So, now you know who I am, you probably wish that you didn’t. Too bad. I’m going to tell you the story of my life, quite literally. In fact, it’s not even a story because I don’t know the ending and everyone knows that a story must have an end, right? So it’ll just be like a diary without the cheesy ‘dear diary’ of course. I don’t want to totally put you off.
Here it goes.
It’s the middle of summer and I have already performed my fourth concert of the month. My singing career has really taken off, and is showing no sign of landing, since I won the Fel-factor. My name is being called out and Suzanne whisks me from backstage to give me some apple juice. I can’t sing without apple juice. In fact, it’s so nice I think about nipping to the shops to grab some digestive biscuits to dunk in it, but she’s already giving me the Hurry Up Or You’ll Miss Your Performance lecture. This isn’t such a good idea because I rush the juice, choke on it, and splutter it all over her new white dress. Oops. I apologise and offer her the rest of my apple juice but she gives me a look so icy I’m sure I can feel myself developing frostbite. So I put the apple juice back down, although it’s top of the range freshly-squeezed stuff, and saunter towards the stage. I only just miss being hit by a girl about my age rehearsing for her performance as she dances on a wrecking ball. I have to duck out of the way as the massive grey ball crashes its way through a building, sending bricks flying at my head. Disturbing on a whole new level, to say the least.
Finally I reach the stage and leap on. This is not easy to do in 8-inch-heels but I just about manage.The crowd goes wild. Everyone is screaming. Shouting. This is my third performance at the O2 arena but a thrill of exhilaration still rushed through my veins. I stand in the middle of the stage and belt out my newest single Felicity Forever to the audience.
Dad's muffled girly-shrieks whisk me back to reality. “What on earth was that noise?” I hear her, oops sorry, him wail.
My bedroom door flies open. “Felicity,” he pants, which is worrying since he only had to walk across the landing. “Out. Now. There’s been a killing. I heard the victim. She made a blood-curdling noise. We don’t know where the noise came from. Get to safety.” His eyes dart from left to right as if he expects someone to jump from the shadows and I cringe as he raises his arms in exasperation: there are seriously massive sweat marks under his armpits... "Felicity. Don't just sit there. MOVE!" Dad yells, a tsunami of spit flying from his mouth, his red face resembling a wet beetroot. But I simply continue to twiddle my hair, unable to take my eyes off his disturbing underarms.
I mean, seriously, what is he talking about? There's been a killing?! Ha. There's been a killing my foot. That sort of drama in this village is about as rare as Mum cooking something and people not darting for cover in gas-masks and goggles. Yep, basically impossible. Therefore, there is only one reasonable explanation for this nonsense: this time Dad's really, actually lost his marbles.
My science teacher once told us that people who are extremely intelligent live a shorter life than someone who is totally clueless. It was probably a fact that she plucked out of thin air but even so, I was chuffed that my family would live a long life. They would practically be immortal.
Anyway, surely I would have heard these ‘blood curdling’ screams? Unless... of course! Suddenly I start laughing hysterically. My dad stares at me like I’m a madwoman and then waddles downstairs to the phone. I hear him calling an ambulance.
Click. The backdoor opens and mum bounds in from her daily gardening. Her hair looks like a bird's nest, which is quite fitting since she claims to be so green.
“What’s all the racket about?” she asks.
I hear my Dad's trembling voice reply, “I was on the landing. There were screams, we don’t know where they came from, but they seemed so close by. What’s more, Felicity’s gone insane!”
Ha. He's one to talk.
“This noise… was it truly, horrifying? Like a screaming constipated monkey?” Mum says, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
“Oh Mark, that’s just Felicity’s singing. No doubt she’s standing on her bed dunking Digestives in her apple juice whilst doing something that could hardly even be described as singing.”
“Wait a minute! Was that you Felicity?” Dad asks, looking at me properly for the first time from the bottom of the staircase (I told you he's slow). “Why on earth did you make that wretched sound? Why are you wearing your mother’s heels heels? What have you done with the apple juice? Felicity!”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” I say indignantly, slipping out of my high heels and wiping away the apple juice that is speckled across my whitewashed bedroom walls. I have no idea how they got there. Honest.
Alright, who am I kidding? So maybe I’m not a pop star with the voice of an angel. More like a teenager with the voice of a dying cat. Maybe Suzanne is my bedroom wall and her new white dress is my newly whitewashed wall. Maybe the crowd screaming in pure joy was actually Dad screaming in pure terror. But hey… opera isn’t my strong point.
"Wait a minute Jeremy, where's Amara? " I hear Mum ask from downstairs.
I sit up straight. For once, mum's right. Where is Amara. She left late last night, saying she was staying at Natalie's, but she was meant to be back home an hour ago. Strange. She's usually so organised. So reliable. Well, she must have been having a hell of a good time at Nat's house to have lost track of time, I flick on my phone and call her. The phone rings three times and then the line is cut off. I start to get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. How did we not notice that she wasn't back yet? I go downstairs and grab my keys.
"Fel, have you seen..." Mum begins.
"Looking for her now," I shout as the front door slams behind me.
I march to Nat's house, thoughts bouncing around my brain with each step. What was Amara doing on her phone to use up so much battery when she always charges it the night before? Couldn't she have called us on Nat's phone? Hang on, didn't her and Nat have an argument only a couple of weeks ago? Nat isn't the type to forgive and forget...
I quicken my pace.
Once at Natalie's house I grab the knocker and three long knocks echo around the house. Feeling too much like a policewoman, I plaster a smile across my face as Natalie answers the door.
"Hello?" she says, in more of a question than a greeting as she looks me up and down suspiciously. "You alright mate? You look kinda... weird."
So much for my fake-smile.
"Um, hi." I say, feeling uneasy. This is no time for small talk. "Has Amara left yet?"
"Left?" she asks, her perfectly waxed brows furrowing in confusion. "Babes, Amara never came in the fist place. I don't even think we're friends any more."
An overwhelming sense of nausea overpowers me as I struggle to make sense of what Natalie has said. I clutch the doorframe to steady myself. If Amara's not been at Natalie's house, then where in the world has she been since Saturday night? She's such a good-girl, no one even questioned her. If she said that she was going to go to Natalie's house, then she was going to go to Natalie's house. End of. Or at least that's what we thought.
I turn away from Natalie and stagger away from her, ignoring the stream of questions flowing from her mouth. "Amara!" I scream relentlessly. "AMARA!"
I don't how long I stumble around in a daze but suddenly I'm aware that I've wondered into an alleyway. There's only a crack of light and I gag as a stench like no other curls itself around my nostrils. The disfigured remains of a statue weeps sorrowfully, it's arms stretched towards the sky as if begging for mercy. Without warning, my foot gets caught in a clump of moss that has snaked its way from beneath the stone floor. Thud. I tumble, with no time to brace my fall, onto the damp ground of the alleyway. My head throbs. My ears ring. My eyes sting.
It takes me a while to recover enough to regain my sight so at first I don't notice it: the body. At first I don't notice the battered, bloody corpse laying like a ragdoll before me and when I do, something cracks deep within my chest. Although the body is bruised and disfigured something clicks in my mind. Oh no. No! A moan starts deep within me and seeps out through my mouth until I am shrieking and shuddering uncontrollably. The face is deadly familiar because it reflects my own features. Exactly.
Author's note: I don't know if this movella is even remotely interesting and whether it's even worth finishing this story. So please, if you'd like to read more, drop a like so I know if people actually like this. Or leave constructive criticism advising me how to improve and what would make you like it. Thanks! xox