Caia's POV
'Caia!' I wake up to the sound of my mom calling. 'Honey, get up and come down as soon as you can.'
Lazily, I roll out of bed. 'Why? What's wrong, mom?'
'Just come down, please.' Something in her voice drives the lingering sleepiness away from my eyes. Grabbing some clothes and a towel, I pace into my adjoining bathroom and hit the shower.
Five minutes later I come out in a pair of comfortable faded denim shorts and light blue halter top, with my slightly wet dark hair curling lose over my shoulders. I drop down in front of my dressing table and run a comb through it to get rid of the knots while I grab my phone and open WhatsApp.
Hey!!! I send it to Cecilia, more like out of habit rather than pure intention. We've been talking to each other a lot lately and I've come to dearly enjoy her frequent company on-line.
The ticks below the message turn blue immediately, telling me that she's seen the text. I wait, only to be rewarded with nothing, not even an indication that Cecilia has made an attempt to type a reply. Biting my bottom lip, I send a few smiley-faced emojis to follow the "hey".
The ticks turn blue again, but nothing.
What are you up to? I send, hoping a question would make Cc start talking. But yet again, nothing follows as a reply. I put down the comb and stare down at my phone. Cecilia hardly ever dodges a conversation, always replies as soon as she sees the message. In fact, most of the time, she's the one who keeps the conversation going.
I shake my head and lay the phone down on the table. Who am I to say? Cc's a human too. She certainly has more things to do than Whatsapping friends all day. Probably, she left my chat open on her phone while she's working on something else.
I tie my, now almost dry, hair into a loose ponytail and head downstairs. The sight of the neatly arranged sofas and couches in front of our flat-screen television and the photos and other decorations, most of them created by me, hanging across the walls along with the familiar smell of cookies and flower essence of my living room fills me with a heart filled calmness.
Hearing voices coming from the kitchen, I head down the hall and come to a halt at the door. My father is standing next to the kitchen counter with his arm around my mother's shoulders, who seems to be sitting on a stool, facing away from the door. Mom's small television kit is placed atop the counter and now is flashing images of what must be a news channel. Confused, I knock on the door and step into the kitchen.
'Are you Miss Caia Brinkmann?' The voice asks from my side and I turn to realize my parents weren't alone. Two black-suited men stand side by side just beside the door, one of them blond and the other brown-haired. The blond one, probably the one who spoke, observes me cautiously.
'Yeah. That's me.' I reply and turn to my parents. 'Mom, what's going on?'
My mother turns and I notice that her eyes are red and that her cheeks are wet with tears.
'Oh Caia . . .' She says before breaking into sobs. My father squeezes her shoulders and breaths out a sorrowful sigh.
'My name is Alan Mason.' The blond man speaks again. 'This is my assistant Wesley Hart. And I request you, Miss. Brinkmann, to come with us.'
'What? Why?' My voice comes out an octave higher than its usual tone. I glance at my parents, but instead I catch something on the screen of the television kit.
'Miss, I request you to remain calm . . .' The rest of his words are lost to me, as my brain processes the words on the news headline. Sixteen-year-old teenager commits suicide. Before I could read the rest, the headline disappears and breaking news blurs up.
'Good Morning' The reporter, in his suit and tie, nods at the camera, then looks down at the news sheets he held in his hand. 'It was reported this morning that sixteen-year-old teenager, Cecilia Swan, has been found having hung herself on the willow tree in her backyard. Having lived at a residence along Main Street, New York, and educated in Westling International Girls' Institute, the matter is currently under inspection in order to confirm her true reasons for such a harsh decision. Stay tuned for more details on this news story. Thank you.'
A picture flashes onto the screen and I'm shocked by the familiarity it brings me. Those are the same flashing greenish-blue eyes, which half of the time I've seen them, are locked on a book, and filled with ever-changing emotions, mostly laughter, wonder, and curiosity. There is the beautiful mane of brownish-black straight hair, which almost everyone in school tells her to let loose over her shoulders at least once, yet she stubbornly keeps in a braid or ponytail, joking that having it loose will end up with her hair tickling her nose and her sneezing. And that naughty looking smile. She always puts that on when she's about to do something mysterious and she finds amusing.
In fact, this is the very picture she's put to almost all her DP's of social media, including the one through which I contacted her less than three minutes ago. I try to move toward the image but find my knees weak and about to give away underneath me. I clasp the counter for balance and glance at my parents, but all the colors seem to merge with each other as my eyes start to tear up.
'That's not true! That can't be true!' My voice breaks. 'Tell me that it's not true!!!'
'Miss Brinkmann, please . . .' The man, Alan starts but I cut him off.
'She's not dead! Cecilia's alive!' My voice grows louder.
'Sweetheart, she . . . She . . .' My mother doesn't seem to be able to say it.
'She'll never do that!' Tears roll down my cheeks. 'She has no reason to suicide!'
'That's why we need you. To confirm her note . . .' Alan tries again.
'Shut up!' I scream. 'Shut up. She's not dead!!!'
'Caia.' My father's calm yet pained voice reaches me. 'She's gone. Cecilia's gone.'
The finality of his voice hits me and I lose my grip on the counter. I heard several voices call out my name, call out comforting words, but they don't reach me. I feel like I'm underwater, making whatever others say to me sound muffled and making my lungs feel like they're filling up with water instead of air every time I breathe in. I slump down on a stool next to the counter and put my head in my hands.
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