1. The Beginning.
I don’t know what you want me to say. I can tell you that I had no idea who she was: or I can tell you I knew exactly who she was, and yet my undying love for her acted as a shield for it. But that’s not true, and this isn’t a love story. So I might as well start right at the beginning, on the night of her funeral.
I hate funerals. It’s everyone trying to make out it’s not a sad occasion, that it’s an occasion for celebrating the life of someone amazing. But everyone knew she wasn’t amazing, she never had been, and even if she’d lived for another twenty, she never would have been. But even if you don’t like the person, you come to their funeral out of ‘respect’. I mean, how messed up is that? They probably wouldn’t even wanted you there. She wouldn’t have wanted me there. But I was there, mainly because I wouldn’t have been able to face the whispers if I hadn’t have been. Don’t you just love whispers? Even if you don’t hear them, you know they’re there: they pester you, creep up your skin in that awkward place you can never quite reach.
“Archie!” The boy looked up at her. “Archie, why the hell are you here?”
The boy raised an eyebrow and looked around. “Why, are you hiding something?” There was a pause. Then a crash. The last thing the boy remembered was the glass and the blood. Scarlet, bitter blood.