Salt

Just a little over a week since Ciara's funeral, I was back at work. I'd seen little of Ambrose since then, and I didn't blame him either, but I was growing anxious over his state of mind. I didn't want to come across as self-serving, but could I currently trust him to help piece my puzzle together?

He wasn't the only one, either. Fletcher and the entire police force were working extra hard on cracking down on drug deals and possible bullying in the school. Apparently, there was a new officer patrolling the halls every day, but it was mainly gossip.

So, this was what happened to a town when a bright young student "accidentally" drowns? It didn't seem so bad, and I'm sure they were doing their best, but I was waiting for the day it all faded.

Because every star had its big night to shine, and some collapsed until they were nothing but a black hole.

I was sweeping the floor when Maureen popped her head round the staff room door.

"Ashley, dear, you can go home for the rest of today." She smiled.

"But I–"

"I'll see you tomorrow!"

Finishing the conversation before it even began, she disappeared again. I didn't know why she wanted me to go, unless she wanted to serve customers herself, which was always a rare occurrence.

Untying my apron, I made way to the back, hoping to catch her before she snuck off to the kitchen, but when I got there, I was alone. The only sound came from the quiet hiss of the radiator.

So, with other options to choose from, I packed up and left the diner. The late February air combined with the rush of the civilians brought a flush to my cheeks, and as I looked up, my hands instinctively drew my coat closer.

Walking home, I passed the houses of my friends. Each of them standing tall and proud, even Jett's trailer, that nobody from the outside could've guessed what horror we've endured. The cracks in the foundation glossed over, maintained to last a couple more decades.

Finally, the Ford residence was last on my trail. If you only stopped to admire the rosebushes, you wouldn't see past the blinds to the broken family that barely exchanged words. If you thought their grass was an inch or two over the property limits, then you'd have remained oblivious to the mother who simply couldn't bear to upkeep such menial tasks. Everything meant nothing here, not anymore.

I stood out front, watching through the single pane glass to the parents that screamed and cried at each other. There was nobody else caught in their crossfire, but it was easy to see their equal surrender.

Things were different now. Where I used to think it was solely involving me, the sudden death of a fifteen year-old girl popped up to smack us all right in the face.

I continued my walk when Mr Ford left his wife alone to take a phone call, trying with all my might not to nosy myself in and comfort her. After all, I had my own shit to think about all night.

Entering the house, I was welcomed to a swift heat. Mom must be hanging the laundry, I thought.

"No... I could come over with a casserole? I know how much you like those."

Eyebrows furrowing, my feet were already pulling me in the direction of her voice. I mean, it wasn't like her to sound so... sweet?

"By my graces, Bryce, you know you can't just withdraw like this! It's not fair on the people who love you, and I'm sorry, but you're not the only one going through grief – what?" Her tone hardened, the usual edge I was accustomed to breaking through. "Don't you dare hang that over me, don't you know I'm well aware of the circumstances?"

I guess she was talking to Mr Ford, it didn't sound like a pleasant conversation, although you've got to be used to that when it comes to my mom, I guess.

I was about to turn and make way upstairs, when her next words chilled me.

"And what about Ashley, Zoey? This would wreck them, Bryce. Please... don't."

I was frozen. In place, in time, in my mind. Everything had screeched to a halt, like a giant stop sign had been erected in front of me.

There were many words I could use to describe my mom: shrill, whiney and abrasive to name just a few.

A liar? A traitor? I'd never have gone that far.

Unable to make out her last few words, I emerged into the kitchen, not knowing how she'd react. Besides, my mother was nothing if not a master at creating and avoiding conflict.

She paused in her gulp of red wine, connecting eyes with me, as her hand shook.

"Bryce, I... I'll have to call you back."

When she placed her mobile face down on the island, she guzzled the last of her glass and approached me. The look on her face was one I'd only bore witness to a few times in my life. The unfocused eyes, the flaring nostrils and trembling fingers could only mean one thing.

I backed off, waiting for whatever reason she'd throw my way.

"You're early, I-I thought you were at work?"

"Maureen said I could go home," I folded my arms as I rested against the doorframe, examining her all over. "So. What are you so sure would hurt us?"

My mom laughed.

Of course, it wasn't your usual cheery kind, that made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. No, instead this just drilled deeper into my pit of disdain, that automatic feeling that just let you know something was wrong.

"You're misconstruing what you heard! Bryce and I were just discussing Ciara and the impact her death has had on the family. I said it has wrecked you and Zoey. I know you weren't close, but you all grew up together, that has to count for something, right?"

I couldn't believe it. My own mother was trying to shake the story, to make it out as if I'm the crazy one.

Not giving her the chance to dish out any more shit, I spun around on my heels and booked it out of there.

She may have screamed after me, but I was already dashing down the street by the time she would've left the kitchen.

At first, I didn't know where I'd go, because since Ciara's funeral, my friends and I weren't as close as I'd like us to be. My mind echoed Lu's name, but when I finally sussed out what direction I was running in, I was too late in guessing it wasn't in his.

Climbing the fire escape, my breath was quick yet dull. It knew it could rest soon, and I'd sleep it all off eventually. Yet, when I threw my legs over the windowpane, I was immediately welcomed to the sight of an empty loft.

"Jesse?"

But there was no response, leaving me to hug myself as I sat down on the edge of his bed. Sheets that were as crimson as the blood that pumped through my veins, I gathered them in my fist in a bite.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed what looked like a poker chip sitting face up on his bedside drawer. Jesse had never been much of a gambler.

Turning it over, in sparkling gold it had ‘6’ written on it. There wasn’t much else to it, a few gold stars at the bottom, but I gathered they weren’t too important.

Gripping it tightly, I tried to relieve my mind from its intrusive thoughts. It was erratic, as much as the display of art that surrounded me. Charcoal drawings of trees, ghostly bridges and haunted buildings, I'd never once crumbled under their sweet melancholy. I was made of flesh and bone, so alive that I could never be cut into.

But maybe that's why I'm here.

The other paintings, of still life and unsuspecting strangers on the street, were mostly charming if not a little oversaturated. Kind of like pop-art, some of his art was an eyesore. Yet, my attentiveness remained unaltered.

Turning my head lightly, I scrutinized the one piece he deemed his "magnum opus". The curves were graceful, never seeking offence, the shine was bright but true. Everything in it was pure and raw, and had taken him only sheer minutes, but the twilight of the bed sheet and the contrasting gold of her hair made for an interesting watch. You never just looked at this sort of thing, only witness.

She held those sheets loosely around her shape, the slope of her breasts only just covered, allowing her to remain modest but unyielding. They curved around her back, arching against shoulder blades that could strike to kill, the skin around them feeling comforted and at ease. Eyes half-closed, certain of the beauty that was being captured, even the single wave of hair across her face didn't faze what she knew to be true.

He was the tortured soul and she loved being his muse.

I ached to reach out and touch her, to become with that oblivious girl. I could be her again, I mused, so why wasn't I there?

Taking back my hand, instead I faced the door, waiting and wanting for him to return. It may take some time, but there was still nowhere else I'd rather be.