after alice; book three {5sos}

fourteen

as i'm slowly unpacking, waiting for louisa to arrive, i decide i want to hang up my polaroids again like they were in my old bedroom. before everything fell apart.

i gather the pegs and string from before and rest them on my bed, going to the dark velvet box with the worn edges again that i'm sure my mum used to keep her jewellery in.

as i flip through the polaroids, my legs crossed on the comforter, i admire them all, even those that are still raw to look at, yet still feel so close to my heart.

as i place one next to me, the one of kian and i at the coffee shop, i cast my eyes on the next one, my rhythm of methodically flicking through them: pausing, admiring, and then moving onto the next one, being interrupted. the nostalgia this time is twisted, uneasy, confused.

it's a polaroid of luke and i. we are sat together on grass, the sun sliding toward the horizon in the sky. we look happy, lacking any care in the world. luke is grasping a bottle of beer, his hair pushed up with an excessive amount of gel, his smile crooked and just as perfect as it always has been.

underneath, in neat handwriting that i don't recognise as my own but recognise meanwhile, there are several words that make my suddenly feel the warmth of the morning sun and the chill of the apartment at the same time.

i miss this. i miss you. -L

i feel sick to my stomach, with confusion, even though i should be pleased about this. i know i should be holding it between my fingers with delight, feeling like i'm holding a piece of him. but i can't, not as my mind wants to vomit up thousands of unanswerable questions. when did luke write this?

i miss this. i miss you. when he was alive, he didn't have the chance to miss me. i was always with him.

that's what causes the chills, the same chills that are a mixture of warm and cold that i felt in the shower as luke pressed his body against mine and allowed his tears to run with mine.

"what is this, luke?" i desperately speak aloud, sniffling and staring down at the small, squished together handwriting. it's luke's handwriting that has become etched on my mind.

i slide it to one side, my fingers still touching it, to reveal the next snap. this one is one i don't know, one that i don't recognise. i quickly flick to the next one, my fingers becoming damp with sweat, another one that i don't recognise. and another, and another.

snapped polaroids of luke strapped to a chair with a rabbit mask on his head, michael lying lifeless on the floor with a trail of crimsen blood leaving his body, a picture of me running through the woods, sprinting between the trees, a picture i don't recall seeing the blinding flash of. the last one is of me, lying on the sandy floor, my clothes stained with dust and blood, the fairground striking and towering over me in the background. the longer i look at the photo, the closer the rides appear to be closing in on me, causing the claustrophobia to squeeze at my mind.

i push the four photographs that i did not take and grab the one of luke and his familiar, tiny handwriting. i have the urge to kiss it all over, and i gasp when i realise my tears are blurring our faces and begin to furiousy wipe it with the sleeve of my sweater.

i place it in my back pocket, careful to make sure i didn't smear the ink. the other photos seem to be burning into my sheets, and i pick them up and carelessly toss them onto my desk, not wanting to look at them again. i open the top drawer and slide them in, wanting to forget about them for a moment longer before i decide what to do with them. my mind was at rest for a moment before i saw them, and now it's chaotic again with panic, worry and confusion.

there's a knock at the door. running into the bathroom, i wipe underneath my eyes and run a hand through my limp hair. i ask myself if i look like i've been crying and i tell myself i look fine, grabbing a tissue to quickly wipe my nose and throwing it away.