Chapter 1 – Museum of Her.
Thirteen minutes. Thirteen minutes until I can escape this hell hole of memories and reminders and go home to more memories and reminders, but, slightly more bearable ones. Slightly.
I stared out the window watching deep orange leaves float down to the ground, dancing around in the wind then settling on the muddy swamp that my school likes to call grass. Clouds floated by leisurely as if they had nowhere to be and no one expecting them.
Autumn used to be my favourite time of year, when baggy jumpers come out and everything is cosy and warm. The beautiful, rusty colours everywhere you look and the crisp chill that set in most mornings, just enough to pinch your cheeks until they were flushed and rosy.
Now it just reminds me of the end.
“Miss Scott, you have been very quiet today,” Mr Palmer said giving me a grin.
Most teachers have just let me stay quiet and daydream all lesson since I came back a few days ago. But not Mr Palmer. No, he loves to make things as difficult as possible for me. He enjoys picking on me when he knows I’m not listening and does that evil, crooked, sarcastic smile when I get the answer completely wrong and a few people at the bag snigger to themselves under their breath.
I guess it’s better than the others. They all gave me that face when I walk into the classroom. The one that says you poor thing, what must you be going through. I don’t want to upset you so I’ll give you a sympathetic smile because you’re being so lstrong being back at school. Yes. That face.
“Do you think you could tell us what the answer to the equation is on the board please Miss Scott? I would love to see you participating more in lessons please.”
After what felt like years of walking through corridors with people pointing and whispering, staring and giving me the face I was finally in my safe place.
The first thing some people do when someone dies is packs up their things, almost like they never existed. I read that it helped online when I googled ‘how to carry on living after your twin dies’. You could go through my search history and find the weirdest searches.
At the start I was willing to do anything to try and take away the excruciating ache that was coming from inside my chest, like someone had ripped my heart out and tried to glue it back in upside down. Every second of every day the pain got worse, eating me alive from the inside out, suffocating me, consuming me. I didn’t realise until a few weeks later when I’d read the millionth article on grief that it doesn’t go away. The pain never leaves. The gap is never filled. She is gone.
The room was exactly how she left it that morning. Exactly. Her old hairbrush thrown carelessly onto her dressing table, still with strands of her golden waves intertwined with the bristles. A few pieces of random jewellery scattered over the table. Her white, fluffy dressing gown spread out on her floor where she left it when she last left the house and next to it a pair of jet black heels that she was trying on to show me, planning on wearing them that night. A thin layer of dust lay on the surface of everything in her room.
I walked over to her wardrobe and sat down in the same place I sat every day after school, shut the door and closed my eyes. The faint smell of her still lingered on her clothes and I breathed in, inhaling her and making her alive in me again.
Her room is my museum. The museum of Octavia Scott. My dead twin sister.
So here is chapter 1. Please remember if you enjoyed reading to let me know with a comment or like. It makes me so happy to get a response!
Love, Lauren x