Death is a bitch. She always comes uninvited and never leaves without causing a scene. At least that's how I feel about her. The cuticles of my fingers are raw. Annoying hangnails catch onto the seams of my denim jeans, leaving behind small blotches of crimson. I clench my hands into fists and jam them deep into my pockets.
Why didn't I wear a dress?
The rain falls steady as if it were heaven-sent to cleanse my soul. The clergyman rambles some spiel about how pure and godly my parents were as if he truly knew them. I don't even think my parents ever went to church after the first time I saw my dad lay his hands on my mother. My aunt, Penelope, blew rockets of snot into her handkerchief, before curling it up and resting her hand delicately on my shoulder. The sobs of the other attendees are deafening. My parents' portrait stands next to the Reverend. Their smiles and deadpan eyes peer through me, almost as if they're taunting me—their last parting, Fuck You. I clench my fists tighter and feel my nails dig into my palms. I fight the urge to wipe the smug looks off their faces. I guess I should've expected that even in death, my parents would still manage to piss me off. I stared up into the grey abyss of the mournful sky and watched the rainfall from nowhere.
I sat in silence on the drive back to my parents' home. It was the same house that I was born and raised in. The same house where all of my issues began, my addictions, my pain... My aunt and uncle don't turn the radio on as they drive, and my cousin Zoe doesn't seem to complain about it either. The patter of the rain, showering the bustling streets of Blackwater Cove, is enough noise for all of us to tolerate.
We turn left onto the old familiar road, and the single-story A-frame looms out of the mist. The wooden porch creaks with the wind and the paint slowly chips away as the years continue to pass. My last recollection of being here was leaving. I remember my cousin Zoe coming over to help with loading up the car and to say goodbye. I remember watching her standing on the porch, disappearing into the rearview mirror, with no intention of coming back—three years ago.
Time has a funny way of manipulating memory. The dilapidated house is almost unrecognizable but still familiar. I turn the knob and swing the door open. Layers of dust blanket the surface of the couch, the table, shelves, everything. I start to think that I'm in the wrong place, but then I see the broken picture frames, loosely hanging on the weary bones of the house. Square moments in time, covered in dust and forgotten. Every picture reproduces a fragmented memory, reminding me of a life that no longer belongs to me.
What am I going to do with all of this shit?
My aunt and uncle must've been able to sense my annoyance. They quickly shuffled into the kitchen and I could hear what sounded like them rummaging through various take-out containers and liquor bottles. I knew my parents wouldn't change; even after me leaving the nest and heading for university.
Once an addict, always an addict— And I guess I would know...
Zoe begins digging through the various books and vinyls scattered around the living room and sorting them into cardboard boxes. We haven't spoken much since her parents picked me up from the airport a couple days ago. The last time we spoke, she had made it clear that she wasn't exactly supportive of my last relationship, and had also been the bearer of some unfortunate news regarding Sylas and Grace... I tried to shake the memory of the phone call off and walked off down the hallway to my old bedroom.
I'm a stranger in this house and certainly don't feel welcome. The dust is telling me to leave and the door, slightly knocked from its hinge, shows me the way out. I'm tired. I've hardly slept since the news.
Death is the unbidden guest that's kept me awake through the nights and Addiction has been the tenant who's still squatting on my couch.
I slowly push the door to my old bedroom open and am surprised to find that it's still pretty much the way I left it from what I can remember. My bed was still perfectly made—the corners tucked and pressed. The curtains on my window left open, providing an abundance of natural light that doesn't feel warm. My full body mirror was still hanging on the opposite wall, staring at me—analyzing every inch of me. I stare back, not recognizing the person behind it. Long strawberry blonde hair hangs limp around my face, dull and lifeless. My blue-grey eyes look like someone sucked all the color out of them and left two empty pools. I tilt my head slightly and the girl in the mirror does the same. I don't know how I stand there, just staring. The longer I look, the more foreign I feel.
My fingers brush against the small silver rabbit bracelet on my wrist. The metal is cold against my skin. I twist it slowly and I'm reminded of why I left this town in the first place. Pain is the reason I left. Pain is the reason that my parents couldn't get along. And now, pain is the reason they're dead.
I think pain is also what alienated me from Sylas, whose pain was just as great, if not more, as mine.
The whistle of the tea kettle forces me to stop watching the rain. God or whatever higher power seems to still be pouting over the death of my parents.
"Aurora!" My aunt calls from the kitchen downstairs. I take one last look at the girl in the mirror and turn away.
Aunt Penelope is hovering over the stove, carefully maneuvering around the kitchen counters as she pours four mugs with Earl Grey. Uncle Mark is leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I figured some tea might be nice for all of us, and I know your mom and I are...were always the same about being stocked up on tea at all times so..." Penelope says, her voice trembling with a sort of forced cheerfulness that made my skin crawl.
"Thanks," I mutter, sliding into a chair at the wooden table. I wonder how many times my father had slammed his glass down on this exact spot. I stare at the steam rising from the chipped mug that she sets in front of me.
Zoe sits across from me, looking as uncomfortable as I feel, caught between the performative grief of her parents and the ugly reality of mine.
"Aurora, honey," Penelope begins, and I know exactly what she's about to say. "We were talking... Mark and I. We really don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here. Not like this. Alone in this house, especially when you've been away for so long. We know this must be hard on you, dear."
"It's just a dump," I said flatly. I didn't bother to look up. Instead, I kept my gaze locked on the tea leaves swirling in the bottom of my cup.
"It's your home," Uncle Mark said, his voice gruff. "But it hasn't been cared for in a long time. Our guest room is already made up. It's clean, it's quiet. You wouldn't have to worry about... any of this." He gestured vaguely around the kitchen, to the "tenant" of addiction still lurking around the house.
"I'm fine here," my voice came out colder than I intended. I finally looked at them, "I need to stay. I have to sort through their things. If I don't do it now, it'll never get done."
"We can help you Aurora," Penelope pleads. "We can even hire a service—"
"No." I cut her off and grip the warm mug tighter. "I want to clean it up myself. I'm going to rent it out so I can use the money to support myself through senior year and get out of the Cove. I don't plan to stay here longer than necessary. The sooner this place is liveable, the sooner I can leave."
The silence that follows is heavy and I can feel Zoe watching me. Her gaze lingers to the silver rabbit bracelet on my wrist. She knows I'm lying—at least partially. She knows that staying here isn't just about the money. It's about facing the ghost of who I used to be before I realized that 'Wonderland' was just a pretty word for a hole in the ground.
Uncle Mark lets out a long, defeated sigh. He knows when I've dug my heels in. He's seen me do it when I was a kid, refusing to come inside when the screaming started.
"Alright," he says, pushing off the fridge. He reaches out and gives Penelope's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "If she says she's fine, then she's fine. But we're only a few minutes down the road, Aurora. You call us. For anything."
"I will." I lied.
They begin to move toward the front door. Penelope tries to give me a hug, but I go stiff in her arms, my hands hanging limp at my sides.
"We love you, honey," she whispers against my hair.
I don't say it back. I can't.
I stand on the porch and watch their car disappear into the grey fog. The rain has stopped, but the air clings to me like a damp blanket.
"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" Zoe's voice comes from behind me, mercifully devoid of the pity that her parents had.
I look at her, and for the first time since I arrived back in Blackwater Cove, the tension in my shoulders drops an inch.
"Yeah, I know."
Zoe and I walked back inside. The house felt larger without my aunt and uncle there. Zoe plopped onto the sofa and reached into the pocket of her flannel and pulled out a battered silver tin. The flick of her lighter was sharp as she pressed it to the end of a messy, hand-rolled joint.
The smell hit me instantly—skunky, sweet, and familiar. It cut through the scent of old dust and my mother's floral perfume. It smelled like the only version of home I actually recognized.
She took a long drag before exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke that hung in the stagnant air. She held the joint out to me.
I took it from her without hesitation. The smoke was hot and harsh, burning its way down my throat. But my brain started to feel like it was finally slowing down for the first time in a few weeks. I sank down onto the couch beside her.
"So," Zoe said, tucking her legs under her and facing me now. She looked at me through the haze, her expression unreadable. "Los Angeles. Was it as much of a fever dream as it looked like in your stories before you went ghost on everyone?"
I stared at the glowing cherry of the joint. "It was just... chaotic. Everything was fast and bright and then suddenly it wasn't."
"And Josh?" She said the name like it was a bad taste in her mouth. "He's really gone? You really ended it for good this time?"
"A few months ago. And there's been no contact since." I didn't go on to tell her about all the screaming matches on the Santa Monica Pier, or the way he used to check my phone while I was asleep, or the way the "partying" stopped being fun and started feeling like a requirement. I didn't tell her that by the end, I was just a ghost of a person. "He was a mistake I kept making every morning for the last two years, Zo'."
Zoe nodded slowly, blowing smoke toward the water-stained popcorn ceiling. "He made you a ghost, 'Rora. Not just to us, but to yourself."
I didn't have an answer for that. The truth was too heavy, and I was too high to carry it.
"Nate and Elliott," she said softly, changing the subject but making it worse. "They're still here, y'know. They haven't moved on or forgotten about you."
The guilt flared up inside me. I thought about the hundreds of texts they probably tried to send. The missed birthdays. The way I'd just... deleted them. Like they were files I didn't need anymore. Like I hadn't spent every night of my childhood sharing secrets with them.
"I bet they hate me," I whispered, taking another drag of the joint.
"Elliott's too dramatic to hate you. He's just spent the last three years perfecting the monologue he's going to give when he finally sees you," Zoe said, a small smile forming on her lips. "And Nate... Nate's just Nate. He's been quiet, but he's also been the one who's been checking on this house every week since the incident. He's the one who's been trying to keep on top of the lawn when it became too much for my dad to handle."
I looked down at my lap, at the silver rabbit on my wrist. The metal felt like it was burning a hole against my skin. I had spent the last three years trying to convince myself that I was the one who was wronged, that I was the one who had to leave in order to survive.
But sitting here, in the wreckage of my parents' life, I began to realize that maybe I wasn't the survivor after all...
"They're gonna be at Nate's tonight," Zoe said, her voice was a gentle prod. "Hanging out. I told them you were back for the funeral... and well, to sort things out. But whether you're actually back is up to you."
I took another hit, the smoke blurring the edges of the room until the broken picture frames on the walls began to look like pieces of abstract art.
"I don't know if I'm ready to face them yet, Zo'. I'm not exactly the same girl they remember."
"None of us are," she said, reaching over and taking the joint back. "But we're the only people who know who that girl was. Don't you at least think you owe it to her to show up?"
The silence that followed felt like a heavy lingering ghost. I stared at the dark screen of my phone, sitting on the coffee table like a dormant grenade.
"You can't stay a ghost forever, 'Rora," Zoe said. She reached over and tapped the glass, flaring the phone screen to life. "You've been 'offline' long enough, don't you think it's time for a reboot?"
I swallowed hard. "I don't know if I remember my passwords."
"Liars don't forget," she countered playfully, sliding the phone closer to me. "And you're the best liar I know."
She was right. My thumb moved like it had a mind of its own, tracing the pattern to unlock the screen. I felt like I was hacking back into my old life. I redownloaded my old social media apps and began logging back in and reactivating old accounts. I'd watch the loading circles spin like little white loops of anxiety.
Then came the hard part. The Settings. The Blocked List.
It was a short list, but it felt miles long.
Nate. Elliott. Sylas. I hovered over Nate's name first. Click. Then Elliott. Click.
I didn't do Sylas. I couldn't. His name stayed at the bottom, a dark, unresolved knot that I wasn't brave enough to untie... yet.
"There," Zoe whispered, leaning over my shoulder. "Was that so hard?"
"It feels like I just invited a poltergeist into the house," I mumbled.
"Good." She suddenly pulled her own phone out, her eyes dancing with a chaotic mischief. "Look at me."
"Zoe, no—"
"Stop being a pussy, Aurora. Just one shot. Let the Cove see you're alive again."
I didn't have the energy to fight her. I leaned back into the cushions, the smoke from the joint curly around my head in lazy, grey ribbons. I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie up, my fingers instinctively twisting the silver rabbit on my wrist. I looked at the lens—or rather, I looked through it.
I raised my hand halfway to my face, a reflex to hide, to remain a mystery even while being exposed.
Snap.
Zoe grinned at the sound of the digital shutter, her thumbs flying across her screen.
"What are you doing?" I asked, a fresh wave of panic rising through me.
"Tagging you," she said simply.
She tapped the screen one last time and tossed her phone down onto the couch. My phone pinged with the notification from Instagram. I quickly swiped up and looked at the post on her story. A girl shrouded in smoke and shadows, looking like a high-definition tragedy.
@zozo666: The Rabbit is back in the hole. 🐇 @meowroraaa
I stared at the post. I wanted to beg her to delete it. I wanted to throw her phone and mine into the ocean. I wanted to run.
But then, the vibrations started.
Buzz.
Buzz-buzz.
The notifications at the top of the screen started rolling in.
Elliott: AURORA FUCKING HALE!? I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING. IF YOU'RE NOT AT NATE'S IN 10 MINS I WILL PERSONALLY BURN THAT HOUSE DOWN TO GET YOU OUT. I MISSED YOU YOU STUPID BITCH!!!
Nate: Saw the post. Glad you're home, Rora. Truly. We're all hanging at my place if you want to come by. I'm really sorry about your parents. I'm here if you need anything.
I felt a hot, stinging pressure building behind my eyes. It was too much. The kindness, the lack of hesitation, the way they just... accepted my return like I hadn't spent the last three years treating them like they didn't exist. It made me feel small.
"See?" Zoe nudged me with her shoulder. "The world didn't end, it just changed a little bit."
I stood up, my legs feeling disconnected from the rest of my body. The weed had smoothed over the sharpest edges of my grief, but at the same time, had also exposed my vulnerability.
"Fine, let's go," I said, reaching for my black beat-up denim jacket. "Before I change my mind and jump in front of moving traffic."
Zoe laughed, grabbing her keys from the table. She checked her phone one last time, her thumb scrolling through the 'Seen' list on her story. Suddenly, her laughter died and her expression went tight. Her chocolate brown eyes darted to me and then back to the screen.
"What now?" I asked, my hand freezing on the door handle. "What is it?"
She bit her lip hesitantly, and then turned the phone so I could see the screen. It was a message. Not from Nate. Not from Elliott.
Sylas: is that aurora...
The three dots at the end of the sentence felt like three bullets.
I looked down at the silver rabbit on my wrist, the metal cold and mocking against my pale skin. The map back from Wonderland was working, and I had no idea how I was going to survive the destination.