I’ve got style, miles and miles.
You were waiting for something yesterday, were you not? Screw you. I’m a girl. I didn’t have to.
Kiera called yesterday. We hadn’t talked in months, which is the only type of relationship that works. There’s always something to talk about when you don’t have to do it every day. I even mentioned the upcoming Christmas, and how I have this crazy premonition. I didn’t want to be specific and mention the m-word, so we joked about my pregnancy or some such thing. This was good, this relieved the tension that is killing me these days.
She even asked me about my favourite nut. I don’t know. Cashew? Kiera prefers Brazilian nuts, but those never really work for me. Delicious at first but too soon they turn into sawdust that will drive your jaw insane.
The big news is that Dennis isn’t coming. Dad (who isn’t talking to mom at all these days) said over breakfast that Dennis had some problems at work (caught watching pornography?) and would not be coming over. Dad smirked at me. He thought that would actually make me happy, what with Dennis being such a pervert and all. “He might drop in at some point, but his mood will kill anybody’s Christmas”. Some turn of the phrase, I thought. But then it happens a lot. When I freaked out last summer and really did do my pregnancy test, everyone in those two or three months couldn’t shut up about babies and how difficult it is to raise them in this cruel modern world.
So how do we feel about it? About Dennis? I mean, how do we really feel about it?
Frankly – disappointed. 12 was the perfect set, and now I feel like several pages were torn out of a horrible but irresistible book. Ever read Ayn Rand? Horrible but irresistible. This Christmas murder is like an Ayn Rand novel. Horrible but irresistible.
I almost called Kiera back and asked her to come over for Christmas (she has no plans anyway). In the end, I switched off my mobile phone and wasted a few hours on my Facebook page (have you seen my Facebook page?). Kiera doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve to be anyone in this story. I’m not all bad, you see.
Okay, you’ve read thus far and you’re still wondering – how in God’s name does Marie know that something as bad as murder is about to happen? I even called Jack two hours ago – should I hold the suspense or should I reveal. His sage advice: you can’t keep too many secrets, give something away. Of course the devil in me wanted to say screw you, Jack, together with everyone else, but common sense prevailed. You know how a girl tells you what she promised some time ago? She’ll make you regret waiting.
This murder. You see, it’s that voice I heard a couple of days ago in the street. It’s that same voice I heard in the street on the 6th of December, a day that sounds like a century ago now.
I know how it sounds. But you don’t owe me anything. You don’t even have to believe me. Charlie sent me a cryptic message fifteen minutes ago saying he never did.
Good old Charlie.
They are coming in two days. Angry, hungry, unknown (for the first time ever I feel like I don’t know these people), revengeful, murderous, wicked. Charming, too. Full of gifts.
And someone will go downstairs and open the door for them.
P.S. 9 days.