*trigger warning: mentions of death, gore, suicide

E P I L O G U E
❛ she wouldn't do that. ❜

THAT WAS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE. Not the day I collapsed during an episode. Not the day I discovered my Uncle had taken his life, although it came close. Not the time I bled through at Ricky Berry's birthday party. Not the day I fell out with my mother. Not the day my cello broke.

I don't think anything will ever top the day my cousin made Bradley Lewis's head explode.

     The moment he opened his mouth I knew something bad was going to happen. It was a disaster just waiting to hit. But whatever I was expecting her to do... it definitely wasn't... that. I thought perhaps she'd make his nose bleed, or break his arm; not fucking decapitate him.

It's hard not to think about the last time I saw her. Drenched in the blood of the boy who's life is in her hands, and who's life will forever be in her hands. Her burden to carry. And I haven't seen or heard from her since. None of us have.

Stanley Barber told me her diary's gone, too. He said it 'vanished right in front of him.' So now, it could fall into the hands of any old lunatic. Great.

     Sometimes... I worry that she's taken her life like her dad did. If he really was like Syd, and if he decided that was his way out of a life where he'd live with that guilt, then who's to say that she wouldn't do that, too? What if she is out there, dead somewhere, and we don't even know?

     I don't want to talk about this. But in our first session together, Mrs Cappriotti made me write it down, so... I guess that's why we're here.

My hands are aching a lot now, so, sorry if the handwriting isn't great on the last few pages. I started shaking when I wrote about Homecoming.

     I'll tell you what: it's a good thing no one else is going to see this. It's a private thing that I'm supposed to keep to myself and vent in — like a diary, I suppose, but I've never been the type to document my life. Especially over the fear of it seeing the light of day. I mean, look what happened when Sydney's diary fell into the wrong hands.

     However, this was different. This story needed telling in some shape or form, otherwise I was going to lose my mind... being the only one right now who knows what really happened...

     Well. Good luck, Mrs. Cappriotti. You've got a shitload of trauma on your hands.

     I'm not even sure she'll be able to help much. She will only ever see the tip of the iceberg, not all the raging worries I have buried in tightly wrapped layers underneath. Mainly, what Sydney's intentions were.

     Sometimes... I wonder if she wanted him dead. I know that's such a fucked up thing to think, but how can I not? Syd always hated his guts, and her temper was almost impossible to keep a lid on. I mean, I don't fucking know how it works in her head — did she just wish he'd shut up, or did she legitimately decide to blow his head to smithereens?

     So many mixed emotions, and that's why it's so hard to pinpoint just one emotion that I feel when I'm writing this.

     I know the kind of things they're used to hearing: scared, alone, angry, frustrated. Why me? Why did it happen? Could I have done anything? But hopefully this book will speak for itself. If I told Mrs. Cappriotti what I told you, then she'd probably think I'm nuts. Or that it's some... 'metaphor' for my trauma, or whatever.

That's not it at all. And you, dear reader, know that all too well now.

I'm really starting to run out of space in this book, but there's just one last thing that I'll go mad about if I don't get it off my chest. If you thought what I've been saying so far was fucked up, then buckle in, because it's about to get worse. Much worse. I hate myself for ever thinking it.

You see, my cousin Sydney Novak is a lot of things: a pessimist, a bundle of joy, a dickhead at times. A relative, my flesh and blood. She's a friend and an enemy at the same time, one minute you're laughing with her and the next you're arguing with her. A lost soul. A lost cause. Now presumably on-the-run, a fugitive, and... this other word.

I tell myself not to think it. That it's inaccurate to think that, because I don't know what was going on in her head. But every time I close my eyes at night, and start replaying the gruesome image of Brad's death, the word is there. Even if I try to ignore it, it's no use, for it's haunting and it's ringing, clear as a bell:

Murderer.

Then I feel awful, and I start trying to block that thought out:

It's NOT murder.

She wouldn't do that.

She WOULD NOT do that.

Don't think like that.

How DARE you think like that?

You know Sydney.

She didn't mean to.

So it's not murder.

It was an accident.

She wouldn't do that...

And then a pang of doubt, which begs the question:

... would she?

I'm still trying to figure that one out.

THE END.

________________________

A/N:

*gently closes book and sheds a tear*

the end... or IS IT? 🤔

to celebrate the ending (*pterodactyl scream*) of this book, i'm going to do a Q&A with the characters and me, in which you can ask the characters questions and also ask me questions too! and then once that's done i'll post the ending note, and that'll be it... we've come so far.

i've said it so many times and i'll say it again, THANK YOU FOR READING! you have all been amazing and so supportive 🥺

song of the chapter: 'i don't want to set the world on fire' - the ink spots
(during entire chapter/end credits)

pre-written: 7th june, 2020
published: 16th june, 2020