Dead at 15

I waited with Tommy at the park until his brother came to pick him up. We didn’t talk. I didn’t tell him about the photo. I think he knew I’d found something but he seemed to be off somewhere else anyway – he was exceedingly quiet. After I waved good-bye to him, I began running home. I was about ninety percent sure that March had taken that Polaroid, but I had to be sure, of course.

It would’ve been rather remarkable if the photo had actually stayed at the park for that amount of time, of course, so that’s what made up that ten percent of doubt. But it just happened to be in the park that no one ever visited apart from March and it was a Polaroid photograph of all things. I didn’t know many people with cameras like those anymore. I couldn’t make out what was in the picture from the light of my cell phone but I’d be able to work it out as soon as I got home.

“December Antonia!” My mother screeched as I slammed the front door shut, prepared to sprint upstairs. I paused and cringed as Mom stepped out into the hall. Her hands were on her hips, her black (she must’ve just put a color through it because no grays were showing) hair was pinned back into a sleek bun and her make-up was all done up. How strange.
“Yes?” I replied with my left eyebrow raised. I checked my watch pointedly. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with her antics. She seemed to do something weird every other week and it was incredibly tedious. I needed to check that photo out. I could feel it almost burning a hole in my pocket.
“Where have you been?” She asked me like it was the most obvious thing ever, even throwing in an eye-roll.
“Out,” I answered, mimicking her tone.
“What do you mean ‘out’?”
“Like when you go out of the house ‘out’…”
“Dinner’s been ready for almost twenty minutes!” She tapped her foot at the ‘twenty’ bit.
“Oh god forbid,” I said sarcastically, pushing past her and hoping to get some dirt on her nice pink dress. Bitch.

I sat down at the table and nodded at Dad in acknowledgment before stuffing some chicken into my mouth. Dad shrugged then followed suit.
“Why sho ‘irty Cember?” He asked me after he’d shoveled his second mouthful into his mouth. I looked at my hands. They were absolutely filthy. The rest of me couldn’t have been much better. I wiped my hands quickly on my jeans before returning to my food.
“Park,” I replied and he nodded like it all made sense.

That was when my dearest mother entered the room. She let out a huff of disapproval as she approached the table. Dad and I exchanged a look.
“Wha’ thish time Lin’a?” Dad asked her with a bit of broccoli hanging out of his mouth.
“We haven’t said Grace!” I spat out a piece of potato in shock. “December! That is disgusting.”
“Since when the hell do we say Grace?!” I yelled at the mad woman, jumping to my feet. Okay, she occasionally went on a bit of a ‘let’s get our lives together’ thing every once in a while, but we’d never been a religious family. Never. In our family, considering our circumstances, introducing a religion was outrageous.
“Language!”

“No, she’s right Linda. Grace? We haven’t been in a church since-” I cut Dad off.
“Last year, for November’s funeral. Even that was quick and with hardly any religious stuff. We’ve never even been to a normal service or anything. So what the hell?!”
“Things have got to change around here! Our family has developed some atrocious habits and we need to fix that. Church, every Sunday from now on. Carol says-”
“How the hell can you trust that woman?!”
“That ‘woman’ is your aunt!”
“Look at her offspring! She’s such a dumbass hillbilly!”
“Don’t you dare stereotype my sister!”
“Exactly. Your sister. Where have all mine gone? Huh? Oh yeah! They’re all six feet under.” I’d crossed the line now. I mean, the ‘grace’ thing had genuinely pissed me off but if I threw a tantrum, it also gave me an excuse to leave. I was finally going to get to look at that photo. Might take my dinner though, these potatoes are fantastic.

“December, steady,” Dad muttered.
“You’re acting like I killed them,” Mom said. My nose twitched. “They were accidents for god’s sake,” she continued and my nose twitched again. Already taking the lord’s name in vain are we? Well you asked for it.
“How the hell is going to church going to help anything?! I stopped believing that god existed a long time ago. That or he just really doesn’t care and if he doesn’t, then I don’t!”
“You’re talking nonsense. Carol’s right. There’s a black sheep in every family and you’re ours.” Black sheep?
“What family? As far as I’m concerned you and your sister and her family, are strangers to me. Fuck all of you, Linda.”

I then picked up my plate and strolled out of the room. The nerve of that woman, honestly. I could hear my mother’s wails as I climbed the stairs and my dad’s calmer responses. I had almost reached the top of the stairs when I paused at something interesting.
“She’s gone insane Mark!” Linda was saying.
“Maybe she’s just going through a rebellious stage.”
“No, no, no. That’s insanity. I can’t agree with you on this one. December has gone insane. She needs therapy.”
“What?” I whispered. “Therapy?”
“No, she doesn’t. If you get her into therapy, you’ll push her away even further Linda. Do you want that on your conscience?” Linda sighed.
“You’re right Mark, and I hate it when you’re right. But I love you for it too. Just, I really can’t deal with all of this. It’s getting better.”
“I love you too Honey. I know what’s best for us. Trust me…” I could practically hear him smirking.

I knew Dad wasn’t that trustworthy, but this was bad. This almost proved my theory! He and Mom weren’t going through a ‘rough patch’ in their marriage. It was all a show. Everything had been a show – to throw me off the trail perhaps? Well played parentals, well played. Except this time you’re playing against the one child you can’t win against. I’ll get you both. I picked up my fork and shoved some more potato in my mouth.
“Rough patch my ass.”

***

Surprisingly, I didn’t make anything of the photo. It was of the sky, with a few branches in the way. That was it. To say I was disappointed, was an understatement.
“I really should stop getting my hopes up so high,” I muttered before pulling on a pair of latex gloves. I ducked my head into the hall to check that no one was around. The coast was clear. My parents were laughing about something on TV downstairs. I then sneaked into March’s room.

It was pretty easy to tell what she was into. Polaroid’s, hundreds of them, everywhere – walls, ceiling, on the bed, the nightstand. It took me a minute just to adjust my eyes to it all. I was using the light switch this time considering the fact that the hallway lights were on. It was a very slim chance that anyone would barge in.

Unlike with April, there was no order to the arrangement of the photos. However, they were dated. Now, March was the one who started the ‘what if January and February were murdered?’ thing, so I had to find out how long it took her to figure that out, otherwise I’d be wasting even more time than I had and this one was going to take a while.

The first thing I did was check the dates of when Jan and Feb died, (the fourteenth of January, 1998 and the eighth of February, 1999.) If March had been suspicious, more ‘insightful’ photos would’ve been taken after those dates (obviously.) Also, I assumed that she would’ve taken more photos at the time of February’s death.

I may have been over-estimating, but I began my search anyway. I rummaged through the photos on any visible surface and piled up all the ones around the two deaths – one pile for January, on for February. January’s pile was rather small but the rate of which the pictures were taken had increased greatly the morning/day after she’d died. The photos depicted nothing of out of the ordinary though. February’s stack was big. There had to have been well over a hundred photos in there. They abruptly stopped on the day of though. It was the exact opposite of what had occurred after January’s death, where lots of photos had been taken. There was something just a little off about that.

After looking through the photos, I began my now routine search of the room. The closet was filled with rather dark colored clothing. No greens or reds, just blacks and grays. There were more photos in there too but none were of any help. I sighed and closed the closet door.

I then decided to check under the bed. I lay down on my stomach and took a look. It was actually pretty tidy under there, just a couple of immaturely grafitied ‘Mills and Boon’ novels. I chuckled a little at that. I grabbed my flashlight just to make sure that I wasn’t missing anything. There was an old shoebox pushed against the wall. I was immediately grateful for my flashlight then, even more so when I opened the lid. There was an envelope on top of what appeared to be a heap of papers. Having just sorted through what seemed like millions of Polaroid’s, my tired eyes blurred those underneath ‘papers’ and the envelope became my main focus. It was addressed ‘to whom it may concern’ in March’s messy scrawl, which I’d just burned into my mind. I could tell it was the original by the handwriting, and by how flimsy (and undeniably old) it was.

I slid my index finger under and along the seal, careful not to tear it. I pulled the letter out and began reading. It was dated the day before March’s death.

To whom it may concern,

Firstly, I’d like to thank you for actually caring enough to find this (not that this was exactly in a hard place to find.) Yes, I am thankful, (unless you’re the killer of course, in which case, I hope you burn in hell you son of a bitch, but I doubt that you’re the killer anyway,) because this box contains a lot of important things.
I’m assuming that whoever is reading this right now is one of my younger siblings. I’ve narrowed it down to August, October, November or December. So, hi. I’m also assuming that the reason you’ve bothered to search through my things is because more of us have been murdered.
I’m so deeply sorry that I have failed to identify the killer. Believe me, I tried. But unfortunately, me being a mere teenager, I have no access to a forensics lab. So, I present you with the gift of knowledge, in the only form I know, photographs. I sincerely hope you didn’t try to go through all of my photos

I chuckled at that.

because that would’ve been a severe waste of time, and I can tell you what I did in this letter so simply. Yes, I found January’s death suspicious, right from when we got the news. Actually, I found it more puzzling than anything but it only took a few hours for me to realize what it really was. I’m so heartless aren’t I? Well for your information, I was upset, I just wasn’t…ignorant. I’ve never believed in coincidence.

When it drew closer to Feb’s birthday, I went with my gut feeling and captured as many of her last days alive as possible. Nothing. Everything was normal. However, as you may have discovered, I was the one who found her.

Trust me, you have no time to be in shock over anything. This is time we’re racing against, for the ultimate prize. Our lives. Time is not kind. It is ruthless. It is vital that you react. Logic over emotions. Always. Because of putting (most of) this into practice, I managed to get the first, unedited pictures of February in all of her morbid glory. I imagine you’ve managed to compile a fair amount of evidence by now (considering I’m not the first person people think of) but this should certainly help give you an insight into the mind of our killer.

Personally, I’m refusing to be killed in the house. I’m going to die anyway so I’m thinking that I’ll go to park tomorrow whenever I can. I know the park so well. It’ll be just a slight upper hand if it comes to a fight or something. Plus, it’ll keep things routine. Now, believe me when I say that I am a good tree climber. I have NEVER fallen out of a tree so if my death is related to ‘falling out of a tree,’ do NOT accept that. If I happen to drown in a stream or something…hell, I don’t know. Just don’t believe ANYTHING they tell you. Don’t accept ANYTHING.

I will of course, leave more ‘hints’ tomorrow. However, they will not be in this box. Look for a photo wrapped in plastic at the park. If I go to the park, I’ll definitely put a photo in plastic. It may very well have blown away or something by the time you get to it but it couldn’t hurt to check. That’ll tell you where I was approximately standing. It’s silly, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with.

Also, look for my bag (there’s a photo of it in the box). When I’m out I always put my pictures into it and then deal with them when I get home. I assume the bag will be brought home after a while so yeah. Look for that too.
I think that’s about it. Just remember, do NOT trust ANYONE. Question EVERYTHING. Look at the photos, consider all possible suspects, look for my bag and check for the photo in plastic. (Regarding the photo, if it makes no sense, try and place the perspective rather than assume that it is rubbish.)

I love you. Make sure you find the bastard.
-March

I almost cried after reading the letter. Not because it was so depressing that she was actually planning her death, but because of how bizarre it was to read something someone, who knew that they were going to die, had written. It was quite upsetting. I sat in silence for a few minutes after initially reading it, trying to process March’s words.

I pushed the letter to the side before grabbing a random stack of Polaroid’s. My mouth hung open in shock as I went through the pictures. February’s corpse, a carton of orange juice and a yellow bottle of rat poison – featured in all of them. Scrawled along the bottom of one of the photos was “rat poison usually kept in basement.”

Despite all the similarities, I went through every single one of the photos. There was a picture of a messenger bag too, as March had promised. Once finished, I put them all back in the box, careful not to get anything out of order. I put the letter back in the envelope and then placed it on top of the photos. I’d take the box back to my room.

March had eliminated the need to search the rest of her room mindlessly, but I still needed to look for that bag. Where else would it have been put? I wasn’t as careful as I usually was when placing everything back in order during my search, but it wasn’t like it really mattered.
When I pulled back the black comforter on March’s bed though, I found the bag. I quickly opened it but was crestfallen when there were no Polaroid’s to be found. Had the cops removed them? My question was answered when I spotted a piece of paper in the bottom of the bag. Printed on it, in handwritten, non-cursive letters was,

‘A little too late this time aren’t we, December?’