Author’s note

It’s been a while and I have taken enough break from writing and also writing paranormal stories. So, I’m glad to share this story here.


———————

This story is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue and all characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.


Copyright 2020


Please, the author wishes to publish this work in future and she will be grateful if no one plagiarizes it.


Also note that there are graphic scenes and mentions of suicide, bullying and rape. So, please do not read if these topics are triggers for you.

Thank you.

19th April 2019: 8::25 am

The morning is annoyingly bright. It is the day of my birth, a day of joy and unknown pain. And now, it would be the day of my death.

I pen down my last entry in my diary, close and shove it into my backpack then stare at the mountains through the window in my bedroom.

Few yards away, the watery sun peeks just behind the mountains, thrusting spires of naked rocks into the heavens. It is so high that you would think it pierced the very sky.

I blink once but my eyelids are heavy from crying and my almost lack of sleep. But how can I when the nightmares won't stop? One minute my are shut tight with tears streaming down my cheeks and heart drenched with guilt another minute—if I am lucky to get any sleep—I find myself standing with Demola, my baby brother in the middle of a large expanse of grassland. Most times, I beg him to hold my hand and come with me but then he turns and disappears into thin air. Last night though, I held his cold, small hand and disappeared with him.

It's a sign. You can ask the universe for all the signs, but ultimately, we see one when we are ready to see it. I have seen the sign and it is time to join him.

I turn away from the window, swallowing a lump in my throat and watch the pink, empty walls in my room blur into nothing.The walls are empty now: Nicki's, B.O.B's and a ton of movie posters on my walls are gone now. So are my pictures, shoes and clothes—all gone. All packed into boxes. My eyelids flutter, allowing the tears to fall without holding back as pain grips my chest. But this pain is not normal. It is the type that does not just tug at your heart but it sits there, waiting until the end.

I move towards the mirror observing the bags beneath my eyes and pull the collar of my black, long-sleeve shirt to take a sniff. A mixture of sweat and weed wafts into my nostrils. The odor is enough to make a non-smoker puke, but for me; it makes me feel better. I deserve to be dirty and repel everyone. Research says suicidal people care less about their looks and maybe it is true but I wear these clothes to hide the marks.The evidence of the things I have done to myself.

A loud sigh leaves my mouth and I step away from the mirror. It is crazy how things change. Former Lola strives to look happy even if it means partying, drinking, smoking and all sorts but sad Lola is skinny with papery skin. I pick my backpack on the bed, get out of the room and run my hands over my kinky hair each step of the way. Downstairs, I find my mom—clad in her usual grey gown, an apron around the waist and hair packed in a neat bun—setting the cutlery on the gold-dinning table. Which means Mr and Mrs Carter will be out any moment for coffee.


A weight settles on my heart when a spoon falls from her hand, clattering on the floor. I make a move towards her to help but stop when I remember the things she said last night: You're ungrateful.

Why should I be grateful—

"Yea," Dash says, always sounding like he has thick phlegm sticking in his throat. "Her locker. Yea, yea. Get it done." He strolls out of the kitchen towards the dinning, one hand in pocket and the other holds the phone to his ear.

I clench the straps of my backpack and tiptoe straight for the door and out into the warm morning. Dash must not see me. Last night, I did something I had never imagined doing—I walked out on him. He would have been thrilled beyond words if he saw me now. I can already guess what he would say to me in that irritating, taunting tone of his. "Heyyy, Lola." That voice sends chills through my bones every single time.

I hate him. I hate Dash so much I want  to do something bad... anything that stops him from living.

I quicken my pace through the tree-lined driveway and the ornate main gate and glance at the beige, stone and brick mansion one last time. It is hard to keep going even though I can never get used to the lavishness that is everywhere in the Carter's house, this is my home too. This morning, I am walking out of here but tonight things will be different for everyone, the Carters will not be exempted. The almost-quietness in the neighborhood is deafening, I can only hear Mrs Montgomery's heels clacking on the tarred road as she tries getting her two young, boys into the vehicle.

They don't listen; they never do, no matter how much she screams. And after knowing her as the stoic kinda person who thinks everyone should bow to her wishes, it is surprising her children never listen. Mrs. Montgomery visits Dash's mom once in a while, not because they like each other though (I have caught her glaring at Mrs. Carter before) but for their need for gossip. It is what the rich people in Castle-way does when they are not outside the country on vacation.

Mrs Montgomery claps, snapping me out of my trance. "Get back here." She barks, storming towards the door but before opening the door, a white moving van blares its horn and screeches to a stop, just before crushing her kids.

"Frank," Mrs Montgomery cries as a man rushes out of the van. "Oh God!"

My mouth drops open and it takes every nerve in me to look away. I am too dazed to do anything not even to rush over and help the kids. It is too much for me. Seeing them brings back taunting memories I have tried so hard to bury. No. I swallow.

I can see Demola's face.

No.

I close my eyes. Look away.

I can see Demola lying in a pool of blood.

No.

It's all your fault—

The blaring sound of a car horn jolts me out of the torturous memory. My shoulders stiffen when I remember it could be Dash but on turning, I just I see Chase, Dash's twin brother, driving slowly next to me. My body slumps, a slight moan escapes me.

But then I tense again. It is Chase. He is still a Carter. He shares a family with my nemesis and no matter how much they hate each other's guts, Chase can never be my friend. Why doesn't he get this?

"Weather forecast says it will rain," he says and on instinct, I look at the clear blue sky then frown at him. "So... you need a ride? Look, I know you won't answer me but I won't give up."

"No," I say, my voice calm but firm.

I do not need a ride but will he ever stop trying? Doubt it. For two months now, ever since the night of the party, the night he found me crying, he has been trying so hard to be nice to me.

Whatever his problem is, I do not care and he shouldn't too. It's not like he knows what my plans are but if he does not stop knocking on my door, offering me a ride next to school or sitting behind me in class, he may hinder my plan.

Chase rests his arm on the car door, plastering his face with a smile. "Please, get in. You know it's faster."

I cross my arms over my chest, watching him as he replaces his right hand on the steering then fingers his honey blonde hair. He does not pull it backwards with a rubber band, today, he lets his hair rumple down at the sides of his face.

"Lola?"

"Go away Chase," I scowl at him, clenching the straps of my backpack.

"C'mon, get in. I want to help," he says. "Pay me. I can be your taxi driver. So get in."

I just hate it when someone tries to tell me what to do. It makes me feel worthless like a piece of dummy that cannot think without help. Maybe I am a failure but still... I hate the feeling of being controlled or restrained. It reminds me of everything. It reminds me of Dash.

A small wind swings the trees on the sidewalk and swirls the leaves on the floor. I keep my head down. feeling tears that threatens to fall again. Dash. I want him dead.

"Don't do this to yourself," Chase breathes hard. Is he mad? Oh no, he has no right to get mad. "Who prefers walking to getting a ride? I'm trying to help."

Chase is right. My gut keeps churning and my legs are weak. Each step I take reminds me of hunger but at the sight of food, my appetite disappears. Yea, I do need a ride but I will not take it.

"Thank you very much, I can walk."

Why does he suddenly want to be my friend? I am just the daughter of their maid and if we never left Nigeria for the United States, we would never have met. Why does he want to be friends with a maid's daughter? He is way out of my league same way Dash is and if I had listened to my mom, maybe I will not be this broken.

"I tried," he grunts and I do not have to look at his face to know what he is thinking or know how hurt he is. I expect him to speed past me but he doesn't. Just go, Chase.

I am about to pull out my earpiece and phone from my backpack, when I spot Dash's Saturn leaving the Carter's compound.

My blood turns chill. I turn to Chase who for some reason catches my eyes and worry crosses his features. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it.

I glance over my shoulder again. Oh, no. Dash is closing in. My gaze cuts back to Chase and I cannot help the way my legs shake as if they have been dipped in a bucket of ice.

"Chase, wait," I run to the passenger's side, tap the door and as soon as he stops, I get in. "T-thanks." I say playing with my finger as Dash speeds past us without waiting to taunt me.

Maybe he has no idea it's me.

I feel like an idiot sitting next to Chase with him staring at me and questions swimming all around his head. The universe must be having a field day already now. One minute I do not want Chase's help and now, look at me. I am nothing but a scared chicken and once again, Chase is saving me.

He clears his throat as we move.

"So..." he trails off and steals a glance my way. "You okay? Right?"

I nod. But there are more questions waiting to be asked. My own question is, why now Chase. All these time, a whole year and a half, we lived with his family and I knew how much I wanted us to be friends. Sometimes I tried to to start a conversation but it ends even before opening my mouth. Unlike Chase, Dash was there to save me when I needed someone and shattered my life, leaving it in a more terrible state than it already is.

I lean forward, trying to take my backpack off my back so I can get my phone and earpiece. Chase clears his throat again and this time, our eyes lock. "Why are you scared of him?"

I know who he is referring to but I will not answer. I know why I am scared of Dash but the reason—memories—is meant to be buried.

"Just..."I choke down a sob. "Drop it."

Following...

I can't post my story. The bots won't let me. Please, bear with me guys.

8:25 am


19th April 2019 8:25 am

The morning is annoyingly bright. It is the day of my birth, a day of joy and unknown pain. And now, it would be the day of my death.

I pen down my last entry in my diary, close and shove it into my backpack then stare at the mountains through the window in my bedroom.

Few yards away, the watery sun peeks just behind the mountains, thrusting spires of naked rocks into the heavens. It is so high that you would think it pierced the very sky.

I blink once but my eyelids are heavy from crying and my almost lack of sleep. But how can I when the nightmares won't stop?  One minute my eyes are shut tight with tears streaming down my cheeks and heart drenched with guilt another minute—if I am lucky to get any sleep—I find myself standing with Demola, my baby brother in the middle of a large expanse of grassland.  Most times, I beg him to hold my hand and come with me but then he turns and disappears into thin air. Last night though, I held his cold, small hand and disappeared with him.

It's a sign. You can ask the universe for all the signs, but ultimately, we see one when we are ready to see it. I have seen the sign and it is time to join him.

I turn away from the window, swallowing a lump in my throat and watch the pink, empty walls  in my room blur into nothing.The walls are empty now: Nicki's, B.O.B's and a ton of movie posters on my walls are gone now. So are my pictures, shoes and clothes—all gone. All packed into boxes. My eyelids flutter, allowing the tears to fall without holding back as pain grips my chest. But this pain is not normal. It is the type that does not just tug at your heart but it sits there, waiting until the end.

I move towards the mirror observing the bags beneath my eyes and pull the collar of my black, long-sleeve shirt to take a sniff. A mixture of sweat and weed wafts into my nostrils. The odor is enough to make a non-smoker puke, but for me; it makes me feel better. I deserve to be dirty and repel everyone. Research says suicidal people care less about their looks and maybe it is true but I wear these clothes to hide the marks.The evidence of the things I have done to myself.

A loud sigh leaves my mouth and I step away from the mirror. It is crazy how things change. Former Lola strives to look happy even if it means partying, drinking, smoking and all sorts but sad Lola is skinny with papery skin. I pick my backpack on the bed, get out of the room and run my hands over my kinky hair each step of the way. Downstairs, I find my mom—clad in her usual grey gown, an apron around the waist and hair packed in a neat bun—setting the cutlery on the gold-dinning table. Which means Mr and Mrs Carter will be out any moment for coffee.


A weight settles on my heart when a spoon falls from her hand, clattering on the floor. I make a move towards her to help but stop when I remember the things she said last night: You're ungrateful.

Continuation.... 8:25am



Why should I be grateful—

"Yea," Dash says, always sounding like he has thick phlegm sticking in his throat. "Her locker. Yea, yea. Get it done." He strolls out of the kitchen towards the dinning, one hand in pocket and the other holds the phone to his ear.

I clench the straps of my backpack and tiptoe straight for the door and out into the warm morning. Dash must not see me. Last night, I did something I had never imagined doing—I walked out on him. He would have been thrilled beyond words if he saw me now. I can already guess what he would say to me in that irritating, taunting tone of his. "Heyyy, Lola." That voice sends chills through my bones every single time.

I hate him. I hate Dash so much I want to do something bad... anything that stops him from living.

I quicken my pace through the tree-lined driveway and the ornate main gate and glance at the beige, stone and brick mansion one last time. It is hard to keep going even though I can never get used to the lavishness that is everywhere in the Carter's house, this is my home too. This morning, I am walking out of here but tonight things will be different for everyone, the Carters will not be exempted. The almost-quietness in the neighborhood is deafening, I can only hear Mrs Montgomery's heels clacking on the tarred road as she tries getting her two young, boys into the vehicle.

They don't listen; they never do, no matter how much she screams. And after knowing her as the stoic kinda person who thinks everyone should bow to her wishes, it is surprising her children never listen. Mrs. Montgomery visits Dash's mom once in a while, not because they like each other though (I have caught her glaring at Mrs. Carter before) but for their need for gossip. It is what the rich people in Castle-way does when they are not outside the country on vacation.

Mrs Montgomery claps, snapping me out of my trance. "Get back here." She barks, storming towards the door but before opening the door, a white moving van blares its horn and screeches to a stop, just before crushing her kids.

"Frank," Mrs Montgomery cries as a man rushes out of the van. "Oh God!"

My mouth drops open and it takes every nerve in me to look away. I am too dazed to do anything not even to rush over and help the kids. It is too much for me. Seeing them brings back taunting memories I have tried so hard to bury. No. I swallow.

I can see Demola's face.

No.

I close my eyes. Look away.

I can see Demola lying in a pool of blood.

No.

It's all your fault—

The blaring sound of a car horn jolts me out of the torturous memory. My shoulders stiffen when I remember it could be Dash but on turning, I just I see Chase, Dash's twin brother, driving slowly next to me. My body slumps, a slight moan escapes me.

But then I tense again. It is Chase. He is still a Carter. He shares a family with my nemesis and no matter how much they hate each other's guts, Chase can never be my friend. Why doesn't he get this?

"Weather forecast says it will rain," he says and on instinct, I look at the clear blue sky then frown at him. "So... you need a ride? Look, I know you won't answer me but I won't give up."

"No," I say, my voice calm but firm.

I do not need a ride but will he ever stop trying? Doubt it. For two months now, ever since the night of the party, the night he found me crying, he has been trying so hard to be nice to me.