Ava laid beneath the lily-patterned comforter, staring at the dull spots above her; they were supposed to be glow in the dark stars, but only the centers showed in the dark, and with more of a radioactive haze than a glow. She was disappointed when they’d first put them up; Bailey had noticed, and told her they were better that way; more like real stars. She liked them after that, and even more so after the funeral; they were one of the few things that remained as it had before the chaos. Bailey's bedroom had been packed away; soccer trophies and clothes their mother had hated, all in boxes in the garage. Even the old minivan had been moved from the driveway to some unknown place; she’d recalled how her father had referred to it as a waste of space, and how her mother had sobbed. There were pictures on every wall in the house; but she didn’t need to see her sisters face, she needed to see her.
She was supposed to be asleep hours earlier— but remained to stare at the stars, still dressed in her schools required polo and khaki uniform. She waited until the snores were consistent before she moved; her father sputtering like a stubborn engine; her mothers was muted but constant hum. She slid from the bed and pulled on the rainbow slippers and sweater she'd prepared. And with an unfamiliar caution, she made her way through the unlit house; sliding her feet across the hardwood, hand gliding across the drywall. She wasn’t supposed to go out after dark, but she needed the secrecy of night— the bridge was beyond the streets her mother limited her play too.
Outside the air was colder than she expected; she slowly descended the concrete steps, glancing back at the dark house before taking off down the driveway. At the silhouette of the mailbox, the darkness spread endlessly in both directions— her father had said the city had a vendetta against street lights. Nervous but determined she stated down the unpaved road; the path ingrained in her mind. Two roads down from the sign that marked her subdivision, the forest ended in a jagged slope; at the bottom, a tawny river lined with algae. The bridge used to cross over it was unextraordinary— faded green paint over iron. Before, it had just been another place; but words at the school had changed that. When once classmate muttered to another “I heard she jumped off the bridge” and suddenly the lie her parents crafted about accidental drowning gave way— she knew Bailey swam too well to go under. And the river was bad for swimming anyway. But the knowledge gave no understanding— and she found herself drawn to the bridge; as if maybe seeing it would answer questions no one else would.
