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I skip the lift and head for the stairwell, needing the extra time to process everything that happened tonight. My fingers involuntarily trace my bottom lip, and I almost miss the top step lost in my memories. I still can’t believe Maddox kissed me. Among all those dizzy first kiss feelings are a riotous number of mixed emotions too. It would be so easy if I didn’t have feelings for Zak too, but I do.
How can I have feelings for two boys at once? Not just any two boys either, but brothers, who also happen to be my best friends.
My thoughts are thrown aside as the warm, fuzzy feelings from moments ago are replaced by a sick, unnerving stirring in the pit of my stomach that has the hairs on my neck rising.
Finally looking up and taking in my surroundings, I see my flat up ahead, but the door is ajar, and unease swirls like a whirlwind, flipping my gut on its head.
As I draw level with my door, I can see the dim light from the lounge filtering through the gap along with the sound of the TV.
A gust of wind whistles down the communal walkway, throwing up dried leaves and blowing them along the ground.
“Mum?” I call out, reaching out a hand to the door. Just as my fingertips make contact, a loud bang echoes up the stairwell behind me making me jump and clutch my chest as I spin around. The sound of laughter trickles up from below before drifting away as a door closes, locking the sound inside.
“Fuck!” I blow out a breath, a thimbleful of relief washing over me. Turning back to my flat, I call out again, “Mum? Star?” Pushing inside, an unpleasant, metallic scent tickles my nose, causing me to scrunch it up in disgust.
I pass the kitchen, noticing the half-peeled veg left on the counter. As my eyes trail over everything, I notice several red splotches on the floor and follow them as they continue past me and into the lounge.
I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to fight the feeling of dread that is now wild and free in my body. There’s no door on the lounge, so images from the TV flicker across the floor. Taking a step forward, I can now see the arm of the sofa and resting, as though the person it belongs to is sleeping, is one slippered foot. As I look closer, my skin prickling, I notice the slipper is at an odd, almost, right angle, and there are red smears across the heel of the foot.
“Mum,” I call out, my voice cracking with worry. Another step closer has the other foot coming into view, resting on the floor.
Shaking off the fear licking my body, I rush into the lounge falsely believing that because Mum is here everything is okay.
My forward motion grinds to halt as the full scene is revealed to me, and I skid on something warm and wet, landing on my arse. My hands make a splat sound as they hit the carpet, and the air rushes from my lungs in a harsh breath.
A scream catches in my throat, blocking my air way, and I scramble backwards on my arse and hands, unable to gain any traction with my feet.
My back hits something hard, and I realise I’m against the sideboard that the TV is mounted on. My breath comes in pants as my brain tries to catch up with what my eyes are looking at. It’s like stepping into the house cast me into an 80s slasher movie, and everywhere I look is more horrific than the last.
My mind knows there’s no hope she’s alive, but it doesn’t stop me from crawling to her on my hands and knees. When I reach her, I raise up on my knees and reach out a hand to her face, eyes half open and swollen, lip split and blood…so much blood. A sob rips from my throat, turning to a wretched scream that could shatter the window of every flat in the block.
“Mum,” I whisper, turning her face towards me. “Oh my god, Mum,” I cry, tears falling unabated. I’m hesitant, unsure where to touch her as everywhere seems to have an injury. Barely able to see through the tears, I feel her neck, checking for the little thrumming beat that indicates life. Not finding one, I try to convince myself I must be doing it wrong instead of admitting what I know deep down in my heart. After five more minutes and still no pulse, I drop back on my hunches.
As reality washes over me, I’m faintly aware of sirens in the background, but I pay no mind, instead remaining where I am and staring at my hands, which I now see are painted in blood. I don’t know how long I sit there before the face of my sister swims in my mind.
I scramble to my feet, head whipping back and forth round the room, seeking her out. Not finding her anywhere, and there being nowhere for her to hide in here, I walk determinedly back to the hall and climb the stairs, calling out to her and leaving a trail of bloody foot and hand prints in my wake.
“Star. Star, where are you?” I frantically search each room, tearing clothes from wardrobes and checking every possible hiding place for an eight-year-old girl. Finding nothing, I hurry back downstairs to check the kitchen and the cupboard under the stairs.
As I step out of the empty cupboard, I come face to face with a police officer, arm raised holding his baton ready to strike.
“Police. Don’t move,” he shouts to me, holding his other hand out, palm up in warning.
“You need to find her. Please find her. She’s only a baby. Where is she?” It’s at this point that my ability to make sense, to function, to even stand begins to crumble, and rationality and fear have well and truly left as I collapse to the floor.
The police officer is talking to me, and I’m aware of movement around me, but I can’t hear him and don’t look up, even when hands wrap around me, lifting me up and carry me from the building.
I’m sitting in the back of an ambulance, doors wide open, as a paramedic checks me over. It could be five minutes or five hours when two men wheeling a stretcher pass by. As they roll over the uneven ground, the stretcher jolts, and a hand flops down, falling free from the white sheet covering them.
My phone ringing snaps me out of the memory, and I pull it free to see Mitch’s name flashing across the screen.
Anxiety ripples like a wave through my gut as I answer the call. “Mitch.” I don’t bother with pleasantries.
“It’s not her, Roxy.”
“Fuck!” The word rushes out of me before he’s finished talking, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. It’s a bittersweet relief though because if it’s not her, it’s someone’s daughter, and equally, it means that she’s still out there.
“Roxy, you okay? Where are you?” Mitch’s voice holds a note of worry, and I’m quick to dispel his concern.
