I Hear Your Whispers

I walked into my living room with tears still burning my cheeks. I quickly took off the heels I had worn today and threw them at the wall. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t be gone. My best friend, my cousin. He felt like a brother to me. Why’d he have to go?
I grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the couch and curled up to watch the news. Sure enough his face was plastered on the screen.
“Earlier this week Steven Saling was found dead in a drunk driving accident, this afternoon was his funeral. Police officials are still looking for Eric St Cyr, the intoxicated driver that hit a poll at 80 miles an hour causing Saling to die on contact. If anyone knows where St Cyr is, please contact the police as soon as possible.” The news-anchor announced. Tears flowed down my face once more.
The asshole got through all of this unscathed, and my cousin was dead. Dead. Never to come back ever again. I screamed at the top of my lungs, chucked the remote across the room and stormed off to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror all I saw was deep purple bags under my eyes, dripping mascara, and behind me? My cousin’s face. Freaking out, I turned quickly. No one was there.
“My mind must be playing tricks on me again,” I said under my breath. I took a washcloth from under my sink and began to get rid of the makeup that was beginning to harden. I sighed and looked back at my reflection to see how much of a success this was. Before I could examine myself I saw Steven’s face once more.
“Save me,” the image whispered. “I wasn’t meant to die, Rebecca.”
“Steven, is…is that really you?” I struggled to let the words pass through my cracked lips.
“I need your help. You’ll help me won’t you, Rebecca?” He pleaded. I simply nodded. “Find the fucking bastard who killed me, and give him the same fate he gave me. Can you do that, Rebecca?”
“Steve, I...I can’t murder someone. How can you expect…” Steven silenced me with a cold, translucent finger to his cold see-through lips.
“Please, can you do that for me? I’m stuck here until he’s gone. You don’t want to be haunted for the rest of his life, do you?”
”I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” I concluded.
“Thank you, Rebecca. You’re saving me from a life in limbo.”
“How do you suggest I er…go along with this?” I asked still slightly dazed by the request, and the image of my cousin now in my thoughts.
“Any way humanly possible.” I nodded, and his image disappeared.
Dropping to the floor, I curled into a fetal position, and cried. How could I live knowing I took another’s life away? This is going to be a difficult process…

***

Shooting up from my bed I looked around and questioned whether or not it was a dream. I guess, in the end it doesn’t even matter. Without Steven in my life there was nothing much to live for. With St Cyr dead, it might make it all better. I grinned cynically.
I began thinking of any way possible to do the deed and not get caught. I also needed to pinpoint where the bastard was.
Turing on the news channel once more, the bottom scrolled that St Cyr was spotted just outside of Plymouth, Massachusetts which was about a 45 minute drive from here.
A ringing noise to my left caused me to jump. It was just your phone, idiot. I thought to myself grabbing the contraption from the dock staring down at the Caller ID. It was my ex boyfriend, Chris Knapp. The last person I want to talk to now…
“Hello?” I asked into the phone.
“Hey, Rebecca. It’s Chris. I was just calling to see how you were doing,” concern dripped from his words. He knew my history, and he was sure to be worried. I just didn’t think he would ever care enough to make an effort and call.
“Doing the best I can, I guess. I’m about to head up to Plymouth to take care of something. I’ll call you later for an update.”
“Do you want me to join you?”
“No, no. Don’t waste your day on me; it’s for a silly reason, really. Remembrance of Steve.” I managed to choke out a small chuckle.
“Alright. Please call me if you need anything. I know we broke up, but I do still really care about you, Rebecca.”
“Thanks, Chris. I better get going. I’ll call you, ‘kay?”
“Okay…Have a good time. Bye, Rebecca.”
“Oh, I will,” I said sweetly with a slightly malicious undertone, “Bye, Chris.”
I set the phone down to my side, shot out of the bed, and grabbed the nearest bag. I went in search for a knife that would suffice in my small kitchen. Opening the drawer I saw a nice 6 inch Fiddle-back chef knife with a maple handle. Perfect. I smirked at my find and headed back to my bedroom. I rummaged for all black clothing. Finally I found a suitable shirt and a pair of black pants.
Looking at the clock I saw that it was just about 4:30. Perfect timing, I would get there about 5:15.
I hopped into my car, and blasted Six by All That Remains; Steven and I’s favorite song off of their album Fall of Ideals. I looked behind me, backed out of the drive, and sped down the road to the highway.
Exit 3…Exit 2…Bridge. Just about 10 more minutes until Plymouth. 5 minutes passed. 10. I looked up and saw the Plymouth exit, and quickly shifted into the other lane, taking the right about half a minute down the road. Going off to the right on the ramp I sought out a place to check the news, and maybe grab a drink to calm my nerves. I saw a small bar and parked in front. I walked into the place which 4 or less people sat, and went to counter.
“What can I get for ya?” Asked the bartender
“Coca-Cola, please.”
“Sure thing, lady.” Seconds later a beer appeared in front of me, I smiled at the bartender, and took a sip. Glancing up at the TV all I could see was sports.
“Any way possible you could turn on the news?” I asked sweetly winking at the man. He blushed and quickly submitted to my request. “Thank you, sir.”
“No problem,” he stated nicely picking up his towel and pretending to wash the beer mugs.
I looked back up to the TV, searching for any evidence of where I could find St. Cyr. Nothing. Just my luck. I took out my phone to check the time; 5:45.
I sat at that bar for 2 Cokes, and 1 hour later and still nothing. 2 hours, 3 Cokes. Nothing. 3 hours, 3 Cokes. Something. He hadn’t moved away from Plymouth, and local said to have spotted him on Emerald Street.
“Excuse me; do you know where Emerald Street is?” I asked the bartender that was sitting quietly on a stool
“Sure thing, lady. Not too far from here, in fact, if you take a right out of here, then go all the way down the road til it ends, take a left, and Emerald Street will be on yer left,” I registered his directions in my head, slammed down a 20 dollar bill and ran out the door, into my car and down to meet up with St. Cyr, hopefully.
I reached Emerald Street and slowly creped down it. Seeking for the bastard that killed my cousin. Anger enveloped me and I pulled off to the side. I broke down crying, and I heard my cell phone ring. Chris. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Hello?” I said smoothly into my phone.
“Hey, Rebecca. It’s been a while. Are you still up in Plymouth, or are you back home?”
“Hey, Chris, I’m still in Plymouth. I’m just about done. I’ll call you tomorrow, ‘kay?”
“Can you at least tell me what’s going on?” the same concerned tone took over his voice, “I’d really like to know. I hate worrying.”
“I’m fine, Chris. And it’s personal. I’ll. Call. You. Tomorrow. ‘Kay?” my voice fused with the frustration.
“Jesus, Rebecca. I care about you, is that so bad? I’ll talk to you later then.” I hung up.
Searching my surroundings once more, I decided to go knock on a few doors to see if they had any answers. In doing so I’d need to clean up my appearance. I made myself presentable and headed off to the firs door. Knock, knock.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” The person called from inside the house, “Hell…Do I know you?”
“No you don’t. My name’s,” I paused. I can’t use my real name. Thinking back on my High School days one name came into my head “Taylor Bigwood, and I’ve heard that Eric St. Cyr was seen around this area. I’m very concerned about him, and wanted to make sure he’s okay. Do you know of his whereabouts? Or approximately where he was seen?”
“I’m sorry, I do not. But, Franny across the street was the one who spotted the bastard. I don’t see why you’re so ‘concerned’ of his well being. He killed a man, and injured another, y’know?”
“Yes, I know. The boy he injured was my brother, I know all about the whole situation, but we’re both quite concerned. Thank you for the information you’ve given me,” I smiled “Sorry to have taken some of your time.”
“No problem… Have a g’night. Good luck.”
“Thank you, you too.” I smiled again, and walked off to the woman ‘Franny’s’ house. Knock, knock.
“Hello, there. What brings you to Franny’s house?” She asked showing a toothless smile.
“Hello, Franny, my name’s Taylor Bigwood, and I knew Eric St. Cyr. I’m very concerned about him, and I was wondering if you could point out where he was going, or any useful information.”
“Ah, yes. That boy. He came in for some soup, and he’s taking a nap right now. I alerted the authorities, that he was running off because he’s such a sweet boy. I don’t want to see him in jail. The poor, poor dear…” She rambled on for a while longer. My blood boiled with anticipation to end him.
“That’s very kind of you!” I said sweetly, “Do you think you could tell him his wife is here and will be waiting for him in the car over there,” I stated pointing to my car across the street.
“OH! His wife! Sure, thing dear. Why don’t you wake him?”
“I was wondering if you could. I want to ready his son and daughter to see him.” I beamed.
“Of course, sweetie. I’ll do that now!” she said dragging her can across the floor to where the bastard was sleeping. I smirked. My mission was just about complete. I would do the deed. Dump him in the woods, and resume my life a little bit happier.
About 5 minutes later I saw the door open once more, him waving to her like she was his friend, and he walked over to the car. Entered the passenger seat, I knocked him out cold. And drove away. Giggling malevolently I sped away and headed to Brewster Gardens.
In park I took out the knife, rose it above his heart, and just as I was about to slam down, a voice called for me from the distance.
“REBECCA, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Chris screamed.
“Taking care of business.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW YOU FUCKING DO IT, GODDAMNIT,” grabbing hold of my door handle, he grabbed my waist and pulled my out of the car. “You don’t kill people to get back for killing a loved one,” his voice getting calmer now. “Trust me; you’re far above his level.” He smiled. “Let’s turn him in, okay? The police station isn’t too far from here.”
“Ooo-ookay.”

***

In the end, St. Cyr got a measly 2 years in prison with no bail, as well as 10 years of probation and lack of license. He attempted to get out early, but his request was denied by the court.
I went to therapy to help my schizophrenia.
And Chris remained my best and closest friend.