The Writers' Circle

May 1985
I guess I must start at the beginning.
But what is the beginning? Does a story ever have a beginning? Does it ever have an end? It is just the recording of one climax in one or more lives. I think, however, I will start with Jessica.
I knew her when I was ten or so. She was so unique. She didn't have many friends, people just didn't understand her. I found her fascinating. She did beautiful drawings in a pink notebook with stickers all over it. I knew she had a bad home life, and sometimes I wondered whether this was a way to relieve it.
One English lesson, the teacher told us we must write about a character. Someone we knew, maybe. "Try to capture them," she said. She had no idea how I would do so.
That night I went home and thought hard. It was difficult to think of anyone. I tried Mum and Marie and even my cat, Hecate, but I couldn't grasp them. They were too... normal. As the word normal came into my head, I thought of Jessica. She was different. She had something about her that I could comprehend. That I could write about.
So I wrote. I wrote the words that sealed her fate.
The next day she didn't turn up. I didn't notice. It was only when I saw the posters that I realised. "Missing. Jessica, aged 11."
I read the article as well. Her parents hadn't worried when she hadn't come home. She sometimes didn't. They didn't know where she went. This time, they'd got a call from the school saying she hadn't come in. That was when they began to worry.
That night, I sat in my garden, gazing at the stars, thinking about her when I thought I heard a whispering. The leaves. They spoke to me sometimes. I went over to them and caressed them. Among them, however, something sparkly flashed. I reached in and pulled out a pink notebook with stickers on it. Some of the stickers were sparkly and that was what had caught my eye. I couldn't stop just staring at the object in my hand. Slashed across the cover was red paint. 
I wondered how it had got here. I wondered if she was hiding in the bushes. I checked but could see nothing in the half light coming from the windows. I took the book up to my room and looked in it. Huge castles, strange creatures, tall strong women. I peered into the world of this girl I barely knew. I picked up my English homework. It occurred to me how unrealistic it was. How little I had really looked into her world, her character.
I tore it up. A straight tear down the centre. Then I scrunched it up and put it in the bin. For a moment, I swear the paper glowed. Then nothing.
I think my subconscious knew then. But I did not realise.

They found her body the next day. Or rather we did. We all did.
Picture this. A damp, dew filled morning. The sun just coming up from behind the rows of houses. The sky a pale orange pink with hints of the blue day coming. It was raining last night. There are puddles on the street. From some of the houses radios play, chatter begins, people yawn. The wind blows cool. As people finish getting ready, say their last goodbyes, grab their bags, they emerge one by one onto the street.
And they stop still.
In the middle of our road someone is lying down. The body lies on its front, hair spread over its face. Dripping from it comes deep red blood, flowing down the street and into the newly formed puddles where it mixes with the water and turns the street red.

Mum would not let us out of the house. She was terrified. Nothing would happen to us, I assured her but she remained staring out the windows, eyes wide, jumping at the slightest sound. Police interviewed us. Asked us if we knew anything.
When it was my turn I barely said anything. I didn't mention the book I had found. I didn't say that I found what I then knew to be blood on it. I just kept silent, pretending I was too upset. I had known her after all.
I was too afraid. Too afraid of the big men around us, poking their noses in everywhere, making me feel like I was wrong. Too afraid of the book hidden in my desk upstairs. Too afraid of Jessica herself.
I kept the notebook till this day. There is no blood on it anymore. I washed that off. Every now and then I will look at her drawings. They fade with time and some have almost disappeared from the pages along with her name, Jessica Ashley.

Present Day
The water splashes down on my face. The raindrops caress my closed eyes, cooling them. They've been aching. They're tired of seeing. There is too much to see, not enough to feel. I want to feel something. That's why I'm out here, barefoot, in the middle of a stormy, wind tossed day. Mud closes over my feet. It feels not unpleasant. Like being six years old again and not caring how dirty I got. Because mum would always sort it out.
Can she sort this out? The mess I'm in now. She stands in the warmth of the doorway. She tried calling to me. She came to me with an umbrella. But I don't want to go inside. Not just yet.
I open my eyes slightly and see that dad has joined her. They stare at me with eyes full of nothing but concern. I wish they could help. But if I let them, I might hurt them.
After Jessica's death, we moved house. Mum couldn't stand to be in that area. I heard her say to dad that every time she went out she could see the blood running in rivets down the street. We moved out of the city suburbs. We moved to a town by the sea. You can feel it now. The chill sea wind that pierces your chest with ice knives.
An hour passes, two hours. The wind dies down. The rain lessens. Mum and dad stay diligently by the door, waiting for me. I wish they would go. They should keep themselves warm. They need to be careful. I know what I'm doing. They don't.
I look across to my neighbour's garden. So wet and forlorn. It hurts my eyes again. It hurts because I know what happened to it.