Emilee Stuart

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

Chapter 3 (v.1)

Submitted: August 27, 2011

Reads: 136

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Submitted: August 27, 2011

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Chapter Two

Emilee, 2005

I cling tightly to Isabel's hand. She is all I have left, and I'm not about to let her go. Never. I remember a time, not that long ago, when I would have thought I was to old for hand-holding, even though I am only nine. I remember when, even if I had wanted to hold onto Isabel, she would have pushed me off. Not anymore. Never again.

I try very hard to blink back the tears, coming as I knew they would, as they lower Dad into the ground six feet below us. They stream down my face, a lost battle. I blink up at Isabel. She is gorgeous, like always. She has the prettiest eyes, for once not marred with black make up. I used to tell her its makes her look like a raccoon. Not anymore. Never again. Her skin, normally painted white, not ivory or cream, but real white, like a ghost, is now back to it's normal perfect blend of tan and pale. She wears black, like she always has, but now for a different reason. She towers above me, my sister.

She looks down at me. I see the tears running down her face. I don't want her to cry. She's the strong one.

"Izzy, don't." I whisper, reverting back to the childhood nickname she hasn't let me use since I was two.

She smiles sadly at me, then strokes my hair, gently. I bury my face in her stomach so I don't have to see the tears that I know are now cascading down her cheeks. I don't have to see them. I can feel them, wettening my head.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I feel Izzy turn.

"Oh, you poor darlings! Oh goodness gracious you sweet things! Why must this tradgedy befall such inocent sparrows?" A woman's voice cries out. I lift my head, slightly. It's Mrs. O'Cary, mom's best friend. Her daughter Giselle is my age, and one of my friends at school. I glance around, but Gizzy, as people call her, isn't here. Great. Mrs. O'Cary is hard enough to stand even with Gizzy around.

We leave the cemetary twelve minutes and thirty two seconds later, going to Mrs. O'Cary's house twelve blocks away, the fifth house on the right. We take twenty-two steps before reaching the door, everyone behind us for the recepetion. I like math, but I don't count any of the people here. Most of them don't count. Most of them hardly know us, and alot of them don't like Dad. Didn't like dad. They're here for the free food and the chance to gawk at Mrs. O'Cary's home.

I move like a zombie through the house, not eating, just listening to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I keep Isabel close to me. She doesn't eat either. I lose count of how many people come to us with simpering smiles on their faces, apologizing for our loss. At first I smile back, trying to keep the tears away, but after awhile I let Izzy handle it. I lose count of how many seconds we are there, in the richly furnished house. After awhile I get hot and stuffy. I let go of Izzy's hand, just long enough to step outside into the cooler air. Then I hear the screaming. Everyone rushes out, trampling each other in their efforts to escape the building. I smell the smoke, and I scream too. But I am screaming a name, the name of someone who hasn't exited the burning home yet.

"Isabel! Izzy! Izzy!" I scream, and try to rush inside, but Uncle Paul suddenly has me from behind, and I can't move. I can't move.


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