Silver Meadow's Stories

A Short Story by Silver Meadow

(TW: Blood)

I’m at the end. But since the story must be told from the beginning, fine: I’ll start in the middle of nowhere then I can go home…right?

I hope you understand my side of it.

It was the day before our concert. I sprinted into the auditorium because I’d be late to practice—or, at least I thought I would be, and although I usually stood off-centered on the very last riser, blocked by Ashley Adams, you were front and centered under these stage lights. Where else would the soloist for our final piece stand?

So I had no choice but to sit in the dark expanse of Rosewood High’s auditorium, with vines and craftsman work carved into the walls like some prestige—still, chipped plaster snowed from the ceiling. The only member in the audience. I thought you saw me when our gaze matched, but your face remained flat as though darkness stretched it taut once I waved timidly.

Mrs. Lucy’s grand piano rang throughout the auditorium as she ran up the scale, warming these keys up. You continued to stare eyes wide like Godzilla squeezed into the darkness and would gash on a note too sharp or flat. Mrs. Lucy drilled her usual vocal warm ups; the ones she did for us, too. You guys started out with LaLaLa’s, and your voice layered atop like buttercream frosting fresh out the mixer. Yet this was too sweet for our maxi dress and red nailed music teacher, Mrs Lucy commanded “project!”

You did.

“Louder!” Her fingers slammed into the keys, running up the scale.

Your forehead vein emerged, I saw from my seat.

“Sing out!”

Your neck veins matched and every pillar of neck muscle strained.

“Beautiful!”

Your La gurgled—it was clipped short. The mic was moved and softly echoed you coughing into your hand as crimson painted your palm and dribbled on your chin; you made three students on the second riser faint (bone-chilling). That’s when I knew something was wrong…

But what mattered most? You couldn’t see me.

That was my leverage.

You decided the end-of-school-year party you were hosting that night was still a go, was more important than your upper body being placed under an x-ray just a few hours before. The doctor said everything appeared normal, just don’t exasperate yourself while singing. At least…that’s what you wrote to me.

You didn’t share much about the party.

You didn’t have to.

The bass vibrated the entire house. My room wasn’t mine anymore, it was yours. I didn’t care much about the party going on downstairs because your room was far more intriguing: how everything required a shelf or some kind of unnecessary compartment and if not that, constituted an oddity. You color coordinated your perfume, clothing, and sticky notes while I was lucky if I could distinguish what clothes were clean or dirty on my floor. Mom would scream about the dusty corners, yet every speck of your room was polished and trailed a scent of lemon.

You barged through the door, running into your connected bathroom. Tuh, that bathroom: you didn’t have to share with your brother because he had his own, and it was attached to his room as well. You sprinted past me. I stiffened as though a lack of movement equated to lack of visibility, but, even if you could’ve seen me, you probably wouldn’t’ve. You were too busy flossing your teeth for the fifth time that night.

“I’m not crazy! I didn’t get all of it out!” You yelled at the guy who you just knew would follow you around like a duckling—your boyfriend.

One time, I went to our school’s therapist. You wouldn’t know her because why would you need professional help for your mental health? Everyone liked you. Anyway, I told her that I didn’t like home or school, yet I was sent back and forth like a game of existential ping-pong. She asked me if I could go to a friend’s house as a third place; I told her I didn’t have any. She then asked if there were any extracurricular programs I was interested in. I told her I’ll think about it (I didn’t). Finally, giving up, she asked if I had a boyfriend. Unaware of the knife she twisted between my rib cage’s flesh.

So it felt odd watching a guy like you and told me what I should’ve cultivated so maybe I could experience that, too. Wear make up, trendier fashion, pile topicals on my face. Then I shooed the thought away because our foundations were polar opposite: what worked for you could never possibly be the same for me.

You sucked your teeth in the mirror, “the blood, it’s still there!”

You filled a dixie cup until it spilled over the edge and rinsed your mouth out. The only thing you were doing was making your dentist happy, but this blood was still wedged between your teeth…at least that’s how you saw it.

Your boyfriend took your hand and guided you out of that bathroom with the floral shower curtain and occupancy capacity of one status. He moved that braid that belonged to a host of braids costing you three hundred dollars and my mom wouldn’t even let me get Boho Knotless for one-fifty. He stared into your face because you were beautiful. Your skin was smooth. Your face deserved brand deals.

You said, “I had a panic attack in history today…I was just sitting there and then my heart squeezed and there was a lump in my throat, like a marble was stuck or something.” a tear beaded under your eye. “It felt like I was dying…then I coughed up blood during choir and my solo is tomorrow! If I can’t perform…”

Your sentence trailed because your boyfriend caressed your cheek; it kinda reminded me of those k-dramas I used to watch but that would twist the knife, too. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, gazing into your teary eyes. At that moment, I wondered which was more important: experiencing my first boyfriend or world domination, or better, destruction. 

You both sat at the edge of your bed. I leaped off. You couldn’t see me, but I wasn’t sure if that made me ghost status. I wouldn’t dare try to tap your shoulder. Yet here I was…in your perfect life. All you had to worry about was making a solo that you received because you had the voice of an angel eating angel cake— so did I—yet Justina Willis earned the solo when we sang the same song, Justina, out of key, and I, like I don’t tremble if I raise my hand in class. I gave my all. Climbed the hill just to realize I had no choice but to fall back down.

We had the voice of an angel, but you were popular; I was the girl everyone laughed at because my all wasn’t enough.

Mom creaked the door open when your boyfriend kissed your cheek, thank God. Vanilla cupcakes with velvety blue frosting rested on a plate for me. I remember, mom asked me how I was feeling that day and to which I responded, “blue.” Never suspected she’d carve time out of her confection-filled schedule to bake cupcakes for me and not clients bringing paint swatches from Home Depot to match their frosting and cake batter with…I digress, what was important was me being shoved out of your world. I found myself there at my choice but had no clue as to when my session would expire. The more I engaged, the more I investigated, the longer I got to stay and linger.

Why did I feel a streak of incorrectness when I did? Subtle as a glimmer in a creek or an adlib one notch above mute, but that never stopped me. This was too entertaining.

Later that night, I opened my diary and read your entry:

Entry#75

05/20

Dear Amira,

I have a weird question for you…do you ever feel like someone is watching you? Like deeper than surveillance cameras or your phone’s microphone but like someone is literally hovering over your shoulder? I’ve been feeling eyes on me sometimes. I’ve been so sick. No fever, though. Maybe not even a typical queasiness, more like my soul is slowly tearing and shedding? You ever get that feeling, too?

Anyway, how did your making new friends project go? Did you round up at least five by the end of this year? If you did, it’s probably because you took my advice on wearing that graphic t-shirt haha. I bet people started all kinds of conversations with you. I hope you write me back…it’s been a while. I never knew if you got that solo or not! I’m dying over here girly!!!!

Love, 

Amira.

Sorry for ghosting.

However, that’s when I noticed our worlds drawing toward one another. ‘If only our worlds could merge as one,’ I sang in my head; the problem was, we both can’t live in the same world; there was only room for one, so I concluded I had to kill you—but, now that I think of it, you were already dying. If I knew that at the time I still would’ve. I would’ve believed your death was something I needed to be an active participant of. If I were a bystander, our connection would cease to exist.

So the next day: Friday night, our concert was the best time. I knew better than to bring a weapon to school, so I pocketed my mom’s handheld dough hook as discreetly as I could. Cold metal curved along my lower back and threatened to pierce me from any sudden movement. That wasn’t a complication on my end because stage fright began to stab me instead. Silly me, I begged Mrs. Lucy to swap me and Ashley Adam’s places since I was in desperate need of glasses and couldn’t see her cues from the last riser—lies.

Even if my stage fright increased, more importantly, Ashley’s spot put me closer to you: all I had to do was twist the dough hook into your back in under three seconds before anyone noticed anything. But it was irrelevant if they did. In my mind, our universes would merge and rewrite themselves, bowing before the triumphant, living, and breathing version of us; resetting the course of history as though your death never existed.

Of course, I didn’t consider if this would destroy your universe or mine because that risk didn’t outweigh the benefit. It was more likely that I could take over your life because why else would this be happening?

Why would I buy a diary and write my first entry just for the next to be from you? How dare our worlds dance around each other yet I was the only one who got a view? You were stuck in pages with words that I wrote and you had to believe; I had the perfect lens into your life and watched you have everything I dreamed of: friends, good grades, my own bathroom, a car, as much as love life as teenagers could possibly have. So I stared out into the dark expanse of Rosewood High’s auditorium, flattening my face and understanding that the only reason I got access and you didn’t was because I needed to get rid of you.

This was how everything I dreamed of would transpire.

The crowd cheered at us finishing up our piece, singing like the angels we were. I shut my eyes like I always did to enter your world. And as the weight pressed into my mind, I thought about my parents, my brother, and how they promised to have dinner at Olive Garden after the concert. I smiled. After I got rid of my alternate self, I’d eat dinner with my family. Finally, I’d know what happiness felt like…I thought.

There you were, standing front and centered in your sparkly dress and breathing shallow, too short for a solo. ‘Were you alright?’ I questioned your health. Yet you gripped the mic tightly and sang out, ignoring your doctor’s orders since your neck muscles bulged. The crowd yelped and clapped, but not loudly enough to mute your voice softly floating around this auditorium—you put Godzilla into a trance induced sleep.

Somehow, tears flooded my waterline and I questioned my health for a moment: was I doing the right thing? What was wrong with my life? With me? I had a loving family, beautiful home (even if I had to share it with my annoying brother), and an unlimited supply of baked goods.

Was this game of existential ping-pong that bad?

Was everything really that unbearable?

And your voice was merely a reflection of your soul. How you wanted to help the struggling version of you. How, despite sitting atop clouds, looking down from the pinnacle of the social hierarchy, you never struck those who clawed their way up down with lightning. You never pressed down on those who held up the foundation.

I blinked a tear out of my eye and just as it fell, so did my pity. You were an angel, but I was bullied, singled-out, belittled, and pressed pain deep into the Earth. You never had to question the validity of your existence, if you deserved the right to live. You never wondered if you mattered to those around you. No weight for you to carry up Everest or any rug to stand on being tugged from underneath. I had things that you didn’t have, but you always had more, and the things we shared were insignificant. You skipped along the edge of canyons; lived oblivious to the abyss below your feet. 

I awaited you in it.

We reached the bridge of the song where you held a note for twelve seconds, impressive. I wrapped my fingers around the dough hook and took my first step. Everything had slowed like time passed through Jell-O. I trudged forward anyway, retrieving my weapon, ready to stab you. Mrs. Lucy’s piano rang clear and rapid among our fluid state and only increased my heart rate and rattled that knife everyone twisted.

My cautiousness was just an extra layer since no one could see me. You couldn’t see me…I thought.

Your note was clipped. You lowered your arms, which you had dramatically raised to accompany the final note. Instead of completing it, you looked over your shoulder with your iris at the corner of your eye, staring at me. I froze with my dough hook inches from your back, then your stomach as you turned to face me. What scared me most was how your eyes didn’t wander. My dough hook weapon was not even considered, just my eyes, my face. And the look on yours was hollow like someone hit a reset button on your existence: me.

Before the severity of how dumb this idea was squeezed my frontal lobe, you fell like a sequoia snapped on a muggy summer day. Like a glacier succumbing to a heating world.

Your eyes leaving me not once.

My dough hook not touching you once.

Time caught up, and the crowd gasped as the mic bounced on the stage. Just as you, the mic laid there stiffened, dead. Your eyes remained open with that stare you had for the past few days. Crimson poured from your mouth, staining your teeth the same. Regret towered over me as nothing shifted: just you on the floor, students and parents scattering, and me, still invisible with a dough hook. Regret doesn’t hinder consequences, so darkness wrapped around my throat and limbs, tangling me up with vines; pulling me into the unknown. This void closed in front of me like the curtains that would’ve if you didn’t die.

I was left under a drizzle I felt but couldn’t see. Cold ground that was slick as Rosewood’s stage, where was I?

“Child, you have committed a heinous act, interfering with an alternate timeline, and causing existential mayhem…”A voice thundered over the dark expanse.

She sounded like my mother when I would leave my laundry in the dryer for too long.

“…this act is unredeemable: ending the life of another in an alternate dimensional timeline…rendering an existential imbalance. Those who commit such acts end up here.” Lightning bulbed in what I believed was the sky. “ Yet, I honor your right to defend yourself. Speak.”

So I told my story as though I was talking to you, Another Amira. The end.

“I’m not guilty. I didn’t kill her! I can go home now, right Hades?” my voice echoes through the darkness.

“Hades?” She scoffs. “Child, your dough hook wasn’t your weapon, you were: your presence was her death sentence.” She chuckles with thunder which only encourages the rain to sharpen. “Your remorse is evident but your lack of awareness, comical.”

“Let me go back to my world. Let me see my family!”

I frantically look around and run through this void, but her cloaked face presses into this expanse, wide as the horizon. The only thing I can see. “You chose to interfere with an alternate timeline and stir chaos, inciting a cross-dimensional error. We only have one choice: blot you and every variation of you from existence as though no one ever knew you or will know you…you will wander the abyss.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“You will have no family to run back to because you no longer exist. It will be as though they never nurtured you. Perhaps a fate you failed to consider.”

I thought ending her life would give me her world, but I ended up destroying ours equally. Taking a cosmic eraser to us in every timeline.

Tears mix with the rain streaming down my face as this storm intensifies. There must be a way out.

“…this is your home.”

And, she would tell you how she feels but her voice is lost in the abyss where all things are forgotten. Infinite and invisible. Until time itself dissolves.

The End.