?"

He throws me a side-ways glance, stopping on the church's sidewalk. "What about my patients?" he says, smiling.

"They need you. Aren't you supposed to be with them right now?" I ask, fidgeting with the hem of my black dress.

He sighs and scratches the back of his bald head. "I cancelled the sessions for today. Their parents understood and besides," ---he pauses and shrugs--- "they were all in the funeral. One day won't harm them. It'll maybe do them good. You need me right now and I want to be here for you," he says, sliding his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to give me a kiss on the forehead.

I share a genuine smile for the first time in days. "What about your night shift at the hospital?"

He sighs, but the smile is evident on his lips. He brings his arm back to his side and looks ahead. "It's all good. You ask too many questions."

Silence engulfs us as we reach the car, my mind running with millions of thoughts a second. The question is in the tip of my tongue, trembling and scared, my hands shaking at my sides. How can I tell him without sounding insensitive?

"Dad," I mumble, already feeling his worried eyes on me. "I... it's been hard -" I tremble, my shaking hands fidgeting with the hem of my dress. "I can't cry. The tears, they - I just..."

...can't feel anything.

"Alexa," he says, his voice a sweet lullaby. I expect him to use the same line, to say that everyone grieves differently, to treat me as another one of his patients. "To grieve is to be human."

My eyes snap to him, wide and alert. He embraces me in a tight, warm hug. "It's not your fault, honey. Don't blame yourself."

He's lying, even though he doesn't know it, but I still surrender to the lie. I want to believe it, just for now. So, I hold tight to it, tight to my father as he soothes me with empty words.

"Alexa King," Detective Ellis says, my eyes encountering with his brown ones as I hug my father. "As the prime witness to the Tryniski case, I need to interrogate you."

Just like that, with those simple words, the lie breaks and reality sets in. My guilt returns with a burning rage.

•Word count: 3,248•

Another chapter! Four days after I published the last one, as promised ♡ The next one comes in three days? Don't know yet. But, anyways, do you guys have any theories?!?! It's really early into the story and you don't know all of the characters yet, but still...

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