Shoot Me Down

Part 8

It’s hard to tell how many days go past. Two I think. Time seems to pass incredibly slowly, yet when I turn and look at the clock I don’t know if it’s two o’clock on a Tuesday, or Wednesday. How long have I been dead for? Does it even matter?

            I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I’ve already found the one condemning bit of evidence there is, and it isn’t much. Just my knapsack and purse piled in the corner of Nakia’s bedroom. What would dad make of that? I wouldn’t have run away without it, so it raises questions, but it isn’t as good as blood on the floor or anything. I can’t think of how to handle it. I should go home to my parents, but a part of me doesn’t want to see them, because I know they’re probably getting more and more worried. I don’t want to see the panic on their faces when they realize I’m really not coming home. Plus there’s something about this house that seems to have trapped me. A kind of sick curiosity that won’t let me leave. I can’t stop watching Caleb and Nakia, like they’re the main characters in a macabre little play I’m watching. What will they do next?

On the second day my parents call Nakia. She barely holds it together, and I think the only reason she doesn’t burst into tears is because Caleb stands over her during the call, his hand resting on the back of her neck in a gesture that might have been comforting with anyone else, but ends up being threatening and controlling. I watch, my fingers curled into fists, body shaking with anger, as she tells my parents she hasn’t seen me since last night.

            Her voice shakes a little bit as she says, “No, I don’t know. She was here for the party, but she must have left this morning after sleeping over. She took all her stuff with her, yeah, a knap sack of stuff.”

            Liar. I picture myself punching Caleb out and knocking the cell phone out of Nakia’s hands. I’d slap her too, for good measure. Now if dad comes to the house he’ll know they’re lying. My stuff is very much still there, piled in the corner still. A half empty Vodka bottle sits on top of my purse, which huddles in an incriminating pile in the corner. Now, how do I get my parents to come over here so they can see it?

            “She’s not at home?” Her voice goes up an octave, and Caleb’s fingers tighten on the back of her neck. “That’s really strange. No. Yes.” A low murmur on the other end, my mother’s voice. “ Okay, I’ll talk to Caleb for you, but he’s been here the entire time, same as me. I don’t think he knows more then I do. Sorry. I’ll try calling her cell phone as well. Okay, by Mrs.M.”

            Her nick name for my Mom. I blink back angry tears. My mother did so much for her. Making us dinner all the time, letting her sleep over. Even when we were kids Mom must have known that Nakia’s home life was bad, because she tried to have her over as much as she could.

            You practically lived with us, I try to drill holes in her forehead with my eyes, wishing she could feel the intensity of my anger, and now you’re lying to her.

Nakia hangs up the phone and looks up at Caleb with wide eyes, as if to ask if she’s in trouble.

            “That’s fine,” he grunts, and holds his hand for her cell phone.

            “Why do you want it?” Nakia sits very still, her hands are shaking.

            “I need to know if she calls you again. I need to be there to make sure you say the right thing.” Caleb’s blonde eyebrows draw downwards, his temper is starting to show. Again, I wonder how I dated him for a two months and never saw this side of him. A little voice inside me tells me I did see that side, just not directed at me, and I loved it because I thought he was aggressive and masculine. And I was being rebellious by dating him. My parents never liked him, which is part of what made him so attractive.