Unanswered - Liza Mynx (e books for reading .TXT) 📗

/> I got to her house and knew I was too late. The police were already there. The cameras and the reporters were already there. I was the last one to the crazy, uncontrollable, morbid party.
  

I had been questioned by many people today.
The police wanted to know everything I knew about Sammy. Some of them followed me to my house so they could hear the message that she left for me this morning.
I went to the hospital and my mom wanted to ask me how I was doing. She cried when she heard about it. I wasn’t the one to tell her. She was watching the news through walls of water when I walked into her room. She told me she saw me on the news.
The reporters from local stations asked me about what I thought of Sammy, and how I felt about her death. They might not have believed we were close because I didn’t cry.
I questioned myself most of all. I wondered why I didn’t blame myself for what happened. Whenever someone dies in movies their friends always blame themselves. I don’t blame myself for her death. I don’t say to myself, “Oh, why was I so mean to her,” or, “Why couldn’t I have woken up when she called? She might still be alive.”
At least part of my brain knew I shouldn’t blame myself, but the smallest part of my brain thought something else. It was so small, and I thought unimportant, that I didn’t even know what it was thinking. All I know is that it was a happy thought and an ashamed thought.
For some reason, my mind keeps flashing back to the reoccurring dream that haunts me whenever I close my eyes and drift into the scariest, most wonderful part of my mind. My subconscious.
I keep seeing the cloaked figure, and whenever I do I feel scared, angry, and ashamed.

Why do I feel ashamed? I’m a victim of a dream! There is nothing to be ashamed of!
I had just gotten home when my cell phone rang. I read the caller I.D. It was my mom.
“Hey, Mom. Why are you calling me?”
“What? I can’t call my daughter while I’m sitting in the hospital and feeling worried about her?” Her voice was shattered and glued together with worry. I knew she wanted it to seem like she was joking with me, but her attempt failed. I wonder if she knew that.
“Oh, well I’m fine. Mom, that dream. . .” I wanted to tell her what had been going on with me mentally that day, but something stopped me. Some part of my brain. My subconscious? For something that I’m not supposed to feel, it’s been interrupting my thoughts for a while now. How long will it be until I can think without a shadow following everything that goes through my mind.
“You still haven’t uncloaked the figure.” It was a statement.
“Yes! I tried to let go of fear like you said, but in the dream I’m not scared! I have this feeling that I don’t have to be! But, I feel something else.”
“Claire, what I said was to let go of your fear or anything else that you’re feeling. What is this other feeling you have?”
“It’s hard to explain. The best way I could explain it is to say that I have this feeling of being ashamed. But why would I feel ashamed? It doesn’t make sense! It’s not like I blame myself for anything that’s happened!” I lied. I didn’t want to tell her about that tiny feeling telling me that I’m to blame for everything.
“Calm down, honey. Look, you’ve had a trying day. Why don’t you order some pizza and then go to bed? You’re off school tomorrow anyway. I was watching the news and it said that you guys have two weeks off. Take advantage of that and rest. I love you so much. Don’t forget, I’m coming home next week. Get the house ready for my home coming.”
“I will, Mom. Love you too. Bye.” I hung up.
Forty minutes later I was throwing the delivery boy a two dollar tip. He was a guy in my History class.
“See-ya, Claire.”
“Bye, Trevor.”
I closed the door and set the box of delicious smelling pizza on the coffee table. I ate slowly, not thinking, just chewing. I didn’t turn the television on, I didn’t want to be bothered mentally more by the outside world that had already broken me into a thousand confused and painful pieces.
When I was done I went into my room to go to sleep.

I guess now that all the excitement is over, I realize how totally exhausted I am, I thought as I laid down on my bed.
I closed my eyes and fell deep into my subconscious. I had the dream again. I was getting used to the feeling that took over me as the masked figure came closer, but then I started thinking about that feeling.
I am not ashamed. I am not ashamed. I am not ashamed! I kept saying this to myself and then I moved my arm!
I could move my whole body! Without even thinking about it, I lunged forward and tackled the figure over before it could push me and Chris over the railing.
Then, the scene changed again. It was just me and the murderer in a white space that reached every corner of the world. My brain. My world.
They threw me off and started running away, but I got up and was on top of them again. This way and that, we wrestled for what seemed hours and hours. Finally, they fell down defeated. I got on top of them and, holding their legs and arms down, I stared hard at the mask, wishing that for once in my life I had x-ray vision.
“Who are you?” I asked, just now realizing I could make a sound.
“Oh, Claire, don’t you recognize me?” The voice was no longer a disguised one, but one that sounded so familiar, it scared me to think of who it was behind that mask.
I got off and backed away. I was scared of this person. I was scared of this place. I was scared of the truth. The truth could have killed me if it were a blade. It wasn’t small and blunt, but large and razor sharp, piercing through the softest parts of my body and heart.
“No,” I mouthed. I knew I could speak, but I didn’t want to.
They got up and walked over to me. It was a slow walk, like they were trying to keep up the suspense. When they were a foot away from me, they took the mask off.
I screamed. I fell. I shook wildly from confusion, hurt, and anger. I didn’t want to look at the face anymore. It was the face of a killer, a ruthless killer, who killed people I cared about. It was the face of someone who didn’t stop at pain. They went all the way to murder. It was the last face my friends saw until they unjustly died. It was the face that all my friends looked into and asked questions like, “Why are you doing this,” or, “Why is this happening?”
It was my face.


13. Let Truth Be Known

“Hey, Mom. How are you today?” I asked nervously as I walked into my mother’s room in the hospital. I said it nervously because I had to tell her the truth. The person who was in the mask. I had to tell her.
“Hi, Sweetie. What are you doing here so early? It’s only nine o’clock.” She studied my face. She knew something was wrong. “What is it Claire?”
“Uh, Mom, I found out something that,” I tried to search for words that wouldn’t make what I had to tell her obvious. “That is bad. Really bad.”
“Claire, nothing you say can’t have a solution. Just tell me what you came here to tell me, and we’ll get on with it. Now, let me see. Did you figure out who was behind the mask in your dream?”
Why does she have to do that to me?! Always being right!
I nodded.
She smiled. “Good! Honey, that’s great!” Her face became serious. “Now, tell me who it was.”
Do I tell her the truth? She’ll hate me for it! She’ll turn me in to the police! She’ll disown me! I have to tell her though. She’s my mom. She’ll try to help me. But her way of help is that stupid therapist! Maybe now she’ll send me to an asylum!
Stupid angel and devil.
“Claire, tell me who it was,” she said in a stern voice.
“Mom, it was my face. I was behind the mask.”
She didn’t say anything. Her face was frozen. There was no angry, terrified, heartbroken look. That was the look I expected, but it didn’t come. She just sat there, starring, not at me but at the air in between us. Her face had turned white though. Snow white.
“Mom?”
Nothing. She didn’t, or maybe even couldn’t, speak. Just starred.
“Mom, come on. It doesn’t mean anything does it?”
“Claire, Claire, Claire. Why would you do this? To all those kids? To me? Why do this to yourself? I don’t get it.”
So that was it. She thought I really did kill them. She’s accusing me for their deaths. But I didn’t! I couldn’t have! Could I? Could I really have killed all my friends?
“Mom, it wasn’t me. How could I have done it? They were friends of mine, I couldn’t kill them. Besides, I was asleep every time one of them died. And, why would I kill my friends? I can’t believe you’re accusing me for the ultimate crime!”

My mom stopped looking at me. She looked away from me, but she talked.
“Claire, Chris told you that the person who killed him was someone you both knew, and that this person was close to you. In your dream the person said that you had to do with everything in dealing with Chris’ death. When he saved me he told me that I needed to help you find this person. I have done that. It all makes perfect sense.” Her voice was cracking. “You did all of it, whether you know you did or not. Maybe an alter ego that you don’t know you have, I don’t know, but I do know that Chris was trying to tell you all along that you were the killer. I’m sorry Claire, but I have only two choices. One is to turn you into the police, which I will never do. The other is to make sure I have nothing to do with you ever again.”
Her words crushed me. My barrier was defeated. I started to cry. The things she was saying to me made sense, but I didn’t want them to. She knew the truth, and so did I. She dealt with it by saying she never wanted to see me again. I felt as if she had just killed me. Ironic.
“Mom! Please! Don’t say you don’t want anything to do with me!” I screamed in fear and rage.
“Claire, I don’t want to hear this. It only makes this harder. I want you to go home and get your things, including the money I saved up for you since you were six. You know where it is.