Trails to Me

By Lana Lowe

Violet was used to being her sisters "Little Shadow," content with it, even. Now it's barely been a month since Ruby died, her family is never around, she has no friends, and she's not sure who she is without Ruby to tell her. 
When she meets Gage at a party, there's just something about him that speaks to her soul. He and his friends pull her into their world. She's smiling again, she has a new hobby, and maybe she can move past Ruby's death, but is it fair for her to be happy in a world without her sister? Is it right? And when another loss threatens her already fragile soul, she feels like a statue cracking to pieces. There can be no happy ending, not when she keeps running away.

 

Trigger Warnings: mention of suicide, mention of self-harm (minimal details), themes of suicidal ideation, grief, loss, death

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lana
• Release date: Jun 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393676690

Lana Lowe

Lana is a twenty-something that lives in the middle of nowhere Tennessee, or more accurately her physical body is there and her mind is in countless other worlds. She's constantly reading, traveling dimensions, writing, and thinking up new stories. How Yellow Fades is her first published novel. Her family consists of two little dogs, Hamilton and Nivi, an old grumpy cat named Tally, her Mom and her two dogs, Roxie, Anastacia, and another, much nicer, cat named Noelle. There are more animals than people and that's just how she likes it. Feel free to contact her at [e-mail] if you enjoyed her book, if you didn't, or if you just want to share pictures of your pets. She'd love to hear from you!

Book preview

One

The picture hanging above Ms. Rich’s head is crooked. It’s a huge thing, a pretty beach picture that I think she took herself, but the black frame against the stark white walls makes it even more obvious that the frame is askew.

I wait for her to start whatever she wants to say. I think about telling her the picture is crooked—I probably should. It would’ve been the first thing Ruby mentioned, but I don’t.

I don’t want to be here. But it’s not about me. It’s about Ruby. This isn’t the first time Ms. Rich has pulled me from class to talk to me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. How many times has it been now? I’ve stopped counting, each day blends into the next.

Ms. Rich smooths down her floral dress. It looks like something my grandmother would have on her curtains, but I definitely wouldn’t say that, either.

Feel free to reach out, myself and all of the staff are here for you, Violet. Ms. Rich says. Her voice is carefully soft.

I nod because that’s easier than talking. If I keep nodding, she’ll let me leave, and I can go back to class.

After a silence that seems to stretch through the minutes, emphasized by the ticking clock on the wall, Ms. Rich lets out a sigh and starts scribbling something. She hands me the paper, an excuse note, and waves me out.

Seriously, Violet, we’re here for you. If you need to talk, I can help.

I don’t want to talk about what happened.

Not to anyone.

I avoid looking at that pity look in her eyes as I pull my bag from the floor and take the note.

Hand that to your teacher and be sure to come back if you need to, she opens the door for me.

Nod again.

It’s not like I came here on my own in the first place, though.

I take one last look at the crooked picture and let the door shut quietly behind me.

Unlike Ruby, I always enjoyed school. Studying, learning, reading— I loved them all, but now... it feels suffocating.

Like the lockers are a straightjacket. The fluorescents are a little too bright, and the roof feels as if it’ll cave in on me at any moment.

And there are too many people.

There are whispers everywhere I walk; they probably aren’t talking about me, but I feel the weight of their words regardless. Sometimes I catch people watching me out of the corners of my eyes. But again, it could be my imagination.

Ms. Rich keeps calling me out of class out of pity disguised as concern.

But I don’t want to talk about how Ruby died.

The school has been encouraging everyone to talk to Ms. Rich, although I have no clue if anyone has.

We’re a school of over a thousand. Just because Ruby was popular doesn’t mean everyone knew her, or even cares that she’s gone. Not as if their lives have completely changed by her death.

I can hear cheering in a class down the hall. I don’t look in as I pass.

It was a Friday night that Ruby died, technically Saturday morning because her time of death was around 3am.

All of my teachers are constantly checking on me. No generic greeting, simply a carefully crafted solemn look to hide what’s most likely judgement, add in a well-meaning pat, and then the question.

Are you okay?

How do I respond to that? Because the answer is no, but I’m not about to have a breakdown or anything. No, I’m fine. I’m definitely fine. This is life now.

And I’m fine with it.

Totally fine.

I was always content to be the side character, to live in Ruby’s shadow. Ruby craved attention and I was okay letting her have it.

I pass by Ruby’s old locker. Someone in the teaching department thought turning it into a mini memorial for Ruby was a good idea. They did the same thing when Kenneth’s cousin Haven was killed a few years ago.

A photo of Ruby’s smiling face is plastered on the top, and below people have written goodbye messages. My first day back, they encouraged me to write something too, I spent over an hour reading everything that everyone had written, surprised that most of it was actually nice.

People telling her goodbye, that they loved her, people complimenting her. James drew a picture of a bird taking flight right below her portrait, and Hailey decorated the sides of the locker with curling vines and flowers. The artwork mixing with the words gave it a strange sort of beauty.

I could see the paragraph written by Kenneth. I don’t think Brie or Samson wrote anything though, and I didn’t either.

When I get to class, I stare at my feet, feeling the heat of stares. I was never meant to stand out this much. I wonder if Jasper is getting this much attention at work.

During class change, I see one of Ruby’s best friends, Brie—former best friend, best friend? Well, I guess she’s still her best friend, it’s not as if being dead changes that, does it?

No one ever addresses these kinds of things. When someone loses their spouse, they become a widow, but what is the term for losing a best friend, a sister?

Am I sister-less now? Will people refer to Jasper and me as if we never had a third sibling?

Brie sidles up next to me as I grab my books from my locker.

There’s a party tonight, she says. Her eyes are blood-shot with dark circles underneath them. I wonder if she’s sleeping well. I know I’m not.

Thirty-eight days. She’s been gone for thirty-eight days.

The funeral was closed casket, so it took a while before it really sunk in.

But now there’s no denying it.

She’s gone.

There’s an emptiness that’s wrapped around me like a blanket. She’s really... gone.

She’s not waking me up in the mornings to drive us to school. She’s not filling the house with her music and laughter. She’s just... gone.

I want to say something mean or to ignore Brie. Instead, I slowly shut my locker and stare at her. It’s not as if I’m angry at Brie. She wasn’t there... that night.

I’m not sure if Brie and I would even be considered friends, though. I was always the tagalong. Ruby’s Little Shadow. But she’s the only one of Ruby’s friends that still tries to talk to me. Well, her, and one other person... but I don’t want to talk to Samson yet.

And other than Ruby and her friends, I didn’t really talk to anyone else. Funny how it never bothered me before. The whole not-having-friends thing.

So... I let the word hang in the air between us. Ruby was the partier, not me, and she knows it.

Not that Ruby partied often, but she was a social person, and if people were gathering, she wanted to be there.

Thought you... might, she swallows and turns to look at her nails.

Brie always has nicely painted nails that she changes every few days, but right now, they’re chipped, and it’s clear she hasn’t repainted them since the black she had for the funeral. Thought it might be a good... uh... distraction.

A distraction.

Yeah, I like the sound of that.

Dear Ruby,

Ms. Rich, you remember her, right? The school guidance counselor. She said I should write you letters, write what I’m feeling... thinking...

But I have nothing to tell you.

Well, one thing.

I hate you.

Two

There’s something about how loud parties are that I can never get used to experiencing. Ruby always loved the loudness – concerts, parties, music in the car. Our house used to be filled with her stereo most days, but I’ve always loved silence.

Ruby said I acted like an old lady, but at least I won’t lose my hearing by fifty from blasting speakers straight to my eardrums. Not that she has to worry about that now, though.

The house practically shakes with bass that can be felt down the street. And as if the music weren’t too loud, there’s also the people. There are people everywhere, spilling through windows and doors, literally, there’s a few kids sitting on windowsills. There are even a few people on the roof. Not sure how they got there.

And then there’s the body odor mixed with the smell of beer. Beer is all they ever have at parties like this. I hate that smell. I still don’t know how they manage to get the stuff.

Giant house parties aren’t a common thing here. I don’t know how it is with other places, but here it’s not like how the books and movies sometimes make it.

There’s one, maybe two, large parties like this a year, and because of that, anyone and everyone that hear about it, tries to come.

Usually the parties that Ruby and her friends frequented are smaller things. A group of around six to eight people sitting in someone’s backyard or basement when their parents aren’t home. Playing card games and drinking whatever they managed to get ahold of that day.

Walking into the house is as hot as walking into a sauna, I can already feel sweat prickling the back of my neck and underarms. But the beat of music thrums through my chest and drowns out everything else. It’s impossible to think... and for the first time, I welcome the volume.

Brie mouths something to me that I can’t understand and disappears in a crush of bodies. I don’t know whose house this is, and I’m not sure that I care.

Normally I’d wonder how they could get away with being so loud without getting the cops called on them, but this house sits on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by trees. The closest neighbor would probably be over a ten-minute walk, so that question seems irrelevant.

It’s two stories; a set of stairs is roped off, probably to deter people from going up there. That never works, though. It’s got an open floor plan and the living room is one massive pool of people dancing and moving.

I spot a crowded couch shoved against a side wall. People laughing and drinking on it.

For a moment, I feel lost. I never come to these parties alone. I know I have Brie... but it’s not the same.

Thirty-eight days.

She’s been gone for thirty-eight days.

I swallow the rest of my thoughts before they can fester. I let the milling bodies lead me closer to the edge of the dance floor.

A song comes on that I know—one of Ruby’s favorites. I bite my hand as my eyes burn.

One of the few things Ruby and I both shared in common was dancing. And even though I wasn’t a partier, I loved to dance. Ruby would always drag me out onto the floor with crazy moves until I’d finally give in.

Mom put us through classes for a few years until I decided that dance was a distraction from school and wanted to focus on my studies. For some reason, when I quit, Ruby did too.

Sorrow flows through me, so strong that I gasp for air.

I see the dirt falling into Ruby’s grave. I hear Jasper playing the piano at her funeral. I bite my hand again until I taste blood, but it’s not working.

So instead, I close my eyes, and I focus on the pulse of bass. I let the beat move me, hips and arms shifting, feet slowly heading to the center of the floor.

I haven’t danced in a long time. I feel my muscles relaxing and a blissful nothingness filling my mind.

Everything fades away.

It’s only me. Me and the music. I don’t smell the stench of too many people. I don’t notice the crush of bodies.

I don’t think of her.

Bodies move near me, some passing by, others dancing, too. I am air drifting around bodies that don’t care to know of my existence. I’m not sure how long I’m alone with my nothingness when a hand lands on my shoulder.

Briefly, everything seems to blare a little louder. Another hand shifts to one of my hips, and someone’s feet begin to move with mine.

I focus on their movements. The hand on my shoulder grounding me.

It’s not the bump and grind that often happens at these parties, but a sort of three step. I haven’t danced with a partner in a long time—well, if you don’t count Ruby and some of her friends. Kenneth and Samson were especially terrible dancers.

We move in circles, and when the music amps up, so does my partner. I keep my eyes closed, feeling body heat radiating out, the sweaty grasp of their hands.

When I open my eyes, the lights seem a little too bright. I don’t recognize the boy I’m dancing with. That’s not really surprising; I don’t pay attention to other people much.

My head is always in a book or another world, as Ruby would say.

He looks my age. He’s got beautiful eyes, the brown so light that it’s like gold, light brown skin, and dark hair.

And he looks... sad... no, more than sad. He looks as though he’s filled with sorrow, as if he’s seen more than I can ever understand.

I might only be seeing my own feelings reflected in his face.

Maybe I’m just wanting to see someone else that knows that the world isn’t fair, that knows how badly life can suck.

Those eyes aren’t even looking at me. Not really. There’s this tangible connection floating between us. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s as if he’s looking at my soul.

Like his pain is seeing my pain.

For the briefest of moments, I feel that if I start crying, he might cry with me.

I’m not sure what to say to him. I’m not sure I even care to say anything to this boy I don’t know. But then my mouth gets ahead of the rest of me.

Ruby always thought I was shy, but I’ve never been shy, only introverted. There’s a difference there that I could never get her to understand.

Who are you? I ask.

He blinks slowly, as if he’s coming out of deep thought. And I wonder if he was feeling that deep soul connection too, or if it was only me.

Gage.

I haven’t heard of him, but again, that’s not anything surprising. I haven’t heard of many people. I’m almost always alone.

And you are? he asks.

Violet.

I see the moment he recognizes my name. His tell is a slight widening of his eyes.

Even with how many people are at our school, there’s only one Violet, and there was only one Ruby.

And even if he wouldn’t have recognized my name before, well, everyone has heard of me now. The little sister of the dead girl. That’s how they know me.

Thirty-eight days. Thirty-eight days of being the center of attention. Of people avoiding her name around me. Of side glances and pitying looks. Of ‘are you okays’ and the never going to actually follow through choruses of ‘let me know if I can help you.’

I stop dancing.

It feels as if someone dumped cold water on me. I can feel a burn in my eyes, there’s a pain in my chest, as if a ball has crashed into me. I swallow cotton.

The boy, Gage, is staring at me. No pity, only that deep knowing sadness in his eyes. I’m not sure if he’s planning on giving condolences or not. I’m not sure how long he plans to continue looking at me. I have the urge to get out. I want... need to get out of here.

I’m going to suffocate from the amount of people. I can feel my lungs constricting; my fingers are too cold. I bite down on my bottom lip until I taste blood again.

Almost as if he realizes what’s going on, he starts pulling me to a set of sliding glass doors. I follow limply, staring up to stave off the tears that want to spill out. I refuse to cry. Not here. Not now. I refuse to cry, period.

Outside, there’s a few people lounging around a firepit, but he pulls me past that, off the patio and into the backyard where grass begins to descend to a pier overhanging a lake.

Ruby would’ve loved this view.

He pulls me all the way to the edge of the pier and then pushes me down. And... I deflate.

My limbs heavy and sluggish. I’m not sure I still want to run; I think... I just want to lay here now. I wish I could lay here forever.

Sometimes, fresh air is needed, he says casually. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to start a conversation with me, and I don’t feel like talking to him, either.

I lay back on the wooden slats, breathe deeply, and stare at the sky. I can still feel that solid weight in my chest, that constricting lump that appeared the moment I heard of Ruby’s death.

Breathe in. Let the air try to dislodge it.

A shuffling sound beside me lets me know he’s sitting next to me.

And sometimes... nothing can help, he says.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I think I get what he means.

The fresh air is nice, but it doesn’t change the reason I wanted to run. Or why I want to cry.

It doesn’t change anything.

Three

Dear Ruby,

Do you remember your cat? You weren’t thinking of him then, were you?

You weren’t thinking of any of us, were you?

Butters. He misses you, you know.

Those first few days, it’s as if he knew. He refused to eat, barely drank anything, and wouldn’t leave your bed.

I remember he was never a mean cat, but after you died... he bit Jasper when he tried to move him, and he hissed at our parents

I don’t know when it changed, but one day I woke up to him sitting on top of me, and since then I guess he’s mine now.

I never wanted the responsibility of a pet, but I’m the only one he’ll let touch him.

I think I remind him of you, you remember how Uncle Hank always said we looked like twins? Well, I guess Butters thinks the same thing.

But if I’m being honest, I don’t mind his company so much, even if he is a bed hog. Seriously, he steals pillows, did you know that? But he’s warm... and well... he’s here.

Daddy hasn’t been home in nine days. He started spending all his time at work. I think he doesn’t want to come home now because Mom’s rearranged the living room twice.

The last time he was home, they got into a fight, he said she was wasting money. She’d bought a new couch.

When Mom’s home, she’s not really here,