To Be Obscure

| CH. 03

I made Nathan tell me everything he could remember about the mystery girl. Her clothes, her eyes, her hair; every little detail. She didn't fit the description of anyone I had seen in Rockfalls.

He said her eyes were blue like mine. Her hair, red and curly, was cut short around her head. Those curls framed her freckled cheeks.

"Just a kid," he said. "I don't know how she knows you."

I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of a teenage girl wandering the town looking for me. A girl who had the journal I left with Charlotte, only to return it to me. I had questioned Nathan over and over as to why he'd tossed it. He had no suitable answer other than, "I fucked up."

My main question was: how did she find me? My documents were nameless. I rented apartments from landlords who asked for little information. If anything required a name or social security number, it was Nathan who took care of it. As for money, I had plenty, so I never had to work to make a living. The idea of being found was never on my mind, but now that I knew that idea lurked in hers, I couldn't rest.

I sat on the couch, Luther on my lap, the journal in my hands, and I reread my own words. It worried me how much I'd forgotten. I felt like I had read someone else's life, and not my own. But it was mine because it was my handwriting. Charlotte used to tease me that I wrote like an ape and I was lucky her father hadn't hired me for my penmanship, or else she would have never met me.

Her handwriting, on the other hand, was perfect.

My last entry was dated May 24th, 2001. In it, I wrote: I love you, Charlotte. I pray, one day, any day, you'd forgive me. Perhaps then, we can pick up on this love one more time? Je t'aime, mon amour.

After my last letter swirled in the center of the page, there was a tear beneath it. I couldn't remember if I'd written anything on it, but behind it were letters that weren't mine. I flipped the torn page to find Charlotte's beautiful cursive; she'd written her own entry inside my journal.

I sat up straight against the couch, much to Luther's detest, and read her words as though she spoke them in my ear:

July 27th, 2001.

The idea that you've actually left me hasn't settled in. Sometimes, I think I'm still dreaming. I'll wake up and see this note you left as just a joke, and you're actually in our bathroom taking a piss. Yes—that's what I hope for. But it isn't, is it? You're really gone. And what am I supposed to do with myself? I don't know what this curse is, I don't know how to pass this on to someone else. I can't even die. You've left me to be a demon on my own, and you didn't give me access to hell. How could you be so evil, Lamont?

I took in a shaky breath as I scratched Luther's ear and turned the page. Her handwriting, as neat as before, wrote months after the fact. I could imagine she couldn't look at my journal for a while.

December 24th, 2001.

It's Christmas. I put up the tree. I bought myself a present. One for you, too. If you come back, you can have it. It's a necklace. I have one that matches.

"Nathan." I looked at the back of his curly hair as he scrolled around the internet. He searched social media sites for the girl but couldn't find her.

"What is it?" he asked.

I looked at the bruise marks on his neck. The fact that he forgave me so easily was comforting but demented in a way. I could kill him with just the right twist of my hand. I rarely hurt him, but when I did, I never forgave myself. What if one day I forgot who he was, and murdered him in cold blood?