not okay {ziam}

eighteen

{eighteen}

apathy

-

+44 1632 960644

jane melrose's phone number is carved into my memory, as i chew on the thought of calling her. every second that i blink, i see the shiny black corners and the white letters of her business card imprinted onto the back of my eyelids. after spending far too much time contemplating, i realized i had nothing articulate to even say to her. there's nothing i can really tell her except: i truly don't know how to feel. i don't know what to think and i don't know what's real or not.

yet i'm deeply involved it seems, entangled in the webs of secrets and horror that i had no choice of getting stuck in. i didn't want it to be this way, but darkness follows me like the plague. i didn't desire any part in this catastrophe — because frankly, mandy and i didn't really know each other. well, i knew the image of her, but she didn't know me at all. apart from our faint conversation and the possible blossoming of our new friendship that never quite got the light of day— i truly don't think i took up much space inside of her mind. although it felt like i had the idea of her totally understood and defined, i honestly didn't.

this all confirms how much i truly don't know about anything or anyone.

undoubtedly, amanda is more than just the victim of a heinous murder that leaves our entire town breathless and trembling. nevertheless, she rendered me confused, as confused as i was when she finally acknowledged me in her casually sweet demeanor. the tears that streamed down her cheeks and the desperation in her voice as she announced to me, a complete stranger, she had been dumped by her thoughtless boyfriend, patrick. that is when it all started, right in that strangely delightful moment. she was much more than just a fantasy — she was as flawed and real as the little bumps on her nose.

yet, everything clashed from when we met, her warmth evoked zayn's possessiveness and my father's abuse. like a glimmer of hope, she was ripped from me before i had the chance to really feel it. to feel something that was good and pure, someone that was tender and safe.

was i to blame for her death? was my sheer presence the cause? the curse?

now, mandy seems like a pretty memory that i can't escape even when i try, with endless questions that cause my brain to throb — who would want to hurt her? someone sick and detached from reality. someone with violent tendencies and a slyness to get away with it.

though i wanted to stop my embroilment, the universe seems to pull me to her. or, rather, the mystery of her. when i fall asleep, i awake to find myself clutching my body and shivering. rolling over, i check my clock to find it is thursday at four o'clock in the morning. habitually, the finger prints engraved into my shoulders and my pounding heartbeat became a cycle i couldn't break. anxiety seemed to be the only thing keep me alive and somehow, i relished in it. i welcomed the routinely panic like an evil habit.

the dark voice in my head became my best friend.

groggily, i tug my running shoes on as melrose's reminder repeats in my head over and over again. you shouldn't run on your own through here with what's happened, it's not entirely safe — yet, i knew deep down that i didn't need to worry. for now, there's been a metaphorical pin stabbed into the heart of this entire investigation. someone's face is plastered onto the drawing board and circled big, bright, and red — like a game of guess, the suspect had yet to be finalized. yet i could sense the time ticking away, the end feeling near, whether it be good, bad, or ugly.