43
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Some main road in Utah
October 21, 2018
2:16 p.m.

THERE'S SOMETHING WARM SLIDING down my cheek, making a route on it as it slowly descends to my chin and falls on the letter. The tear is no longer a tear as it mixes with the ink that Mel used to write her name. Mel, made bolder than the rest of the letters that compose her name. I pass my thumb on the wet spot, the beginning of her name becoming a smudge while my thumb is tainted with her soon-to-be forgotten identity.

I rub the ink on the rest of my fingers, liking the harsh feel of its material as it dries on my skin. With my hand trembling, I brush my fingers against my cheek to clean what the single tear left behind, the spot that was made a route already dry.

This is the first tear that I've shed since I found her, the first sign of emotion that my body is allowing me to express, and it's just a single tear. It's pathetic. She deserves more. So, I shut my eyes real tight and press my stomach in as hard as I can, but nothing happens. There are no more tears.

My body is closing in on itself. It cries on the inside but protects the outside. There's a knot growing in my throat and an overwhelming pain spreading through my chest, but my eyes remain dry and my body still; emotionless. But, I figure, it's worse to have the pain bottled up inside. No one can see you're suffering --- and it no longer matters, anyways --- but you're dying just a little every time.

The hope may be in the 'just a little' part, but little by little ends up becoming something bigger than yourself. And when something inside of you becomes bigger than you, it tends to explode. I wonder when it'll be my time.

This letter is the most revealing, the most raw and dangerous. I know I should be worried about its content, the description of U, what happened to Melody during her disappearance, the mention of Christopher yet again in another letter, and how my life is and has always been in danger. But none of that matters right now.

Melody died in order to protect me. That's why she wanted to see me the day of her murder --- to warn me about everything. This is what really matters.

"You're so quiet," Christopher mumbles, tapping the steering wheel with his fingertips. "Penny for your thoughts?"

The question hangs in the air between us, creating a weight that wasn't there before. This invisible but palpable weight envelops us with the promise of danger. I take my time to answer, the suspense of the unspoken reply tightening the hold this weight has on us. Truth is, Christopher doesn't really want to know what I'm thinking, and I don't know how to formulate the question without accusing him of something.

I don't want to formulate the question because, like Christopher, I'm afraid of the answer. He's just bold enough to ask, to let it out in the open, free for me to grasp. Well, I don't have to answer. Not this time.

My silence makes him uncomfortable. It's in the constant shifting of his body on the driver's seat, the way he side-eyes me from time to time to determine what I'm thinking, where my thoughts are --- where my mind is. He knows it's not here, inside this car with him. The uncertainty of it all --- my silence and the things that haven't been explained between us --- is what makes him nervous.

I guess I've always been sort of like an open book with him, revealing my emotions with a gesture and communicating with him in any possible way --- with my mouth, my body, my eyes. But how can I communicate with him like before when we're just beginning to reconstruct the now broken trust?

It's not that my body doesn't react to him or long for what we had before, but there's something stronger than me that's holding me back. It can be my conscious or my subconscious or my unconscious or whatever parts of the mind control a person's behavior. It can be that dark part of the mind, the one that's unknown to us, that lives and breathes and stores unwanted emotions but remains hidden. I don't know what it is, but it's keeping my voice as a prisoner.

My mouth is dry, throat sore and lips chapped. The instruments we use to communicate are rendered invalid for me today, as if my body is conspiring to prevent me from using my voice ever again. At least, using my voice with Christopher. I may have forgiven him, but my mind knows very well who he is. It's still trying to adjust to the fact that it's in love with the son of my mother's killer.

But I'm in love with Christopher Shaw, aren't I? I'm not in love with whoever Milo Shäffer was, right? That doesn't change the fact that they're both the same person, though.

My back is to Christopher as I sit on the passenger's side. As the scenery passes by in a blur of colors through the window --- houses and markets and commercial areas and mountains --- the question dies, disappearing from the air as if it never existed. The weight has been lifted and, with it, his hope of getting anything from me. A soft sigh escapes his lips, shaky and tired, a breath that's filled with regret.

My chest tightens the more this silence separates us. My mind is screaming for him to try harder, persuade further, ask again. Ask again, please. He doesn't listen. He can't listen.

My body is refusing to communicate with him, so how can he possibly know what's going in my head? He has an idea, but he can't be sure. I look at him over my shoulder, trying with all my might to break out of my involuntary silence. He's sitting stiffly now, his back straight, erect, on alert. No longer is he side-eyeing me. Instead, his blue eyes, that look electric from this angle, stare straight ahead at the endless road.

Something flutters in my stomach, giving life to my paralyzed body. It warms my insides and relaxes my muscles. It's a familiar feeling, one that sends a shock of electricity all over my body and makes my heart skip a little faster. My mouth moistens with saliva that wasn't there a few minutes ago. My throat expands, as if finding a way to let thoughts come out in words. I wet my chapped lips, my tongue becoming sharp enough to utter something, anything that answers his question.

If you're smart, you won't say anything about these letters to him. To ANYONE. He's the worst possible ally and trust me when I say you'll be in real danger for the first time. He knows more than he lets on.

"It's nothing," I whisper, my voice hoarse.

He stays quiet. His eyes, appearing more crystalized against the afternoon sunlight, don't attempt to find me. Instead, they continue to focus on the endless road ahead of us, bearing within it no destination or secured place.

The bruises on his face are fading to a soft pink hue, while the scratches that surround his pale arms are now protected by a darker coat of new skin. His eye is no longer swollen shut, and there's an air about him that screams tranquility.

He's beautiful, perfect even. Heaven on earth, a boy too good to be true. Christopher is too good to be true. I have the strong urge to touch him, to make it all better by brushing my lips against his. I want to do something that erases everything that happened between us in the past week. A clean slate. A new start. The chance to start from the beginning. But it's impossible. Every time I see him, there are parts of his old self and parts of the person I didn't know existed in him.

He's both Christopher and Milo, coexisting in the same body I love. How do I separate one from the other? When does the trust come back? What is he still hiding from me?

"Must be something if you're this quiet," he mumbles, blinking rapidly while his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

Does he know what happened to me this summer? Even if he doesn't want to be, he's a danger to others and himself.

"It's just..." I sigh, turning my body to him.

The words don't find me, or I don't find them. Whichever the case, I'm too comfortable with being all right with him. If I'm here with him right now, reading Mel's letter, it means I trust him. My mind is simply adjusting to our new reality. We just need to find our new normal. Teamwork. Togetherness. Unity.

Ask him.

No.

There's so much I want to say, but not enough of me to say it. My hesitance is palpable, the ellipsis floating in the air, waiting for the words to tag along behind that last dot. Despite this, Christopher stays quiet. He doesn't push the matter further or tease me to get any form of reaction. We're just kind of in this weird place right now, I guess.

"Melody died because of me," I whisper, avoiding his glance by tucking the letter inside its envelope. "If... if I was the one U really wanted, he should've gone after me. He used her to get to me, and when she was no longer of use, he killed her. It's my fault."

Logan was right, after all --- it should have been me.

Christopher shakes his head, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Alexa... if you're here now, alive, it means that you were meant to live. That doesn't mean that Melody deserved to die, not at all, but you can't blame yourself for something you didn't do. Some psycho out there decided to take a life that wasn't his, and that's simply not anyone's fault." He looks at me for a moment, a sad smile defining his beautiful features. "If you're going to blame someone, blame him."

His attention goes back to the road, but his words stay with me. This is the man who I fell in love with, the one who knows how to say the perfect thing and actually feels what he's saying. The man beside me is Christopher Shaw, but I have to accept that his trauma is part of Milo Shäffer. I've always loved both sides of him, the damaged and the perfect.

The only thing that's still not clear is...

"But there's something else, isn't there?" he mumbles, never taking his eyes off the road. "It has to do with what Melody said about me in the letter, right?"

"Yes," I whisper, no longer wanting to explore this territory with him. "Before the whole diner thing, I found... I found another letter from Melody."

"Really?" He doesn't sound surprised at all. "What did it say?"

"It talked about you. Your mental health, your dad. How I can't trust you." I gulp the lump that's forming in my throat. "Just you."

He nods, while tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "She wrote a whole letter about me, but didn't even think to mention that she invited me over to her house hours before her murder?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "If she didn't trust me enough to write a letter about me, why did she leave me a painting, huh? I just don't understand her."

"I don't know. Melody was always... spontaneous like that," I mumble, shrugging.

"Spontaneity like that can ruin a person's life." He sighs, softens his grip on the steering wheel. "Look, Alexa, I'm not saying you should trust me. You have every right to doubt me, especially with everything that's happened. I won't judge you. Just --- just don't give me hope if your intention is to distrust me, okay? Please?"

There's nothing obscuring those beautiful eyes of his, no dark sheen separating us, keeping me away from the truth. They're big and honest and sad. He's right --- I can't play with his emotions like that if I say what I don't mean. Might as well tell him what's really bothering me and expect an honest answer.

"The letter says that you saw Melody while she was missing," I say, slowly and delicately, letting the words reach him as an explanation for my behavior, not a direct threat. "Is it true? Did you see her?"

A dark sheen begins to obscure his pale blue eyes, keeping the truth deep within. He turns his attention back to the road, his body growing stiffer the more he moves to adjust himself in the seat. I don't need a verbal confirmation to know it's true. My heart is in my throat, pumping in my ears, threatening to come out of my mouth.

He saw Melody during her disappearance and didn't say anything. Why would he do that? Is this something Christopher would do or Milo? I know him too well to know the answer to that question. We're both the same.

"It's not what you think."

"No?" I say, my voice trembling. "What am I thinking, Christopher? Oh, please tell me, since you know it all."

He smirks --- does that charming smirk of his --- and I just want to slap it from his handsome face. "You're thinking I magically knew where she was just 'cause I found her one day."

"That's not the problem," I say, turning my body away from him. Then, more softly: "You don't tell me anything."

"You don't ask me about everything," he says, and I can feel the smile in his voice.

I turn to him, my eyes wide. "That's the thing, I don't have to. You should trust me enough to say everything to me."

He sighs. "It's not that I don't trust you. You're the person that I trust the most," he mumbles, his voice growing sadder and sadder. "I don't trust myself."

Something in my chest warms, but at the same time, aches for him. After his short-lived arrest, our confrontation in the diner, and trying to forget his abusive father and live a new life, Christopher has been through a lot. We've both been through a lot. At the end of the day, we both need someone to love and trust us unconditionally. He and I are the same.

"I trust you," I whisper, the honesty behind those words surprising the both of us. "We don't have to talk about this right now, but I trust that you're going to explain it to me later."

"'Course," he mumbles, side-eyeing me with a tiny smile on his face. "It has nothing to do with Melody and more to do with my... father. But I just can't talk about it right now."

Weirdly enough, that small revelation doesn't surprise me at all. From the very start, I knew that W.S. had something to do with it. Not presently, of course. He's in jail for life. But what's happening right now in Levittown is somehow linked to what happened in 2008. I've always known it, even felt it. Becky Rivers/ Joan believes it, too. And now Christopher is confirming the "theory" that hasn't been a theory at all. I let it go for now, not really in the mood to hear more bad news. My body can only take so much per day. Sometimes, it's nice to be in the dark. In the dark cloud of ignorance, I'm safe.

I take two cigarettes out of the glove compartment and put them both between my teeth. Grabbing a red lighter that rests beside the box of cigarettes, I begin to flick it until both cigarettes come to life. I pass one to him.

Christopher pushes a button that automatically rolls all the windows down, letting the hot air inside. The wind slaps my face and fills my ears with a constant whooshing sound. My curls fly all around me, the wind finding its way to my scalp.

His growing hair flies around his head too, golden streaks of light blending with the golden glint of the day. His eyes soon find me, sitting right beside him with my chin resting on top of my knees, and laughs at nothing in particular.

He forgets the road ahead. There's no traffic anyways, no living soul traveling beside us. This part of the country is ours. Under his melancholic gaze, I feel exposed and raw. There's something freeing about his laugh, how it fills the whole car and maybe even the whole country. There's something freeing about how perfectly he blends with the scenery, everything passing behind him in a blur of vivid colors. There's something freeing about him, this moment, so I laugh at nothing. Nothing at all, and perhaps at the simplicity of it all.

I inhale some smoke, relishing in how it swirls around my lungs and travels up my throat to come out. Our presence here may pose a threat, but I don't care. We blow smoke out into the normal world, leaving traces of our darkness behind --- leaving parts of Levittown in new territory. We're secluded from the rest of the world, outcasts in our own country. It's as if we're nothing, something contagious that can influence other people's behavior.

For the first time, we're away from the town that pollutes us. I look at the man I love and think: we're free.

•Word count: 2,960•
•Overall word count: 5,165•

Countdown: 7 chapters left + an epilogue!!!!! ♡

Merry Christmas, guys ♡ I hope you all had a wonderful time with your respective families.

So... here's chapter 43 after a whole month of not posting. Don't hate me, guys 😅 I've been free since the 10th of December, but I've been on vacation since the 12th (I'm still on my trip). I haven't focused so much on writing, maybe because I had to do lots of essays between November and December.

But, I'm back! I hope you guys are still here and interested in what's going to happen with this little story of mine ♡ I've missed writing and I've missed this story. I'm so close to finishing it, so that fills me with joy and excitement.

Thank you for 6k reads, guys!!!!!! ♡♡ Wow!!!!! This story has grown SO much since 2018. It's currently in 6.48K, and I hope it continues to grow.

Questions: what did you think of Melody's letter? Did you ever think about why Mel texted Alexa that day? There are some clues about her murderer in that letter, do you feel confident enough to guess who he is? What are your theories so far? What do you think about Alexa and Christopher's relationship? Are you liking the story so far? What do you think will be written in the last letter? What will happen next?

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

If you like the chapter:

vote, comment, share.

Show me love ♡ Next chapter out soon.