Get Out If You Can

Emilie | No Weddings And A Funeral - Part One

When I went back home, after staying in the hospital ward for a while, I felt like I hadn't been here in years.

Maman hugged me harder than she ever had before when I entered. She didn't let go of me for maybe ten minutes or so. Finally, she let me stay in my room for a while, because Papa said I needed rest. And alone time. He was right, I did.

I'd told Maman about the gun. She didn't mind, really. She just said she was glad it got lost in the fire. To be honest, I am, too.

My room looks weird. Funny. Different. Earlier, it looked perfect. I liked it. I liked the way the Polaroid wall displayed every one of my supposed 'adventures' with Kat, Aria, and a number of other 'popular' people, like me. Like I was.

Caitlyn wanted to kill us, right? Yeah, she succeeded. The Emilie that left this house isn't the same Emilie that walked back in. The former is dead. And I'm glad.

I take off my dress and lay it on a corner of my bed. Might as well take a shower.

***

I get into a loose hoodie and gym shorts, and for some weird reason, I'm suddenly energized. I know I should sleep; I spent all of the night – or whatever was left of it, after those ten hours – in the hospital. Early morning sunlight is already filtering through the sheer curtains. In a few hours, the funeral's taking place.

A funeral for five people. One of them was murdered and one of them did the murdering. The rest? No one knows. Apparently, in a way, this will also be Kari's funeral – because no one knew she was dead all this while – or at least that's what the internet said. I assume the police have already read and analyzed the letter and the footage Caitlyn left behind. There's no way they would take our word for the truth. When under-eighteens are witnesses, the formal way of handling things is putting on a patronizing face and amusedly remarking, 'they're just kids.'

When I entered my room. I'd decided to check my phone. Bad move, that was. Some of the content of the letter, and some of the descriptions we'd given the police when they'd gotten us out were leaked – and it was all. Over. The. Place. Horribly warped stories were spun and thrown around, and the worst part wasn't even that. The worst part was everyone was devouring them.

The internet had already split into sides. The news was made. 'Historic Calleja Manor Destroyed' was the mildest headline I'd read. People were pulling up news articles, pictures, childhood stories, family histories, criminal charges, social media profiles – basically anything they could get their hands on. I'm lucky I'm not as well-known as Diego and Matt are. There's a whole subreddit dedicated to explaining Matt's 'belligerent tendencies' and 'criminal history' to the unversed and curious, its main aim being establishing why Matt must've killed Caitlyn in the Manor. It's already got a few thousand contributors. It's fucking horrible.

Hunter, Alison and I haven't got much attention so far. I mean, yeah, our pictures and school snapshots are floating around the internet, but no one's gone as deep as they have with Diego and Matt. Matt's got it the worst. I looked Diego up, and most of it was basically tween kids gushing about how pretty he looked. I wish I could roll my eyes more at that one. I'd sent a couple of those posts to Diego, whose number I now have, surprisingly, and he hasn't replied yet. Ha.

As for the rest? Callenfield's rife with gossip. As we always have been. Give our little neighborhood a story of a dead girl walking, and this is what you get.

I turn down the lights in my room so that they glow a mild auburn, and flop myself on the bed. I pick up my phone, for having nothing else to do – and scroll through my feed. It's full of news stories; might as well read one and see how far they've got it right.