Chapter 1 - Things are not always as they seem.

I suggest you listen to this song while reading: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJ3ZM8FDBlg

Ever had the feeling you were being watched before? Like when you're casually munching on fries and then all of a sudden, BAM! You feel someone's eyes on you. Well, I had that feeling right now, while finishing up my soup at 'Fill My Cup', the local soup restaurant. Had I seen her before? No, I didn't know her. I couldn't have. She smiled at me all the same. She looked familiar... Like, someone from my trip, but that girl told me she was from Wisconsin. I lived in Canada. Wisconsin and Canada, or where I lived at least, were not close. 

  "Effenie, aren't we going?" I hear my cousin Grace's voice. It's distant in my ears. 

   "Yeah, yeah," I say, absentmindedly taking the napkin and dabbing at my mouth. I slowly get out of the booth and loop my arm through hers. As we leave, I turn to see the girl give a small smirk and a wave. 

   "What was that?" Grace asks, as I snap back into focus as the cool wind hits me. I look back at the restaurant we were just in. 

  "Just, I thought that I saw someone I knew... It's fine," I say, pushing hair behind my ear. Grace sighs, almost in approval. We continue walking back to the apartment, crossing a few streets, chatting about whose soup was better, and giggling like crazy over the silliest of things. Grace was my best friend, and I was just lucky enough that I was related to her. When we reach apartment building, climb the many stairs and reach the door, I unlock it and throw the keys onto the kitchen counter just a few feet away. Unfortunately, they hit the countertop and slide right off.

   “So, who did you think you saw?” Grace asks, walking over to the island and placing her elbows on it. I laugh and bend over to pick up the keys. I slap them onto the counter and lean over the island like Grace.

   “Someone from my trip, but they live in Wisconsin, so it couldn’t have been her,” I say, looking at the picture frame on the edge of one of the kitchen’s counters. The girl from Wisconsin, otherwise known as Emilie, and I, were standing next to the railing, jokingly looking like we were about to fall off the cruise ship, in the picture. She was a beautiful, pale girl, with stunning locks of black hair and striking blue eyes. My square jaw, brown eyes and brown hair looked like nothing compared to her. I didn’t love her for her beauty though; I was more of the personality kind of chick. I loved her, for her. She was incredibly fun, and laughing with her felt like such a privilege. I feel Grace follow my gaze and turn back to me.

   “Her?” she says, walking over and picking up the picture frame. She examines it and puts it back. “She’s pretty, but I didn’t see anybody there that looked like her, cous. Maybe it was just your eyes, playing those damn tricks.” I smirk at her comment. My eyes were always playing “those damn tricks”, this was probably another one. Grace smoothly rounds the corner of the island, pulls the fridge door open and sticks her head inside.

   “Are you kidding me? We just ate!” I exclaim, giggling. What a waste of money, and soup. I would’ve surely eaten her bowl as well as mine. Her addicting laugh lingers through the air as her head pulls out of the fridge. After running the apple through the sink, she chomps down on the fruit. How could anyone be hungry after that meal? Well, the answer to that was Grace. After my cousin finished her apple and we watched a few hours of TV, she kisses me on the cheek and leaves. All is silent. I pull out my journal from under the couch’s cushions and open it up on my lap.

  I can’t believe I’m actually writing in this thing. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything really. That’s going to change. I need to start up on my poetry again. Start with haikus, end with free verse. Sounds like a decent, sustainable plan.

  I close the journal gently, then realize how I feel, and slap it on the ground. It was undeniable, I was always enraged after writing in that thing, no matter the length or time I put into it. Especially with my poetry, but emotion was good for us literal artists. My plan was to fall back into my love, my passion, but start off in the shallow end, one step at a time, until complete invasion of what I love took place. I was a poet, one who knew the roots of poetry like I had it encrypted into my mind. Grace never understood my love for a “silly little hobby”, but it was more than that. I had to get all this poison out of my head. Poetry was my love, but a clear doorway to a horrible path. I look over and see the bottle of alcohol, teasing me to make my way over to it. It was past six. It would be okay to have a drink, just one. Right? My feet didn’t seem to listen, and before I knew it, I found myself standing in front of it. I shakily grab a glass from the cupboard overhead. I fill the cup only to about a quarter full. I had to control myself. Prevent all that past shit from coming back. Flooding. Taking over as easily as poetry did. I press the edge of the glass to my lip, inhale the scent, lean the glass back, and lose myself.

What time was it? I groggily turn my head to the side and peer my eyes into slits, struggling to see the clock. All I could make out was the glowing two at the start. I rest my head against the couch again and sigh. I was slumped between the coffee table and the couch, my ass numb from the wood paneled floor.

  “I’m safe, up high, nothing can touch me,” I slur. Okay, so maybe singing P!nk at two in the morning, while drunk, was not a good thing. I didn’t seem to care. I sing messily, spitting here and there, belting out with my terrible voice. My vision dances, everything is blurred; the lights are dimmed for my fragile eyes. “Why do I feel this good sober?” I continue, then, I pause to laugh at the irony. No sobriety here. I can feel the alcohol, the mass consumption, seep through my veins. I could feel it tugging at the memories, what had happened on that damned ship. It wasn’t always butterflies and lollipops, was it? I also feel something else. Hate, pain, maybe sadness? It was too hard to tell in such a foggy haze. I start to pull myself up, and dizzily make my way to the bathroom. I flick the light on, which is sheer torture for my eyes. Then, I vomit. It was bound to happen, the bottle was dry and my glass was empty. Tears form as my throat aches, and I collapse to the floor. Emilie stands in the doorway. Or I think it’s Emilie. She couldn’t be her.

  

  “Effenie!” It’s her voice that shrieks my name. I feel her arm on my shoulders as I’m shaken violently. I close my eyes slowly.

When I open them, it’s morning, and the sun is shining brightly. My eyes kill, and my head feels like I was hit with something heavy, right to the temple. I prop myself up weakly on my elbows, and I realize I’m on my bed. I don’t even know how that’s possible, as I remember being on the bathroom floor, with a fuzzy view of Emilie. It was probably a dream. I wouldn’t have done that. It takes me a few minutes, but I head to the kitchen. I look around, and see nothing out of place, no empty bottle, nothing. Until I look closely enough at one item. The picture of Emilie and I. Emilie’s face was replaced by scratch marks, like someone had dragged a knife across it or something. My heart stopped. Chills run down my spine. Not only was Emilie’s face gone, but mine was too. I knew for sure, I hadn’t done this. Someone had broken in. Someone had come, scratched out our faces. Something was wrong. I took my time, and slowly wandered over to the bathroom door. It smelled clean, like lemon tile cleaner, the kind I used. Grabbing onto the moulding of the doorframe, I slowly swing my body inwards, to look into the bathroom. It wasn’t until I saw the same scratch marks on the mirror, with the word “DEAD” carved into the glass that my blood froze, and I heard the front door close.