13
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Melody Tryniski's house
September 20, 2018
10:52 a.m.

I KNOCK ON THE door three times, regretting my decision to come with each tap. The oval pots on either side of the front door contain leafy bushes, their healthy foliage blooming with pink flowers. Their peculiarly sweet aroma lingers in the hot air, a breath of sultry wind brushing the curls that hang loose on the back of my neck. As I wait for someone to answer the door, I rock back and forth on my heels, hands buried deep in my shorts' pockets.

It seems as if nothing has changed, like I'm here to visit Melody for the billionth time. From our playdates, to our childish sleepovers, to our wild teenage partying, it's all nurtured in this house. A painful sensation tugs  my heart, the heavy pang of nostalgia engraving reality in my chest. I know it's all in the past, with no possible way of returning, but I can't help the hope that grows inside of me.

If the bushes are moving to the rhythm of the wind and their flowers are omitting their usual fragrance, it means nothing has changed. If time is on a standstill inside this front porch and the world around me continues to function, then it means that it's all a bad dream. It wouldn't surprise me to see Melody opening the door for me, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she laughs at her dumb death joke.

Somehow, these thoughts only increase the pain that spreads through my body. When it's evident that no one's in the house, I turn around to leave. This is a stupid idea anyways. Just as I start to descend the porch steps, the faint creaking of the door opening thunders in the quiet of the morning. Mrs. Tryniski stands on the other end, hiding half of her long figure behind the door. The gray of her eyes is more prominent with the dark circles on her eyelids and beneath her lower lashes, her hair a tangled mess of knotted strands falling out of a floppy bun.

She opens the door wider, her entire figure becoming completely visible. Her thin body is adorned with a dirty oversized t-shirt, all sorts of stains dotting around the old thing. As I look at this battered version of who was once Mrs. Tryiniski, I'm reminded of Melody after a hangover. She really was the spitting image of her mother.

The sunlight illuminates her tired face as she stands there, squinting at me. It's quiet for a couple of minutes, awkward as I ponder on what to say and she ponders on who I am. Can she forget about her daughter's best friend?

"Alexa," she utters, rasped and hoarse. "I wasn't expecting you. Come in."

She heads inside, her figure swallowed by the shadows, and I follow after her. As soon as I close the door, a foul stench encompasses my senses, making my stomach turn. It's an unpleasant combination of rotting food and dirty body fluids. The more I walk through this long corridor, I become aware of the mess that is this house: dirty clothes tossed on the floor, half-eaten food spoiling in some corners, stained wrappers crumpled underneath some furniture, pictures of a smiling Melody tipped at a weird angle.

I realize, to my dismay, that although the outside seems in perfect order, the inside demonstrates the reality of our situation - Melody's dead. The sight of her house is enough to break me out of my daydream, settling me back to reality with a heavy heart.

"The house is a mess," she says, walking fast ahead of me as she picks things up from the floor. "I wasn't expecting company or anything, so..." She stops on the bottom of the stairs, where the living room is visible to my left and the kitchen to my right. "Just -  do you want something to drink?"

"No, that's okay."

She hoists the bundle of clothes and wrappers in her arms up with her left leg, blowing a knotted strand of hair out of her face. "I'm making some chocolate chip cookies. I'll take them out of the oven and bring some for us to eat," she says, hastily. "It'll just be a second. Wait here."

I walk to the living room and sit on one of its sofas, forgetting how much I actually hate these pieces of furniture. It swallows my body as soon as I sit down, making me wiggle and struggle to find a comfortable position. The stench that surrounds the house isn't so prominent here in the living room, so I breathe in the smell of cookie dough mixed with the pungent aroma coming from various plants.

Mrs. Tryniski seems different today, almost odd. The last time I saw her, she appeared to be in a mourning stage, crying at the mention of Melody and wondering what she did wrong. It's normal for her to react like that under such a horrifying situation, but today she's just anxious. She talks as if time is running out and looks disoriented, a shell of the person she used to be. Without Melody by her side, something must be incomplete within her. It's like she's trying to keep everything under control but failing.

She appears in the living room with a pitcher filled with what it looks to be ice tea in one hand, and a metallic tray filled with chocolate chip cookies in the other. "So, what brings you by?"

After she places everything on the small, wooden table that separates us, she sits down and pours some ice tea in a teacup.

"I just wanted to check up on you." I smile, the half truth resting bitter on my tongue.

"That's sweet of you," she mumbles, nursing the teacup close to her lips. "You know, same old, same old. I'm baking almost every day and occupying myself with some house duties," she says, the lie twitching on the slight curving of her lips. "Trying to cope as best as I can."

"That's good. You're... being productive," I say, my eyes skimming around the mess that is her house. "I'm also trying to cope. We all are, but there's something bugging me."

She arches an eyebrow, reaching forward for a cookie. "Oh?"

If my theory is correct about Melody's letters, then all the paintings she left behind for Mrs. Tryniski to distribute contain a letter. I just need to know who exactly has them.

I sigh. "The painting she left for me."

At the mention of the painting, she perks up on the seat, placing the cup down. "It doesn't make sense, right?" she says, a frown taking over her features. "I'm usually good at finding the hidden message in all her art works, but this one has been tough."

The guilt returns with a raging pang, clawing at my insides until it hurts to think, speak, move. I'm paralyzed on this sofa as she looks at me, drowning in my own secrets. The notion of what those paintings contain, pieces of a story that are powerful enough to find her murderer, creating a rupture between my reality and the secrets I keep hidden from others. I can feel myself filling with all the lies and secrets, mingling with the truth and the darkness hidden in my unconscious.

It's only a matter of time before I break.

"Right," I mumble, taking a cookie and munching on it. "You said there were others."

She nods, sipping from her teacup. "Yes. There were six, I think. No, wait, were there five? I don't remember."

I nibble on my bottom lip, heart thumping in my chest. "Do you remember who you gave them to?"

If I can get ahold of the people who have the rest of the paintings and trade with them something in exchange for the pieces, maybe I'll come closer to the truth. Her truth.

"One was for you, another for me. I gave one to Sebastian, Catalina and... Christopher."

My friends have one. Christopher has one. My heart begins with its uncontrollable beating, the notion that I'll have to talk to him in order to get his painting igniting a tingling sensation around my body. But there's also nausea swirling in my stomach - he's part of my guilt, a reminder of what I did, a dangerous fire I shouldn't come close to. Still, still, I long to keep him close, as close as humanly possible. He's midnight kisses and a dash of danger, the desire that creeps up on me during a hot night.

He's everything. Despite being ashamed of what I did, I don't regret it.

"Why the sudden interest?" Mrs. Tryniski asks, taking me out of my reverie. "You didn't tell the police about them, did you?"

"No, I-I need closure." I put the half-eaten cookie on the tray again, the nausea only increasing the more I lie. "Maybe seeing those paintings will give me that."

She only nods, bringing her knees to her chest to hug herself. "She was an amazing artist," she whispers, eyes glossing with unshed tears.

I gulp down the painful lump in my throat and resist the urge to cry. "Do you mind if I take some of her older paintings?"

My friends are the ones who have the rest of the paintings, so if I'm going to trade something with them in exchange for something as valuable as a piece made by Melody, it has to be something of equal value. Something like another painting from Melody, one that has a clear picture and makes sense.

"They're in the basement, right next to a wooden box."

I stand up and linger in the living room for some time, finding comfort in Mrs. Tryniski's company. Maybe she finds comfort in mine or she'd rather be alone during this difficult time. Where's Mr. Tryniski and why isn't he here to keep her company? Whatever the true answer is, I walk away towards the basement.

"And Alexa?" she mumbles, barely audible. I look at her over my shoulder. "Her death wasn't an accident, so don't mourn until the bastard who did this to her is found."

Her words hold something malicious to them, an aura of certain clarity. I wonder if Mrs. Tryniski knows more than what she's letting on, if her only purpose now is to find her daughter's killer in the name of revenge. I wonder and wonder and wonder, but all I want is to get out of this suffocating atmosphere. Darkness is not only here - it resides inside her, too.

Views
September 20, 2018
8:38 p.m.

"CAN YOU BELIEVE THOSE guys?"

Catalina grabs another bag of Kisses and stocks it in the candy rack. A cardboard box is currently between us, filled with all types of candy, ranging from sweet to sour. As she rambles about the incident that happened in school, the market's fluorescent light flickers above us, casting quick shadows before returning to white flashes. It's nighttime and Views isn't closed until another hour, despite not having any clients beside me.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," I say, plopping another Jolly Rancher bite inside my mouth.

"To think they would have a little more respect for Melody... for us. Especially for you," she grumbles, looking at me over her shoulder to give me a sympathetic smile.

That's right - I forgot I'm the girl who sees dead bodies. It's ironic how we're talking about this in the same place I visited before finding her body. It's strange just being here, having a casual conversation with a friend as I eat some candy. I don't deserve this simple interaction. The memories that flourish are filled with blood and hunted with the image of her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Pain should be spreading through my chest, sharp and suffocating as it fuels with the ache of each memory, but there's only a ferocious numbness settling in.

"Jocks are idiots."

Christopher comes to mind, all pair of blue eyes and lopsided grin. His touch is what heaven must feel like, the closest I'll get to an actual blessing. My heart pumps a bit more rapidly by just the thought of him.

"Not all of them."

Catalina quirks a bushy eyebrow and grabs multiple bags of candy to stuff in the empty rack. "You know you have to pay for that."

"Yeah, yeah." I roll my eyes, plopping another gummy in my mouth.

She extends her hand toward me, batting her lashes innocently so I'll give her some of my candy. As some Jolly Rancher bites fall on her hand, my eyes travel to her neck. The bruise I saw last time isn't there anymore, but then again, she can also be hiding it with makeup.

"Cat, are you okay?" I say, furrowing my eyebrows. "I didn't want to mention the bruise..."

Her smile drops as soon as I mention it, and she averts her gaze back to her task. "I'm fine. It's just a hickey," she whispers, touching her neck.

"God, I'm sorry," I mumble, pinching my nose. "That's why I didn't mention it before. I'm such an idiot."

She laughs, a throaty sound echoing in the empty market. "It's okay, just don't tell my dad."

We step on our tiptoes to see beyond the little rack, our gazes settling on Mr. Duvall as he counts the money saved in the cash register. He's a tall man with fair skin and tough build, nothing like Catalina, whose skin is sun kissed and build is softer. She's a spitting image of her Latina mother.

"Who's the guy?" I say as we come back down, hidden away from Mr. Duvall's view.

"You don't know him. He doesn't go to school with us," she mumbles, picking up the cardboard box. "Actually, he's older."

I arch an eyebrow at her, throwing the empty Jelly Ranger bites' bag inside the box. What's the deal with keeping your hookups hidden? Well, I should know.

"It's casual, nothing serious." She shrugs, pushing me forward as we walk to View's entrance area. "Now hush. I don't want dad to overhear us."

I've heard this before, but where? Didn't Melody say something similar before we went to Sebastián's party? My heart stops for a second, but before I can question her any further, Christopher appears. His blonde hair is longer and disheveled, some strands pointing to different directions. Now that I look at it more closely, it's a white kind of blonde, not the usual dirty one.

I hide behind an aisle, my heartbeats wild against my chest.

"Who are we hiding from?" Catalina whispers behind me, getting on her tiptoes to see him. "Oh fuck. That guy looks just like Christopher."

"Huh?" I hum, looking at the guy again.

Catalina is right. He's not Christopher, rather an older version of him. This guy has the same shade of blue in his eyes, the same fair skin tone, the same profile as Christopher, with his perfect thin nose and small, full lips. His jaw is rounder though, some stubble dotting around it.

"I didn't know you were back in town," Mr. Duvall says, a grin stretching on his hard face.

"Just came for a couple of days to help mom out with the diner," Christopher's look-alike says, his voice a deep gruff.

Even though his voice is deeper than Christopher's, it still holds a certain timber that reminds me of him.

Mr. Duvall shakes his head, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. "That poor woman needs all the help she can get. That brother of yours is a good for nothing."

The guy chuckles, placing a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on the counter. "I bet."

"Now tell me, son, is California as high and fancy as they say it is?"

Christopher's look-alike hands him a ten-dollar bill and stuffs the pack inside the pocket of his blue hoodie. "Better than this shithole of a town, that's for sure."

The mysterious guy begins to walk away, not before he looks over his shoulder and catches me already looking at him. My eyes widen, but I don't look away. I can't. His lips quirk up into a tiny smile, a sympathetic one, while his eyes close for a second. Then he's gone; gone as if he never existed, a simple figment of my imagination.

What terrifies me the most is my body's reaction to him - it associates him with Christopher, aches for those same blue eyes on it.

"Who was that guy, daddy?"

"Some old acquaintance," Mr. Duvall mumbles, going back to his cash register task. "You wouldn't know him."

Catalina shrugs, not interested enough to press on the matter. But I care, especially since there's something fucked up happening in this small town. I walk over to Mr. Duvall with some dollars in my hand and that's when I see it: a cross pendant hanging low from his neck.

•Word count: 2,843•

Are we seeing double? Double the trouble? A look-alike? And that ending, talk to me about it! I want to know what you think.

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