Emilee Stuart

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 2 (v.1)

Submitted: August 21, 2011

Reads: 98

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Submitted: August 21, 2011



Chapter One

Emilee, 2010

“Hey Emmy!” A voice from behind me calls out. I half turn, recognizing the voice and trying to decide whether or not I want to listen to it.

Too late. “Emmy-lee, guess whaat?” The voice says, from beside me, all sing-songy. I close my eyes and open them, wondering if I squeeze them shut hard enough, Jake will go away. He’s my best friend, or was, until the accident. He didn’t do anything wrong, and still helps me, or tries to, but I haven’t wanted anybody in a long time. The people became scary at first, but now I’ve mostly gotten over it. They’ve morphed into plain old annoying.

“What?” I ask tersely, continuing to walk through the school hallway, hoping he’ll get the hint.

Oh course he doesn’t. It’s Jack. I don’t know why I even bothered to hope. “I got the male lead in the school play!” He says, grinning from ear to ear. Jack’s all about the theater. Some people say he’s nuts, but I think it’s kinda cool. Or I used to. I don’t think much of anything now. I nod to Jack and continue on my way. I step outside towards the bus oval. “Well, bye! See you tomorrow!” Jack calls as he ducks onto his bus. I see just a glimmer of sadness on his usually grinning face, but it’s gone before I fully realize it’s there, replaced by Jack’s usual full face grin. I continue on my way, past the bus I used to ride, and through the grass. I used to ride the bus, but now…there’s just too many people, and it’s too noisy. Aunt Sadie and Uncle Paul don’t care. It’s not like they notice much of anything.

See, my parents and sister died five years ago, three months of torment. March 1st. Mom. Car accident coming home from the mall with dad’s birthday present. April 1st. Dad. I thought it was Isabel’s idea of an April Fool’s prank when she came home crying, saying her and dad had been at the park trying to bond over her Gothdom. She’d made fun of him, tricked him out of twenty bucks, and gone off for some ice cream. She came back and the whole place had exploded. It took three months for them to give us his remains. By that time, she was gone too.

I often wonder why I’m the only survivor, if I’m the living dead person. I spend half my time looking over my shoulder, hoping no one’s following me, to get rid of the freak show and finish the job. Sometimes I wish they would. Those are the bad days. I’m generally okay, I guess. I like life, and I love learning. Before Isabel died, I was the preppy cheerleader with a Goth sister and weird theater friend. Now, I’m about as geeky as they come. My only friend is Jack, if he even counts. I guess I’m his friend, but he’s not mine. Sometimes, I even feel bad him, because he’s invested so much time and effort into me, a broken puzzle piece. I’ll never be whole again.

I walk the long two miles home thinking these thoughts, and climb up the porch steps, still thinking. I’m thinking so hard I trip over the package in front of the front door. I fall forward, through the always slightly cracked door that I really wish Aunt Sadie would learn to lock, and scrape my hands on her wonderfully practical(not!) stone floor. Then, my aunt’s annoying ankle biting terrier, Toto(stupid name, stupid dog) runs past me and out into the street.

Crap. Aunt Sadie’s gonna kill me. “Toto! Come back here!” I yell, chasing after him. I wonder when the tornado’s gonna come. Haha.

When I finally catch the darn dog, we’ve run through sixteen yards, past eight mailboxes, and through ten piles of slippery blackish red mud that is now all over my white shirt. Not that I care how I look, but Aunt Sadie’s going to have a cow. I tuck him under one arm, and trudge back to the house, to evening bothering to lecture the stupid thing. I dump him in the entry way, leaving him to lick all the life threatening germs off the dirty floor, and I head to the bathroom to wash up, making sure to completely close the door, and I even lock it for good measure.

Once I’ve changed, I head back to the door, where Toto is nowhere to be found, and peek through the window at the package. Aunt Sadie never orders anything, so we very rarely get boxes. I’m curious. It’s been awhile since I’ve been curious about anything other than school…

Maybe if I just peek, to see who it’s addressed to. Uncle Paul likes privacy, but surely even he won’t mind that, will he?

I crack the door, just a little.

Toto yelps from behind me, and I jump slightly. He glares at me, like he knows what I’m doing. Maybe he’s not so dumb.

“Shh. I’m not doing anything wrong.” I reprimand him, then look at the package. It’s not that big, about the size of my fist. It makes me even more curious.

I step a little farther outdoors, glance around me once, then pick up the box. It’s surprisingly heavy. Toto barks again. “Shut up you stupid mutt.” I say, kicking him slightly. He whines, his feelings hurt. I’m starting to think this dog might actually understand me. Isabel always told me, back when she actually spent time at home, that animals should never be underestimated. I’d always assumed she was talking about grizzly bears and mountain lions, but who knows?

Not that it matters right now. The package is what’s important. I peek at the address.

Mrs. Sadie Stuart

101 South Hampton Place

To be delivered January 2010

Wow. They actually have instructions on when the package should be delivered. I wonder how long it’s been sitting in a post office somewhere, waiting. I’m very, very curious now. I look right, then left. No one’s there. Aunt Sadie can’t have known this was coming, could she? She won’t miss it, I’m sure of it. And if there’s anything important, I’ll just re-box it all up and take it to the post office to be sent back. She’ll never know. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me, right? And she’ll never know.

It’s incredible how simple it is for me to persuade myself to violate my own aunt’s privacy. I guess you can be convinced of anything if you want to be.

Without further ado, I tuck the box into my pocket, shoo an angry Toto, and head up to my room.

I enter the bedroom, smiling. This is the only place where I ever really feel comfortable. I lock the door, as always, and sit on my bed. Before I open the box, I take a look around. This room used to be Aunt Sadie’s and Uncle Paul’s guest bedroom, but when mom and dad died, Isabel and I moved here. It has one queen sized bed with cream sheets and a cream comforter, light blue walls, a wooden lamp with a cream cover, and cream pillow cases. Exactly the same as when it was still a guest room. The only change I’ve made is one little photograph, nailed to the wall. In the picture is a tall, brown haired man with surfer shorts and tanned skin, with wrinkly dark blue eyes. He has this huge smile on his face, one that could light up the dark side of the moon, even though his teeth aren’t totally white. One of his arms is around a woman, also tall, very slim, like a dancer, with chocolate brown eyes that lit up when she smiles, and loose blond hair. The man holds a little baby in his other arm. The baby wears a white dress, and is old enough to sit up in his strong grip and smile toothlessly at the camera. She has chocolate eyes, like her mom, and chocolate hair too. The woman has her hand, adorned with a small gold wedding band, resting lightly on the shoulder of an older girl, maybe eight years old. The other girl is spectacular. She has these green eyes that glimmer when she smiles, but the rest of the time they seem to go right through you. Unlike her parents, she has blond hair, long and flowy, that glides behind her when she moves, always perfect. Her skin is the perfect mix of tan and pale, and she’s wearing faded jeans and a plaid blouse that only a gorgeous eight year old could pull off. I love photos. They preserve this one moment in time, forever and ever, even after the people are long gone. They keep the people there better than any mummy preservation technique ever could.

The girl is my sister, pre-Goth. The other people in the picture are my parents and me.

Isabel, 2005

It was never a conscience decision, Hey, I’m going to go Goth. Nothing like that. When I was nine, my best friend Tracy got her nose pierced. Two days later I snuck out for the first time and we got our belly buttons pierced together. Her mom thought it was so cute, she even paid for it.

The next year, Tracy and her new friend, Stacy, taught me how to do dark make up. I didn’t want to lose Tracy. We’d been friends for too long. So when Stacy and Tracy started scorning the world, I did too. Over the next few years, we gradually made our clothes darker and darker, and met people with bigger and bigger frowns. Now, we’re Goth.

I don’t even know Tracy that well anymore. She got me into this, introduced me to Lily, Ann, and Trevor in eighth grade, all about as hard core Goth as you can get, then she bailed from the whole darkness is cool thing when Stacy died from driving drunk in ninth grade. Tracy took it hard. She still won’t hear anything bad about Stacy, even though the girl was fourteen and shouldn’t have even been driving, let alone drinking. So Tracy went all preppy and smiley, leaving me with these creeps.

I guess I could’ve bailed too. I didn’t think much about it. I was fourteen, purposely failing all my classes, mocking the principal when he and my teachers asked me what the hell was going on, and I was pretty much going downhill. I wish I would’ve realized that. I wish I didn’t close my eyes whenever Emilee looked at me, I wish I didn’t close my ears when a family member spoke.

I wish I would’ve seen how I tore my family apart from the inside out.

Maybe then dad would still be alive. I’m sure he thought that when mom died, I’m sure he thought, maybe if I hadn’t wanted a new shirt for my birthday, maybe she’d still be here. And maybe he’d have been right. But now he’s gone too. All because I had to cling to my act as the stage around me burst into flames. I mocked him, even asked for money to buy ice cream we both knew I wasn’t going to eat. I hate ice cream. I was mad, and I wanted to spend his money.

Worse, I didn’t take him with me.

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