This is the second part of a short story I’m writing. And a first draft. Click here to read the first section. It’s only a short segment today, as it’s late and I’m tired. Hope you enjoy!
‘That’s rubbish, Katie,’ Jacob replies to my revelation, ‘I know what happened.’
He doesn’t. He may think he does but he wasn’t there. No one was. It was just me and her.
I got to her house around 6.30pm. We were going to the pub, and I said I’d drop by hers to pick her up. I wasn’t supposed to be there until 7, but my bus came early, and I didn’t see the point in hanging around outside in the cold. When I knocked there was no answer. I remember my knuckles hurting from the hard wood, exacerbating the redness that the cold had emblazoned upon them. Alice’s parents don’t have a doorbell. Unnecessary use of electricity, they always said. Text if no one answers. ‘Outside, bloody freezing,’ I put, but got no reply, so decided to go around the back.
Her parents never locked the back door. Ever. Just in case Alice forgot her key. They didn’t want her left outside in the cold, which seems weird now, sitting next to her grave. The gate creaked on old hinges as I pushed it open, and I walked over the grass that went down the side of the house. No path. Just grass. I still don’t know why they never paved it. There was the crunch of frost as my boots hit the ground, then silence. Then a scream.
I don’t remember how I got from the garden to upstairs. I don’t remember running past the family photos, or even opening the door. It must have swung back and hit the wall, making a slight dent in the paintwork. But I don’t know. All I remember is being upstairs and seeing it happen.