08
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Shaw's Diner
September 14, 2018
7:01 p.m.

THE NIGHT'S FRESH AIR brushes my skin, crisp and cold against my shivering body. It breezes through my curls, tickling my scalp and dancing its way to my bones. Nights in Levittown are similar to what resides inside its citizens: cold, unrelenting, dark. The weather is bad, piercing through every bone and every tissue in my body, but it helps me with my breathing. Air circulates inside of me until it arrives to my lungs in icy sharps, breaking the obstruction of the painful lump in my throat.

In the distance, the vacant streets are swallowed in obscurity, missing the light from each standing lamp post. It's difficult to decipher where the street leads to and where the houses begin to align. It's not a problem, though; people in this town have been led by darkness all their lives, so we know our paths by heart and soul.

There are cars aligned in front of the diner, each one occupying a space in a neat manner. Lights from inside the diner are reflecting on the cars' windows, twinkling against their cheap paint. They bathe the whole parking lot, pink and orange and blue and yellow, and the asphalt beneath my feet. But, they don't reach the streets' obscurity. They only fade the further something is. I can see it now: the bright colors inside, their blurry reflection on the parking lot, their incapability to touch the darkness.

Life is inside, while the outside is for the dead. The lights don't touch me, they don't pool on my dark skin with vibrant enthusiasm. I'm behind a wall, hidden inside the shadows. And, in a way, I'm between it all, teetering between life and death. Melody, though, is rotting under piles and piles of dirt.

What happens when she's forgotten? Another murder unsolved, a cold case. The interest of murder enthusiasts thirty years from now, more details appearing over the years about the cause of death and things that are overlooked by detectives right now. Her light will dim and another will take her spot.

She will fall from her stardom.

For now, she's the center of everything and we're orbiting around her. In this moment, this fleeting passing of the present, we're vulnerable subjects to an audience all around the world. Maybe someday there will be a documentary about the case blaming one of us for her murder, as if it's that easy to resolve. Of course, it won't matter, not in that distant future. All that matters is now.

It's ironic - how I was unable to read Melody's letter in its entirety when I first discovered it, and how I couldn't bring myself to read the newspaper article. Both have crucial information to Melody's death, and I just ignored them. Maybe it's fear, it may be ignorance, but my stubbornness always rules above everything else.

The letter I understand - it's a last connection to Melody, her last words written on paper. The newspaper article, well, it dives deeper into W.S.'s crimes and I've tried all my life to avoid those chunks of gruesome information. It's just something I don't need in my mind, in my conscience, in my deepest, darkest nightmares. Honestly, it's a waste of my time.

As far as the letter goes, the nine-one-one transcript exists. There's a nagging in my chest, more aggressive than my guilt, warm and filled with warning. This piece of information is enough to assure me that the letter is valid and not to be taken lightly. It's a confirmation to her murder, whether I want it or not, despite my tiniest of doubts. And I know what I'm supposed to do; I have to tell the police. I can't solve her murder all by myself, it's impossible.

You're in danger if you share this information with ANYONE.

The words flash before my eyes, loose ink tainting a piece of paper. Just by the thought of it, my heart begins with its sickening thumping, my stomach churning with unpleasant fear. If the nine-one-one transcript is true, then the rest of the letter must be too. The threats, the possibility of my death if I don't complete the task - my silence in return for the truth behind her disappearance and murder.

There's a series of letters scattered around town and it's my job to find them. Where to look? Where to look? Where to look?

Nothing comes to mind, not a single person and not a single place. It's useless. I'm useless. A sigh escapes my lips, long and heavy, and my lungs beg for more air. I inhale deeply, savoring every cold sharp swarming inside my chest. Then I hear laughter coming from inside, the kind where tears are trailing down your cheeks and your stomach aches from all the pressure.

Nowadays, I think a lot about the last time you see someone without knowing it's the last time - without them knowing that they would die soon, cease to exist. No more breathing fresh air on an April afternoon, no more exhilaration as laughter erupts from their stomach. No more butterflies in the stomach when they see that special person, no more of the heartache that comes after it. No more sleeping after a hard day, no more staying awake until late to do all the things you can't when there are witnesses around.

No more bike rides to the riverbank, no more parties in it to get laid and drunk and high. No more secrets whispered during the night, no more gossip spreading through the day. No more of her laughter as we dress for some trashy place, no more of her borrowing my clothes without asking for permission. No more of Melody.

I try hard to remember the last time I saw her, my last words to Melody; her last words to me. What type of friend am I? I can't remember the last time I saw her, the last thing I said to her, what she said to me in return. Heck, I haven't even cried since her death.

But, then, flashes come like snippets: Melody's face bathed in the purple and green party lights from Sebastián's bash, her gray eyes filled with mirth, two storms before the calm. That's when it strikes me - the last time I saw her, she was lying on a pool of her own blood, dead.

The images come fast, like sharp knives to the stomach. Her gray eyes, open and scared, staring at the ceiling. The slash in her throat protruding sticky matter, spluttering blood. Her brown hair matted with blood, dark and festering and all-consuming. My hands as I cover the gash, the blood pooling from in between the cracks of my fingers. Her legs, the same legs that dangled from the swings months before, surrounded by blood. The memory is so vivid, I swear I can almost smell its acidic and metallic odor.

Despite my lack of proper clothing, I feel as though everything I'm wearing is too tight. My chest constricts as if it's choking on the very oxygen it so desperately needs, and my skin burns with the sensation of her blood covering my whole body, imprinting itself on it. My body begins to walk backwards, covering itself from the memories deeper in the shadows, until my back hits the wall. I press myself harder against the wall, the cool cement easing this burning on my skin, and clutch my chest until it's safe enough to breathe.

I need to breathe.

Suddenly, my heart goes numb and the images fade away. My whole body goes numb, the feeling of nothing corrupting it once again. This numbing nothing allows me to breathe, to think, to be safe inside my own deadly mind. I close my eyes, just for a moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Behind my close eyelids, I can see Melody dancing with Christopher. They're laughing about something, his arm snaking around her small waist, pulling her closer to his body. I always wonder what she could've said to make him laugh like that, the sides of his eyes faintly crinkled, his teeth in full display. Seeing them like that, so close to each other, made my blood boil. It still does.

The image is soon gone and it's replaced by my guilt. My torturous, never ending guilt. Instead of helping her, who was probably scared somewhere, I was with him. Him, him, him. It's always him. Him, with his charming lopsided grins and his honest eyes. Before I can dwell on the memory of him and drown in my guilt, her voice resonates in my mind:

What happens if I disappear?

It clicks. It's there. When did she say this?

The ting of the diner's bell echoes throughout the silent night. It's faint, a sound blending with the roaring wind, but it's enough to catch my attention. I smell him before I can see him - strong cologne rubbed on his pale skin, the afterthought of vodka in his breath, a dash of cigarette residue. Despite myself, despite the fact that I don't even see him, I can't control the wild beating of my heart.

He stands next to me after a few seconds, close enough for me to see his blonde hair and admire his lopsided grin, but far enough so he doesn't get consumed by the shadows. Half of his face is covered by the lights, pink and yellow and orange and purple, the other swallowed by the obscurity.

I hate how I hold my breath in anticipation to what he's going to say, and I hate that he's not mine at the same time. Lips touching, bodies mingling together under white sheets, sounds of breath raging come to mind. I can almost feel the moment as if it's happening right now, but I rid myself of those memories. It's in the past.

"Hey," he mumbles, his voice soft in this empty space. He extends his arm toward me and in his hand holds a black jacket, oversized and completely his. "It gets cold around this time."

It's not until he offers his jacket that I realize my uncontrollable trembling, so I take the jacket from him and, in the process, caress the side of his thumb. My heart thumps and thumps to the point where I think it might just break loose from my ribcage. I nod, not having enough energy to utter a simple 'thank you', and put the jacket on.

It's so much warmer inside here, so much pleasant with the smell of him rubbing on my skin.

"Look, I'm sorry for all the sex talk. It's just - it's difficult to talk about something with all that's happened," he says, bringing a cigarette to his lips and lighting it. "Sometimes I say things without thinking them first. I'm a jerk, I know." He chuckles, puffing some smoke. "It's just so hard to cope the way everyone wants you to. I'm coping in my own way."

I realize that I'm not the only one struggling with grief. The fact that he's feeling exactly how I am is comforting, just what I need.

I sigh, turning to look up at him. "Christopher, it's -"

He leans closer to me, close enough for me to smell the strong cologne that rubs through his body and the heavy, musky odor from the nicotine in his breath.

"I've told you about a million times to call me Chris," he whispers, looking down at me.

I gulp and hold my breath for a few seconds, before regaining my composure. "Christopher, it's not your fault. It's talking about sex so casually, despite her death," I mumble, avoiding his eyes. "It's overwhelming. I know that Nari and you have a thing going on or whatever, but..."

...what about me?

He arches an eyebrow, the side of his lip lifting into an amused smirk. "I'm sorry," he whispers, even though we're the only ones outside. "Here, looks like you need it."

He hands me the lit cigarette, eyes resting on my every move. Our fingers touch for a second and something inside of me yearns for more. The tips of his fingers are soft against my skin, cold because of the freezing air. Even though I stopped smoking when Melody disappeared, I take it and inhale, savoring its strong and addictive taste.

"I'm sorry for reacting the way I did," I mumble, my lips twitching to form a small smile.

He shakes his head, his body moving closer to mine, the kind of close that's intimate. "You don't have to apologize," he whispers, passing his forefinger on my jawline. "You know, I've missed -"

My body is out of the shadows and sharing the light with him, the varying colors shining on my dark skin. "Christopher, what happened -"

"Was a mistake," he says, the amusement glinting in his blue eyes. "See, I don't think it was." With his thumb and forefinger, he grabs the jacket's zipper and pulls it down.

His fingers play with the thin straps of my spaghetti top. First, his forefinger closing around the strap, releasing it so it slaps my skin lightly. Then, by putting his forefinger behind and his thumb on top, rubbing up and down, making me shiver. His thumb soon finds the swell of my left breast and, oh God, how I love the feeling of him on my skin.

"Christopher," I whisper, my whole body alight with lust. "Melody's dead."

His eyes travel from my breasts to my face, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. There's something flashing in his eyes, an emotion I can't quite classify, but the amusement is definitely no longer there.

"It wasn't our fault," he whispers, removing his hand from my breast and tucking a curl behind my ear. He must've seen something on my face, maybe my expression gives away my guilt. "It isn't our fault. Do you believe that?"

As I look up at his bright blue eyes, see the truth in the one place that always provides it, I will myself to inch closer. I want a piece of heaven on my lips, the taste of vodka mixed with cigarette residue on my tongue.

Someone clears their throat. "Am I interrupting something?" Nari says, making us step away from each other. I return to the shadows.

All I have is his breath in my mouth, so close to a kiss. It's pathetic how one simple breath keeps me satisfied, at least for tonight. Christopher has a huge grin on his face as he looks at Nari, who's keeping the entrance door open while quirking an eyebrow.

"Course not," I say, pressing a painful smile. "It was cold and Christopher gave me a light." I look at the cigarette that's trapped between my fingers, its butt so long that it falls to the floor.

An innocent smile stretches on my lips, or at least I try to make it look innocent, because it's so obvious that we haven't touched the damn thing. I throw it to the floor and stump on it.

Nari looks between us, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. "Micah bought some pie. Maybe it will ease the tension."

"I love free pie," Christopher says, walking over to her.

As soon as he's next to her, she wraps an arm around his waist. Christopher looks back at me and winks, the gesture enough to ignite the beating of my heart. But, just as soon as he turns away, Nari looks at me - looks at the jacket I'm wearing, probably knowing it's his - and glares. The difference between her and me is that, while I'm wearing his jacket to protect my body from the cold, she wears his sweater after making love to him.

I guess it's clear who the real winner is.

It's my fault, really. I always fall for guys who are unattainable. Still, it breaks my heart how I can only admire him from afar - admire him in the arms of every other girl, pieces of heaven scattered all around town, leaving me with nothing but dust.

I walk inside a few minutes after them. All that's left of me is the burning sensation that begins on my jaw and ends on my thighs, while the bitter presence of sorrow fights to extinguish it.

•Word count: 2,736•

Whoops! This chapter is shorter than the last one (still pretty long, but I like it just that way). Chapter ten is the one that's long, lol. Any thoughts about Christopher and Alexa's relationship?

Guys, I've been nominated in The Readers Choice Awards, so if you think this book is worth winning in the Mystery/Thriller category, please vote for Levittown through the following link:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/158004608-the-readers-choice-awards

Amazing cover on top by my friend Eastwards, who's also been nominated in The Readers Choice Awards! ♡

Wattpad is glitching and it's annoying as hell. I've edited this chapter TWO times and, now that I'm revising it AGAIN, I'm finding some of the same errors I corrected before. So, as always:

Feel free to correct any grammatical errors, but be kind about it. Tell me what you think of this chapter.

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