Briguella

Chapter Five – Kate

Chapter Five – KateThe newsroom feels custodial. Quite often I feel imprisoned, only allowed to leave when my editor, Cecilia, dictates. Today isn't one of those instances, though; I'm elated that my story is front page.

This case has become a national media frenzy. The daily reporters are hijacking as usual, thinking they're the hotshots. It fills me with rage. They traipse in, take over and leave us to pick up the pieces. It's no wonder we are all tarnished with the same brush and generally despised as a profession.

I remember observing the horror on the faces of an elderly couple, appalled having witnessed a TV crew crawl through bushes to get a clear shot of two children's dead bodies being recovered from a house fire. I felt equally repulsed. It is actions like this that make me question whether I'm cut out for this job.

There will be no praise for my efforts today; it's the norm.

I grab my coat and slip into darkness. The shadows of the trees sway forcefully in the wind, producing eerie shapes across the carpark. It's Arctic and, as I draw cold air into my lungs and exhale, a ghostly breath hovers.

I quicken my heels towards the car, clutching my jangling keys in my warm palm. Clevedon promenade is deserted, aside from two empty cars. The swaying string promenade lights frame the pier and its jetty. Its twisted metal structure stands proudly in the ocean, which glistens below the moonlight.

Normally I admire its delicate beauty but tonight it looks sinister, angry in the dark shadows. I shudder, and an anxious feeling consumes me. The crime scene replays; blood glistening in frosted shards. I step on the accelerator; the deadly nightfall follows in the rear-view mirror.

I'm overwhelmed with disappointment. The house stands in darkness, with no sign of Taylor. I long for him to fulfil his promise and make more effort. I can't remember the last time I felt his touch or the warmth of his hand in mine. I miss the way that he used to look at me; completely mesmerised as if I was his world. I cherish those memories, the ones inside our bubble before it was burst by tragedy.

Work has helped him to refocus, but the enduring sadness lingers in his eyes, it's locked inside.

I want to find a way in, to help him, but the shutters remain down, guarding his soul. It has been almost a year since Paul died. His death left a huge void and I can't fill it. They were close; all twins are. But ever since the accident, Taylor's not been the same man that I fell in love with and married.

I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. The conversation relaying the news that brings the world as you know it, crashing down. I could barely make out his words through the awful howls; an unrelenting resonance that crushed my heart. That's when it sunk in; Paul was dead, killed by a female motorcyclist who veered on the A370. Paul's car crossed the carriageway and plunged into a ditch. He died on impact from severe head trauma, at 28.

I couldn't intrude on Taylor's grief, so I locked my secret away. It still hurts and haunts me every day.

My tears resurface, my heart hollow, as I gulp Merlot. It warms my throat. I feel as though I'm driving along aimlessly with no sense of direction; my body controlling the car, my mind hovering, suspended above, paying no attention.

That summarises my life; detached and uncertain how to get a grip. I can't lose control and let my life fall apart. I smear my teardrops, bury my sadness and turn on the Sonos speaker. Adele's 'Hello' plays softly, as the glass kisses my lips. Cooking will help me to forget.

It's 8.20pm. I've been constantly checking my phone but every time I stare at the blank screen, the more rejected I feel.

The oven alarm bleeps, alerting me to the garlic bread. I reach for a tea cloth and retrieve the baking tray. Heat quickly penetrates the fabric, the hot metal surface pricking my wrist. I run my hand under the tap; the cold water offers relief and alleviates the blistering pain. If only it could take away all my agony.

My stomach emits a raucous roar, begging for food and I relent. I'm angry at him for making false promises, and I hate eating alone. Sam Smith's 'Lay me Down' plays softly. After a few mouthfuls, I push my plate away. With my chin on my wrist, I relate to the lyrics; miserable and exhausted. My manicured nails twirl the wineglass stem. My gaze drifts, watching the liquid cling to the sides as I listen to the singer divulge his emotions. My heart aches; the pain unbearable.

The uplifting piano tempo offers a distraction and I cup the glass vase and gulp the berry fluid. Tears caress my cheeks. I want my pain to evaporate, to feel happy again, but sadness overwhelms me. I don't see how I can escape my grief; it entraps me.

I drag myself toward the staircase and lean on the banister before encountering the empty chill of our room. I fall onto the bed, staring up at the windowpane watching dark clouds float aimlessly by. They are calming. I feel myself drifting, my weary eyes succumbing to the darkness.

When I wake, Taylor is next to me, asleep. His muscular arm is draped across my waist and his warm breath is tickling my neck. It's 2.15am.

My anger dissipates, and I feel happy and safe that I'm no longer alone. He promised me things would be better and I know they will, in time, I just need to be patient. My eyes surrender, falling back asleep.

We will get through this and everything will be alright. It has to be.