Jennifer Two

THIRTEEN.

May 23rd, 2016

I looked over to my wardrobe, where Jennifer One's old clothes sat hidden in a compartment. Sometimes my fingers would go to type something out on the laptop, but despite my deepest intrigue, I just couldn't do it. This time, I thought, Screw it. My 'mission' had to be carried out sooner or later.

I cracked my knuckles, and I let my fingers type in the name:

Bret Wade.

I found his Facebook account. His privacy settings meant that I could only see the odd photo, and a few of his personal details. I saw the Add Friend button clearly, as if it was highlighted. As if I should press it. But then I knew that it was an idiotic idea. Too many alarms would be raised. Plus, I was not here to flick through his statuses - I was here to see if I could find out where he lived.

"Jesus H. Christ." I sighed.

Five-hundred miles away. In the city of Presley.

I had to think everything through, because I was expecting him to live a little closer, but I could see that he really left Bluebeach and made a new life elsewhere. From what I could see, he was single. Divorced, no longer with his high school sweetheart, Sofia Francis. I remembered her from the photos in the attic; where there were some photos with Bret, there were some with him and another girl. I remembered Jamie flagging up her name. I couldn't see everything on his profile anyway, but anything I could see were an archive of photos from years back, as if he seldom uploaded much recently. The only way I really knew he was no longer with Sofia was by checking his relationship status, seeing single flash in front of me. Though I could still see photos of his wedding from years back.

I looked at Bret's features; he didn't look as old as I would have suspected. His hair had grown a lot since the photos in the attic. He definitely looked older...but he still looked the same. Just like a thirty-five-year-old version of himself, I guess.

I scrolled down a little further, distracted by the idea of any more possible photos. I saw him playing with a young boy; maybe three or four years of age. Time of upload: 2008. He would be around twelve by now. I knew for a fact that it was his son, and I began to feel nauseous. This won't work out, I thought. I should just drop it. Then I thought about the effect I...Jennifer-Rose... could still have on him. I wanted to know how he would react. I wanted to know if he would still miss me. Her. Me.

I didn't want to do anything too drastic – I would just take one trip, and then vanish off of his radar. I wouldn't leave any traces. I wouldn't tell him where I live, or who I was. This was just an experiment; to test the viability of connections. To know if when someone dies, you always miss them. I wanted to know if he would cope with Jennifer One's return. It's quite risky, not to mention cruel, and also probably illegal somehow. But I was bored of living, knowing that she had an unfinished life and she left with unfinished questions and answers, and sometimes I felt like was not here to replace her. I was here to close all of her doors. To seal up any gaps.

We always want to know what the dead would tell us if they could tell us anything at all. We invent ghosts. Ouija boards. We make mediums and psychics stinking rich, getting them to talk to those who aren't around anymore. I could just play that game. I could play the messenger of Death. Even if just for a while; I could make something out of the miracle that I am.

◆ ◆ ◆

November 17th, 1999

[Four months after the shooting]

"Bret?" Nicole's voice shakes, her tears are non-stop. The silence of the phone call is unbearable. "Bret, are you there?"

Over the line, he sighs nervously, "What is it?"

"They turned it off," Her voice cracks, sentence ending in a high-pitched tone. She can't stop crying.

"Turned... turned what off?" He falls apart instantly, voice wavering, wavering.

"They t-turned the life support off, Bret." Her breathing is jagged and jumpy as she stumbles over her words. She sits in a ball against her bed, chin buried between her knees. She's never felt this cold before.

She hears a glass break over the line. More silence.

"...Bret?" she sniffs.

"I'm sorry, I..." He whispers, trying to regain his composure. "I'm sorry." And he cannot stop apologising, over and over again, even when he has let the phone slide from his hand and his apologies become incomprehensible under his sorrowful moaning. Nicole keeps the phone stuck to her ear, too stiff to move. Her tears are non-stop.

"I almost went with her," Nicole keeps talking, not caring whether he's listening or not. Jennifer-Rose survived the longest, despite being confirmed brain-dead just a few days later. Now her parents decided to pull the plug, and she's gone. She's really gone.

Nicole hangs up, once she hears no more noise on the other line.