Silence…silence. The quiet night seeps through my soul, filling my thoughts and heart with loneliness as I sit on the shore of Buckroe Beach. My sleepless nights created a workaholic of me. It helps to keep my mind from the deaths of everyone I ever loved. My Mother, my Father, and now my twin sister. It had been one month and two weeks and my head still spins with the treacherous images of Mecca’s body laying cold…still, blood flowing like a river coloring the floor with its dreadful red. Her lifeless brown eyes soaring up at me…needing me…knowing that I wasn’t there…that dead cold stare. The look of terror and relief in her eyes. Her body lie twisted and bent like a demon had possessed it and broken each of her bones. The nerve of me to remember such a treacherous memory!
It’s as if I enjoyed the image of my sister’s dead body, but it wasn’t her that made it worth gazing; it was sight of death. The sight of murder. The sight of someone I know who was once alive, just like my father and mother. I enjoyed fixing my eyes on their deaths even though my heart and my soul loved them dearly and wanted no more than to be with them once more. Damn my lust for torture! Damn my fascination of death at its immature moment! Damn my memories!
A disappointment I am. A shame for letting this happen when I was supposed to be there for her, to protect her; and instead I hid from her. I shielded myself with nights of blissful discrete sex when I should have gone to that forsaken crazy home and gotten her out…taken good care of her…been the sister that she needed…like we once were. Flashes of her beautiful curly hair drained in that bloody red still pains me, but yet, it makes a beautiful picture that I would love to paint. The half-moon necklace that matched mine so well torn from her neck where she always kept it was now a piece that I cling tightly to.
Whispers of my family linger over me like a grey cloud on a sunny day. People saying Mecca was crazy just like my mother and that I’ll be the next crazy Nicoles. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am the next crazy Nicoles. Maybe I’ll blackout and show my hidden monstrous personalities just like my mother and sister. Or maybe I’ll drown myself in liquor and depression until my sudden death just like my father. Curse them, curse them all. They know nothing about my family, about the Nicoles. They know nothing about me.
So what if I creep in the middle of the night searching for dirty souls to purge? So what if I black out and give sexual pleasures? So what if I drink until I pass out? Or if I become one of the top known club owners in the world who happens to have a background of traumatic events. A history of pure torture and slaughter. Whatever I may become. Whatever I may do. I’ll do it at my best, and I’ll do it so that they won’t see…so they’ll never know…that it was all me.
It’s until a tragedy happens that people start to notice you and what you do. How tragic the situation is, determines just how famous you’re going to be. For that reason, I started to become much known, which means Mecca Bella’s was starting to really take off. Like I’d just hit a big time press release, my mother was raped and murdered while being institutionalized for blacking out and doing crazy shit, and now my sister, the serial killer, was found dead. Indeed, shit hit the fan. I guess when a door closes, another opens. I’d give anything to have my sister back…to have my family back, but I can’t so I’ll do the next best thing: Live out me and my sister’s dream to expand our club industry by any means necessary. This is for you, Mecca. For us. This is our story. The story of how we took our goal to the next level.