The Morning After
1001 Words
Clara Whitmore woke to the sound of someone screaming.
For a few seconds, she didn’t understand that the scream was coming from her.
She sat upright so quickly that the room spun around her.
Her head throbbed.
Her mouth was dry.
And there was a strange metallic taste on her tongue.
Clara pressed both hands against her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the pain would disappear.
It didn’t.
She slowly opened her eyes.
Morning light slipped through the curtains of her bedroom, pale and unforgiving. Her expensive black dress from the night before was still on her body. One of the straps had fallen from her shoulder, and the hem was stained with something dark.
She stared at it.
Her heart began to pound.
What happened last night?
Clara tried to remember.
The party.
That was the last clear thing in her mind.
She remembered walking into the grand house where the party was being held. She remembered the music shaking the walls and the warm glow of golden lights hanging above the crowd. She remembered laughing with her friends.
She remembered champagne.
Then Julian.
Julian Ashford.
His face appeared in her mind like a photograph.
He had been standing near the balcony, dressed in a black suit, holding a glass of whiskey. He had looked at her strangely when she approached him.
There had been something in his eyes.
Fear?
Anger?
She couldn’t tell.
Clara rubbed her forehead.
Then everything disappeared.
Not faded.
Not blurred.
Gone.
She couldn’t remember leaving the party.
She couldn’t remember coming home.
She couldn’t remember getting into bed.
She couldn’t even remember the journey between those moments.
A cold shiver travelled down her spine.
“No,” she whispered.
She climbed out of bed and hurried toward the mirror.
Her reflection frightened her.
Her hair was messy. Her makeup was smeared beneath her eyes, and there was a small cut near her lower lip.
“What happened to me?”
She touched the cut carefully.
Then she noticed something else.
Her right hand.
There was a faint brownish-red stain beneath her fingernails.
Clara froze.
She stared at her fingers.
Blood.
Her breathing became shallow.
“No…”
She rushed into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Water splashed over her hands as she scrubbed beneath her nails.
Again.
And again.
But the image of the stain remained in her mind.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door.
“Clara?”
She stopped breathing.
It was her mother’s voice.
“Clara, are you awake?”
Clara quickly shut off the water.
“Yes,” she answered, although her voice barely sounded like her own.
Her mother opened the door.
The moment she saw Clara’s face, her expression changed.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Clara looked at her.
“I can’t remember.”
Her mother frowned.
“Can’t remember what?”
“Last night.”
Silence.
Then her mother’s phone began ringing.
She glanced at the screen.
Her face went pale.
“It’s the police.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
“The police?”
Her mother didn’t answer.
She picked up the call.
“Hello?”
Clara watched her mother’s expression change as she listened.
Her lips parted.
Her eyes widened.
“What?” she whispered.
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
Clara stood completely still.
Her mother slowly lowered the phone.
“What is it?” Clara asked.
Her mother looked at her as though she had suddenly become a stranger.
“It’s Julian.”
Clara’s heart stopped.
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Clara grabbed the edge of the dresser to steady herself.
“No.”
“He was found early this morning.”
“No.”
“Clara…”
“No. I saw him last night.”
Her mother stared at her.
“That is exactly what the police want to talk to you about.”
Clara’s blood ran cold.
“What do you mean?”
Her mother swallowed.
“You were seen with him.”
Clara shook her head.
“I don’t remember.”
“They said you were one of the last people with Julian before he died.”
“I don’t remember!”
Her voice cracked.
She backed away from her mother.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Images flashed through her mind.
Julian standing near the balcony.
His hand gripping her wrist.
His voice.
Angry.
“You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Clara gasped.
She saw another image.
A glass breaking.
Then darkness.
She covered her mouth.
Her mother rushed toward her.
“What did you remember?”
Clara couldn’t answer.
A loud knock came from downstairs.
Then another.
“Police!” a man’s voice called.
Clara stared at the bedroom door.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
She didn’t know what happened to Julian.
She didn’t know why there was blood beneath her fingernails.
And she didn’t know why the last few hours of her memory were completely missing.
But as the footsteps approached her bedroom, one terrifying thought entered her mind.
What if she wasn’t trying to remember what happened?
What if some part of her was trying desperately to forget it?
The bedroom door opened.
Two police officers stood outside.
The first officer looked directly at Clara.
“Miss Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“We need you to come with us.”
“Why?”
The officer hesitated.
Then he said the words that made Clara’s entire world collapse.
“You are being questioned in connection with the death of Julian Ashford.”
Clara stared at him.
And somewhere deep inside her mind, a memory began to surface.
A memory she wasn’t ready to see.
A memory of Julian lying on the floor.
A memory of her standing above him.
And a voice—her own voice—whispering:
“I didn’t mean to do it.”
Then everything went black.
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