The Days Of Kelsea's

(13) Demi - Facts

(13) Demi - Facts

I'm recovering slowly from that blackout I had. My parents weren't happy with the report card. Only one A - In Art. The rest were Bs.

I want to find out what happened to her, I've suddenly realised it. Of course I wanted to before, but . . . I have just realised that now. I was clueless, so lost before. So detached from everything else.

And I won't find it all out by just reading her diary. Other things must be done.

I'll make a fact file first.

-NAME: Kelsea Elizabeth Richardson 

-DATE OF BIRTH: 7 November 

-DATE FOUND MISSING: 3 March (exactly two weeks and two days ago) 

-AGE WHEN MISSING: 18 

-FAMILY ACTIONS WHEN SHE LEFT: Father, step-mother and half-brother moved to Wales. Mother not yet back from London and has not been contacted. Mother has been there for the past three weeks. Unsure of return date. 

-CLUES: None at the present time.

-

Kelsea could be dead. She could be alive.

I don't know.

But all I do know is that there's no in between.

-

When I get to her road, everything is the same. The cherry blossom tree on the corner of the pavement, the broken fence on the end house. Kale Atticus's truck. The kennel in next door's garden.

When I stand in front of her house, everything's the same. The apple tree that her, Lucy and I planted. The blue door. The plant pot, which the spare key rests under. Picking it out from under there now.

Slotting it into the door now.

Going inside now.

-

I remember that date, March 3. 3/3. God, Kelsea's lucky number was always 3. Is that why she chose that date?

Or did she not choose her disappearance herself?

Did she want to leave, really?

I came up to see her.

I had heard what happened, everyone did. I wanted to be there, I wanted her to know I was her best friend. I wanted to give her my whole world, to replace the one she had just lost!

I came up on the first day. The first of March.

The day it happened. 1/3. 

No reply.

Second day. 2/3. 

No reply. 

She needed time, I know.

Third-freaking-day. 3/3. 

No reply . . .

Then I banged, shouted her. I grabbed the spare key. The lights weren't on like the other two days, and there was a strange silence that enveloped the house.

Something was different on that day. That is why I broke in.

And when I saw the empty hall, with the smothering, suffocating silence, I didn't want tocall out.

I was scared.

Of what? I haven't a clue.

When I stepped forward, the sound of creasing, rustling paper just about touched my ears from below.

And upon looking down, I saw the pink scrap of paper. With Kelsea's handwriting.

I bent down, to touch it.

Made sure it was real. Because Kelsea had been becoming less and less real as I hadn't seen her much. And this was an artefact of Kelsea, just as real or unreal as she could be.

I read from it silently, 

"You know when I always used to joke around saying, "Kelsea is in the house?" Well, I'm not. 

Not anymore.  

I never will be. 

Sorry."

No indication of who the note was for.

I took it to the police. They came to the house. They did nothing, just assumed that it was a silly eighteen year old girl messing around and said if I had further evidence they'd take it and investigate.

I stayed at Kelsea's house and looked around.

Her diary lay on the desk.

I took it home - simple.

Maybe she wanted it to be found. Maybe she didn't.

I told my parents, who spent hours in my room, trying to comfort me with words that never really penetrated my soul or heart.

And when they were gone, I started to read.

-

And here I am now, two weeks and two days later, in Kelsea's house. I've decided to pocket the key, if I'm going to come here regularly.

There's a thin layer of dust covering everything now. Her mum's big flowery umbrella is stood against the wall, and Avon magazines are stacked on the hall table next to the telephone. Through the sitting room, nothing's different, than what it was the day I first came here after it happened, the day I last came here.

There are still all the beautiful photographs, and the small TV on the cabinet in the corner of the room. The leather sofa is still piled with cushions, and the DVDs and CDs and books are all still stacked on the shelves high up on the walls.

How many sleepovers did we have in here, with that old tent from the garage? I remember how Lucy would bother us when she was about four and we were about eight.

I think I'll just do this room today. Call me a coward, I know. But the day I came by last just went by in such a blur that I didn't have time for memories or feelings, so it didn't hurt as much. But now I've got all the time in the world for emotions, so it will hurt.

There's scraps of material on the floor. I didn't examine this closely last time. As I bend down to touch the silky fabric, I realise it was once a dress.

I don't recognise it.

And amongst all the pieces in the pile of blue mess, there's is a tiny pink note, like the one I found that day.

Sometimes I wish it would rain in my room. To wash away all the memories. Not the good ones - the rain would listen to me and wash away the ones I'd want to be washed way. But maybe if I leave my window open at night, the rain will come in. And with it, so will all the spirits of people. Even if they're still alive. And they can be with me for just one night. - K

Like I did with the other pink note, I pocket it. I'll put it in my treasury box later.

I know what I'll do. I'll stay here for a while, and look at things. I won't tidy it up. I want it all to be exactly the same. On Monday, at school, I won't talk to people I don't need to. I won't listen to mum and dad anymore about how art is stupid. I'll come to the house often. I'll talk to people Kelsea mentioned in her diary. I'll collect artefacts.

Maybe I will solve this.