Traces of Eve

Chapter 5

JEWELL | Now

Two weeks after Eve's death

I pass by similar-looking houses while driving by in my Honda. They have the same paint colour, same roofing design, some even have the same hedges out in front but with different shades of evergreen. I drive slowly, cautiously, looking at my rear mirror.

The police will be looking for me very soon. I don't know how soon. It can be minutes, hours, seconds, I have no clue. What I do know is that someone around the house would have called to report a disturbance and they'll enter the house and see what exactly I'm hiding from.

With my right hand on the steering wheel, I use my left to pull the hem of my shirt above my head quickly so I won't lose sight of what's in front of me as I drive. Some of the blood on my shirt is smeared on my left cheek.

My eyes blur from oncoming tears and my nostrils flare in disgust at the stench of it. I nearly puke right there in my car. The blood feels warm on my skin. Blood that isn't mine, blood that is lukewarm because it was shed a minute ago, blood that is reminding me of what I've done and of who I am in this moment.

I scrunch up the shirt and frantically wipe off the blood staining my cheek. I do this until the skin feels itchy and raw. I open my glove compartment and shove the shirt in it, leaving me in my tight sports bra that clings to my body like a second skin. My ripped jeans are the only modest thing on me.

Scratches run up both my arms and because they're new, they feel raw and itchy. But I don't dare let my fingers pay attention to them. There's a bruise forming at my temple. I look in the mirror and notice the reddish-purple hue of it. Just great. I can't even say I got out of the house unscathed.

I try to ignore the wave of nausea trying to knock me out or the growling of my stomach pleading with me for food. I slow down the car when I see traffic, the traffic lights blaze four cars ahead of me and I look at how the red light mocks me.

There's tumultuous music booming from beside my car. It's so loud and disturbing I can feel and hear the vibrations all around me. My teeth rattle. I refrain from shooting the driver a glare but I have no other choice but to when I notice him looking at me in askance as if to say, what the hell are you doing sitting behind the wheel in only lingerie?

The irksome driver has on a black cap with the Adidas symbol on it, his black shirt is too tight and strains against muscles I'm sure he takes pride in. He gives me a look that makes me feel dirtier than I already do, and I know this look. It belongs to perverts.

As if the universe senses my discomfort, the red light switches to green and I take off so fast my head nearly spins. I flip off the perverted driver before flooring the gas. I block out all morbid thoughts from my head so I can decide on where to go to for help. I can't go back to my house, it's a crime scene now and I can't go back to Eve's home, it's a major crime scene.

I can't go to my Aunt Shelly, she'll exaggerate and make a mess of the whole situation. She'll try to sneak me out of the country, right before hiring the best lawyers, attorneys and calling in favours from the police department. It will be mayhem.

I will go to her, but before that, I have to deal with the chaotic feelings raging on in my chest right now. I need to have a clear head before I can't think of what to do next about the situation. It's then that I realise where exactly I can go.

***

I stand in front of my therapist's house. There's something about the house that rubs me the wrong way. Something that nags at me and makes me feel uneasy every time I look at it.

The streets are posh and clean, it's almost charming in the way it's sloped downwards and tree-covered with a lot of flowers adorning the front of the house. Scented flowers greet me when I walk through the pathway.

The house is awfully silent, as though no one is home. However, when I see her cherry-red Toyota, I start my search for Sadie Riley. She's a strong vibrant woman in her fifties, my mom's friend when she was alive.

My mom took me to her whenever I started one of my temper tantrums—I wasn't an easy child, and neither was I pleasant nor forthcoming. I remember all the stupid things I used to do just to get both her and daddy's attention.

They were always busy with work; my mother was a paediatrician and a very good one at that, always taking calls always coming in late and it drove me mad more than when my father, a hotelier would go on business trips for days, sometimes months, to the extent that I nearly thought I didn't have a father.

I remember climbing the ladder to the neighbour's house where I'd meet Steven; he was three years older than me, but I didn't care. I'd sleepover and he would wake me up in the morning and see to it that I got down from the ladder safely.

I remember showing up to my father's business parties indecently dressed, leather skirt riding up my pale fair thighs and tight tank top sticking to my skin without the modesty of even a bra. I was only fifteen, yet I was the bane in their lives.

Back then I was sociable, I was an extrovert; I was wild and friendly till the day mommy and daddy met with a car accident, their bodies limp and cold in front of our gate and me hovering over their bodies with excruciating pain in my chest. It's the same day I died along with them.

I find her in the backyard garden, her delicate back bent downwards over red hibiscuses, her long neck craning down over them as she digs through the soil with her gloved hands.

Hands that have touched me places I never want to be touched again, hands that have held me while I cried about my parent's death, hands that have lurked on my skin, stroking, kneading. It's a long time since I've felt disgusted by her presence, but today I feel revolted by my own.

I take a moment to watch her through my nausea as she works at the soil. She's wearing a grey and white striped flannel shirt over baggy boy shorts that almost look like boxers. Perhaps they're her husband's. Her pale white skin gleams in the afternoon sun, and the top of her head is shielded by the notorious rays by a cane beach hat.

I sway on my feet a little, my vision blurring in and out of focus, and as though sensing my presence, she turns.

"Jewel, what on earth are you doing here?" Sadie asks and pulls off her yellow gardening gloves.

For a minute I don't speak, my throat is parched from lack of water and my focus shifts to the ground. I avert my gaze to the wooden railing. I can't look at another human being, not after what I've done. The whole situation is messed up.

I finally look up at her through the nausea and the sudden urge to vomit what little food I have left in my stomach.

"I really need your help, Mrs Riley," I say, and then everything goes black.