BILLIE'S NIGHTMARE

Chapter 29

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth, look over here!"

Click click click!

"Who are you wearing today?"

Click click!

"What inspired your outfit?"

Click click click click!

My blood boiled under the flames of my own anger. I hated press. Getting back home yesterday and finding my father shockingly present and drinking a glass of vodka was a bearable surprise. But being told I had a press meeting to attend with him to 'clear my name' was one I never wanted to even think of. But since it was my father and I saw no need to disobey him, I did it. He might have been absent for all my life, but at least he wasn't a traitor like everyone else in this useless world.

I stood on the platform and looked down on the crowd of press and paparazzi all pointing cameras at me instead of making eye contact. I can't stress how much I hate being in this position enough.

In order to contain myself, worse of all, Billie, I tightened my jaw and clutched my fist at my sides behind the podium.

Out of the numerous people calling out my name, I picked one amongst the crowd to ask me a question.

"What's your relationship with Josh Perez?" the man with dirty blonde hair asked.

Collaborated ache and fury squeezed my chest upon hearing his name. The world has no clue about his death yet. And according to the police and Ms. Perez, she came home to him missing and they don't know where he went. I have never felt more helpless in my whole life. I know where he is. I know that he needs help. But here I am, acting as if I wasn't the one that had dragged him to his death. Like I wasn't the one that had killed him.

I kept my expression indifferent and I looked the paparazzo or whatever he was, right in the eye as I replied.

"It's none of your business."

His face looked annoyed behind the camera, but I didn't give him the time of day as I picked on someone else.

"What inspired your new look? You hair, mean. Is it a form of rebellion?" A feminine voice filled my ears among the chaos in the room. I didn't even look at her, or give room for myself to identify her.

"I wouldn't say rebellion. More like raising my voice."

Brief. That's how I kept it. I know what they wanted. They wanted long, structured details on exaclty how I'm feeling, what I'm thinking and reason. Lots of reason. I gave her two sentences. I finally looked into her brown eyes and saw her face twist with annoyance. That makes two of us. I wanted to go home, but she didn't see me scowling.

"I'll cut straight to the point," one reporter said, "There have been rumours of you being in a satanic cult all over the media. What's your response to them?"

I paused, not because I was thinking but because I loved suspense. I could sense their anticipation. Their cameras clicked faster, their murmuring decreased into almost complete silence. They were preditors hungry for information. Information only I could give them.

"I like rumours," I replied. "Makes things fun."

Everyone silenced for a brief second as if processing what I had just said. When they realized I hadn't answered the question the way they wanted, my name rang out in the room from mouth after mouth as if it were an official language.

Again, I picked someone.

"You are a child of Christian upbringing and your parents have made this clear numerous times. Now, being a teenager and having your own opinion, what is yours based on Christianity?"