Lindsay’s world calmed down for a couple of days. No more visits from Michael, no more visits from the local police. She sat at home, alone, her head full of awful thoughts. Her parents were due home from France the day before Mel’s funeral, well what remained of Mel. It must have been an awful task for Mel’s parents, identifying the charred remains of their beloved daughter. Lindsay was glad she didn’t have to do it. She’d seen more than enough of Mel since the fire.
Barbara, the WPC, called a couple of times every day. “If you won’t go to see a therapist, or your doctor, keep a diary. Write down your fears and frustrations, that’s what I did when Scott was killed. It helped. It made me cry, but it helped.”
Lindsay took an old notepad left over from her school days and began to write.
I have no friends. I’m only twenty and I want to die. Mel was my best friend. Is it my fault she died? I didn’t start the fire, but I had bad thoughts in my head. I was jealous and it made me twisted. Mel was so natural and funny and popular with the boys. I never felt that way. I never found a boy I could trust. They all want to shove their hands in places they shouldn’t. I’m a romantic, I want more. Now all I want is to die. If my death would bring my friend back, I’d kill myself now. I don’t deserve to live.
Lindsay sat back on her chair and thought Mel. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to write.
Mel, I promise I will do all I can to help the police find out who did this. I miss you. You were pretty and funny and I loved you like a sister, even if I didn’t show it. You were the only person in the world who was nice to me. You put up with my weirdness. You knew why I was the way I was. I never told anyone about my dad and the things he did. I only told you. You were my friend and I wish I’d died instead of you.
The shadows in the room grew darker. Lindsay tried to get up and switch on the light, but she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed. The room became cold, darkness seeped from the corners to envelop the room. She could barely breathe. I need a therapist, the diary isn’t working! I need pills, lots of pills. Maybe I can end this misery with pills.
A gentle voice whispered her name. “Lindsay, I need your help.”
“The fire, it wasn’t meant to kill so many.”
“Who’s speaking to me? Were you killed in the fire too?”
Lindsay strained her eyes trying to see into the darkness, but to no avail. The room warmed up, the shadows faded and Lindsay sat alone. She picked up the pad she’d been using, not sure if she wanted to write any more.
Did I write that?
The pad slipped from her hands as she ran to the door, she needed sunlight and fresh air. When she yanked the door open Michael was standing there. Lindsay flung her arms around him and burst into tears. She needed someone right now and he would do.
I enjoy my blog stories, I hope you do too. My first novel Dead of July is available on Amazon.