Becca
Chapter 17
Becca
December 31st, 2014 – New Year’s Eve - 21 Days Dead
“Beeeeccccaaaaaa.” My name slithers under my door. I hear voices in my head all the time, but this is different.
They say never answer back when something calls your name in the dark—but this voice is familiar. It’s one that I’ve been hoping I wouldn’t hear again. Denial is so much easier to contend with than dread. But I should have known she wouldn’t leave me to grieve for long.
“Beeeeecccccaaaaaa,” she calls again, prompting me to crawl out of bed. The springs creak with objection. “Nothing good can come from this” , they whine.
I pause at the threshold of my door, hand frozen mid-air as I heed the phantom throb in my chest on instinct. Searching for something, I press my ear against the door. I’m not sure what I expect to hear. Maybe the rattle of a weapon. Maybe the creak of the floorboards. I wait, but all I hear is that empty whooshing of stillness. And then a piece of paper with the words ‘Find me’ slips under the door.
Twisting the handle slowly, I crack my door open a fraction to find another note, all that’s on it is ‘Warmer’ in purple ink. When nothing barrels in, I open it all the way and stare down the long dark hall. Blackness stretches in front of me; the emptiness of it leaving room for those unwanted memories to creep back in. They crawl at the peripherals of my thoughts like an army of ants. Retreat or go forward; there’s a decision to make and it feels like an important one. Behind me waits restless tossing and turning; ahead, something productive.
“It’s your choice, Becca. What’ll it be?” a taunting girlish voice whispers from around the corner.
Tingles spread from my chest down into my stomach and fingers as I run down the hallway and into the living room. Another note waits for me, but this time, it reads ‘Colder’. Carefully assessing the dark corners, it’s clear I’ve hit a dead end.
My search continues in the kitchen, where a piece of paper is propped up like a tent on the floor in front of the sliding glass door. ‘Warmer ‘ is written in all caps.
I need to know once and for all that she’s really here. Am I going out of my mind with grief chasing down a figment of my imagination, or is the ghost of the woman I helped Nate hide haunting me?
My chest is tight with anticipation as I race outside and into the backyard. I check down the side but am disappointed to find the word ‘Colder’ staring back at me. Going back the way I came from, I spot a small patch of white sitting on the grass outside of the guest house. To my relief, the paper says ‘Warmer’.
Confidence and apprehension clash in my chest as I stand there weighing my options. I have no doubt now that there’s something waiting for me behind that door.
“The choice is yours, Becca. What’ll it be?” That youthful voice repeats, a bell ringing in too-distant memories that I can’t place. When I turn to confront it, there’s no one behind me, just the emptiness of the night and the backyard stretching out in front of me.
Stepping forward, I force my hand to grip the knob and push onward as the door creaks quietly on its hinges, the slow groan heightening my nerves as I enter.
“Hello?” I whisper. I’m met with silence, so I turn to close the door—wouldn’t want to alarm anyone if they happen to wake up.
As I enclose myself in the darkness, a presence looms in its inky depths. I miss the pounding of the terrified heartbeat that should be violently assaulting my chest. The stillness of my internal organs rings as hollow as my existence has become.
Unexpectedly, the spine-chilling silence is finally broken. “Boo bitch!”
The slow-drip of fear gives way to a flood that shocks my system. Emotions heightened, an embarrassingly shrill shriek escapes me. My irritated glare falls uselessly as I come face to face with my greatest mistake.
She’s not weak and lifeless like I left her. Death becomes her. Platinum and pink hair falls around her, following the curves of her breasts and waist, surrounding her like a halo. But she’s anything but angelic as she watches me with dark brown eyes intensified by darker eyeliner. They’re not doe eyes; they’re appraising and feline, simmering with interest. I’m the mouse in the claws of a cat. My hackles rise, but I tread carefully.
“You’re really here?” It’s not relief, but something settles within me. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” One side of her plum-red lips tilts upward as she studies me. Chills trail behind her dangerously astute gaze that tracks over me from head to toe.
Refusing to squirm, I simply shake my head as I lean back against the door, putting more distance between us. But the longer she holds my gaze, the harder it is to keep the images of her dead body at bay. Those unseeing eyes judging my every movement as I dug and dug. Working the distressed hem of my jean shorts between my fingers, I take comfort in the friction as I attempt to chase away those unwelcome memories. “Sorry.” Running a hand over my face, I refocus.
“You should be.” The demand in her eyes pins me in place, like a butterfly on velvet. Waiting for the next pin to pierce me, I hold my breath. “I thought you were going to come visit me after you saw me the other day. But you didn’t,” she pouts but there’s an edge to her voice, a blade wrapped in silk.
“I—” The expectation takes me off guard. I’ve been so consumed by my family and my own grief that she hadn’t crossed my mind since I saw her in the bathroom right after I died. “I didn’t expect you to still be here. I wasn’t even sure if what I saw was real.” My confusion is genuine. “Shouldn’t you be at your own house? Or passed on, or whatever’s supposed to happen to us?” I push off the door standing to my full height. Still, she has several inches on me in her Mary Janes
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” she sighs. “I really wish I could, Becca. But unfortunately, some assholes buried me in your backyard.” She juts a finger at the window in the direction of the rose bushes.
Shock interrupts my train of thought. I’m not the kind of person who gets called an asshole to her face. My rebuttal fails me, but she doesn’t let that derail the conversation.
Once again, her expression shifts, lids rising and eyes rounding, features softening in a closed-mouth smile that hints at a single dimple. “I suppose it’s too late to request a headstone, but you can call me Stasi.” I hear her, but all of my attention has zeroed in on the pink heart glinting at the center of her tongue, so shiny and wet. A lure drawing in a helpless fish.
“Earth to Becca.” The snap of her fingers is too close. Intrigue bleeds into panic as she leans forward and presses a palm against the door frame just to the left of my head, caging me in. Too close.
I cross my arms over my chest, a quickly foiled attempt to reclaim my space when my forearm caresses her breasts. Don’t look down. Maybe it’s gravity or reverse psychology, but my eyes immediately home in on the dusting of delicate freckles on her peachy skin, tracing over the silver dermal piercings that trail between her cleavage, and landing on the little bars that press against the velvety fabric that barely covers her overflowing breasts.
“My eyes are up here, Becca.” A manicured finger curls under my chin, and I flinch at the contact. The tiny area she touched tingles and all my other muscles clench preparing for the rattlesnake I’ve overlooked on my path to strike. Apprehension winds tightly in my stomach, a coiling spring that could break at any moment.
Her hands drop away and the only thing her lips do is press into an unflattering flat line—she doesn’t kiss me or lick me or touch me at all.
“How about we start over? I mean we’re both dead, I guess the scales are even, don’t you think?”
“Sure, yeah. I guess that makes sense.” Does it? How can any of this be real?
“Stasi.” She holds out her hand, gripping mine firmly. “Nice to meet you.” The words themselves are pleasant enough but her smile doesn’t soften her eyes.
“Becca.” Reluctantly, I return the bizarrely formal handshake, fingers twitching with the need to be free. “Nice to officially meet you, too.”
“I mean it would be, I guess. . .” Fire stokes in her eyes, the viper within them turning back to me, reconsidering the threat I pose. “If you weren’t the reason we’re both here.” There it is, the strike. The attack leaves me reeling for a minute as the venom hits my blood stream.
“That’s not fair,” I retort defensively. Echoes of old instincts encourage me to get out of this situation, but I can’t pull myself from the magnetizing draw of her. Instead, the marionette strings of my awkwardness bring my hand to my ear where I fiddle with the piercings that line the entire shell and avoid eye contact.
“So interesting that you bring that up. What is fair? Hmm?” Stasi paces in front of me. “Is it having your throat slit and your murder covered up?” The mocking tone keeps me quiet. “No. No, I don’t think that’s fair at all. But me, calling you out on your bullshit. I’d say that is, actually.” Facing me with a mocking smile, Stasi points one of those eternally perfect pink and black nails right at me. “But you’re not the type to take accountability, are you?”
“How can you be so quick to blame me?” Her insinuation digs its way under my skin, immediately irritating and uncomfortable. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Her fingers steeple, inviting me to plead my case. “Please, I’d love to have heard you try to talk your way out of this when I saw you. When I felt your hands on me as you carried my body.” Her cutting laugh causes me to jump. “You know, I never thought that the first time you really touched me would be to drop me in a grave. I knew you were going to be a selfish lover at the start, but that really takes the fucking cake.”
Spine straightening, I take a step toward her. “I’m not going to just stand here and be shamed by someone who looks like a bimbo-goth Barbie. You don’t even know me.”
“Wow. Nice insult,” she scoffs. “But unfortunately for you, I do know you. So much better than you could ever guess. So how about this, why don’t you grow the fuck up and be honest with yourself for once.”
I allow a long silence to drag out in defiance. I’m not going to bend to her bullshit. I didn’t survive years in the miserable company of Chleo and her friends just to be bullied by someone I’ve known for five minutes.
“So, we’re still playing pretend then? Are you really going to keep up the sad charade that you’re little miss perfect?” Mutual vexation is a catching flame between us, stifling heat rising in the too-small space for our stubbornly inflating egos. “I thought dying would have at least made you a little more interesting but you’re so fucking predictable.”
“And you’re a self-important bitch. No wonder no one came looking for you. I bet—” I stop myself before going too far.
“Ah.” She claps. “There she is.” Stasi points that annoyingly accusatory finger at me again and smiles knowingly. “Don’t stop yourself on my account; things are finally getting interesting.” We’re practically nose to nose, our rage a powerful magnet. “Go ahead, finish that thought.” The brush of her lips is a taunt that I refuse to acknowledge. I grind my teeth, holding back the words despite her goading.
Her sigh caresses my skin like her smooth words. “You can keep up the charade for as long as you want, but I see right through you.” Fingers walk up my sternum, tickling over my throat, then tap my nose. “I wish you’d give it a rest already. I’m tired of this. Aren’t you ? Aren’t you tired of being the perfect little victim?” The well-aimed arrow finds its mark, and I stagger back.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Reeling, my filter becomes faulty. “Who are you to talk? You’re so fucking arrogant. I’ve met you twice and you think you know everything.”
“Your needy little body told me more than enough. I know what that sweet tongue tastes like. I know how your lips molded to mine so, so easily. I know how wet you got with my thigh between your legs.” A coy smile plays on her lips. “You know what all of that told me?”
“Whatever illusions of grandeur you’re building up in that fucked-up mind of yours are wrong.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. If I’m needy, so are you. I wasn’t the one sending love poems, after all.” Satisfaction surges in me at that smile being wiped from her face. “Talk about desperate.”
“Took you long enough to notice. But are you going to pretend like you didn’t feel the connection between us too? For someone who ‘doesn’t like women’, you sure seemed to like it when I worked that sweet little cunt.” She runs her tongue along her teeth. “Is that why you were so easily convinced to help get rid of me? Were you afraid that people were going to find out just how much you liked every second of my attention?”
I’m shaking with anger, but my tongue is stuck to the top of my mouth.
“I saw the way your face lit up when you got my letters, even found one beneath your pillow. So, don’t even try to tell me that it meant nothing. It could have been something .”
“I didn’t know they were from you.” It’s true, or it was until I put two and two together when Nate told me about their confrontation. “If I had, I wouldn’t have kept them. I guess that’s the unfortunate part of remaining a secret admirer. You’re bound to get your feelings hurt.”
The laugh that earns is barbed and sharp. “It’s impressive, you know…how easily lying comes to you. Doesn’t really fit that wholesome image you like to keep up, does it?” Leaning against the back of the couch, she mimics deep thought, while I tell myself that I don’t need to inventory the tattoos on her legs that are on full display. “How about we try some honesty on for size? Tell me, Becca.” She’s too observant, dragging her hands up her thighs and hitching the hem up further. “Did you touch yourself that night when you got home? How long did you obsess over all the things we could have done if we’d left together?” Her thighs part, giving me a glimpse of her pink panties. “I bet it kept you up at night, the idea of my tongue between your legs, my fingers deep in your pussy. I think you’ve spent so many nights dreaming of me even while I lay dead in your backyard.”
“No, I didn’t,” I insist, pushing away the memories that I’ve been running from of that night. But with her in my face, it proves more difficult than I’d hoped.
“How many times were you knuckles deep inside yourself wishing that you didn’t help Nate get rid of me just so you could feel some kind of pleasure for once in your life?”
“You’re sick.”
“Don’t call me that.” The defensive threat swipes at my resolve.
I want to shrink away, but I find my backbone. “Get fucked.”
“You offering?”
“Not in a million years.” My own fury is bubbling beneath the surface making me belligerent and immature. It spills over my lower lashes like I’ve always hated.
“You’re a terrible fucking liar. But even worse, you’re a fucking coward.” Her eyes home in on the tears that track down my cheek and before I can recoil, her tongue snakes out and devours them. “Wouldn’t want that saccharine self-pity to go to waste. Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself, I’ll gladly make a meal of your misery.” Even though I fight to hold them back, they defy me. “Poor, innocent Becca. It must be so hard to actually face the consequences of your actions for once.” Dismissing me, Stasi turns away. “This game isn’t fun anymore. Why don’t you go back to your room and keep hiding from the world, Crybaby.”
The word launches at me like spit, coating me in something unpleasant and belittling. The way the insult from this stranger sticks to me is infuriating. So much so that my words are lodged in my throat, suffocating me instead of flying like the daggers I need them to be to hurt her back. Hurt her back. The thought is so unlike me that the words are knocked back into my stomach with such force that it makes me ill. Instead, desperation spills from my lips. “Why does it have to be like this? I just died. Can’t you show some goddamned empathy?”
“Empathy?”
It would seem I got even with a triggering word of my own. But instead of feeling vindicated, I’m shrinking against the approaching tornado that’s about to tear through me.