I Would Kill For You

10. Smile For The Picture

The bedroom was unfamiliar.

There were about six drawings on the wall, all the same rectangular shape and size, all done in graphite. They depicted different things: a girl reading a book, the mountains, a Labrador dog, fir-trees, a waterfall and a boy looking out the window. The paintings looked realistic, but they gave the room a melancholic ambience. The walls were a dark bluish-grey colour, and the furniture was approximately the same shade, only lighter.

I was lounged on a soft, large bed, and there was no one by my side. The windows were covered by white blinds, and the house was quiet. As I sat up, I remembered last night; the drinking, the dancing, Damian and the tears on Ellie's face, and after that, more drinking and partying and...blank. I had no idea how I ended up in that room.

I was wearing the same clothes as the other day (thank God), my white off the shoulder sweater and my black velvet skirt, and I was pretty sure I reeked of alcohol. My jacket and phone were nowhere to be seen, so I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was eleven past ten AM.

I put my boots on and got up from the bed slowly, extending my arms upwards and yawning. I still had a minor headache, but nothing compared to yesterday's throbbing pain.

I walked to the mirror and cringed. My curly hair was tangled and messy, my eyeliner wings were now non-existent, smudged around my eyes. I looked like a panda.

I headed to the bathroom and washed my face thoroughly, until I erased any trace of make-up, except my mascara, that still clung to my lashes. My eyes looked slightly bloodshot, probably because of the lack of sleep and excessive drinking. I desperately needed a glass of water. And a shower. But overall, I managed to make myself look somewhat decent. Half-decent.

I arranged the bed sheets and was about to leave the bedroom, when I noticed that the third drawer of the dresser was ajar. I should have left it just the way it was, but I felt compelled to close it properly. The drawer contained some old t-shirts and socks. Underneath the pile of t-shirts was a rectangular edge sticking out, like that of a book. I peeked clandestinely at the entrance to make sure that no one was there, and I took the book out. It was heavy, the size of an encyclopedia, but not voluminous. It was coated in faux pink fur and smelt of a scented candle.

What I mistook for a book was actually a photo album. And just by looking at it, by running my fingertips on top of the cover, I knew it belonged to Monica. But why was it here, hidden in that drawer, in a vacant house, instead of her own room? I opened it carefully, as if there were something dangerous inside.

That surely felt like trespassing. I traced the letters, picturing Monica right next to me, writing those words with a furry black pen. She really liked fur. I braced myself for finding something spectacular, out of the ordinary that needed to be kept secret, but the album contained nothing of the sort. There were photographs of her as a child, and she smiled in all of them, with her big blue eyes, chubby cheeks and braided blonde hair. She almost looked nothing like the statuesque Monica I knew, but the resemblance was still there, in the shape of her eyes, of her nose, of her impish, adorable smile.