The Middle Realm Read online

  The Middle Realm

  Alessia Mattei

  Copywrite 2012 by Alessia Mattei

  Smashwords Edition

  Ch. 1

  It has never ceased to amaze me how the most well thought out plans can change in an instant. You work so hard trying to map out your life. Everything must be perfect. You have to live out the American Dream. You have to have the perfect husband and children, the big house and the overpriced, gas-guzzling SUV.

  For me, that was hardly the American dream, but to each there own, I guess. All the time you’d spent planning seems to have stopped reality from hitting. You had been far too busy to think about the things that could possibly throw a wrench into those plans. You simply could not be bothered to think about the what-ifs. Why? Because nothing bad could happen to you? You’re indestructible, right? Wrong.

  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but nobody is safe. You can plan things out until the hypothetical cows come home. You are not immune to life; none of us are. Like it or not, things happen that are beyond our control. I know this will send the control freaks into fits of rage.

  If you think that there is nothing that could possibly change your plans for your perfect little life, a reality check is in order. I’m not trying to scare anyone; I just want people to realize that we have no control over lives. We are just boats in the crazy river of life. You’re along for the ride, but the current will determine the course you take.

  Let me just use myself as an example. Like you, I had planned out my life. I knew what I wanted. I knew the path I wanted to take. Like many, I never stopped to think about what could happen if my life were to take a sudden turn. When my life did take that sharp turn, I was not ready. I would be lying through my teeth if I said I was prepared.

  If I’ve taken anything away from my recent experience, it would be that life works in ways that we will never begin to understand. When things happen, we need to suck it up, pick up the pieces, and somehow find the strength to move forward.

  Life: Is there anything in the world more complicated than life? If you say women, please find the nearest exit: You are not welcome here.

  Where was I? Oh, yes. Maybe “complicated” is an understatement. I’m not even sure there is a word to describe it. If you find a word that better describes life, let me know. I’d love to hear it. But, for argument's sake, let's just go with “complicated.” I’m sure many would agree life is not easy. Many of the things that happen are well beyond our control and understanding. If they weren’t, would we even be having this conversation? Probably not.

  You’re probably also wondering what my point is. Well, my point is that we need to quit mapping out our lives. It’s useless. All we do is set ourselves up for disappointment. Besides, isn’t it much more exciting to see how life unfolds all on its very own?

  Okay, I shouldn’t talk. Look what happened to me.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is that life is unpredictable. It can be unpredictable in good ways and bad ways. Enjoy it, because it can disappear before you realize it.

  One more thing before I depart -- ha-ha, get it? No? Oh, trust me, you will.

  Let me regain my composure here. Okay, I’m ready.

  Once you come to terms with the fate that will befall you, it will be easier to begin picking up the pieces. I know what you’re thinking; How the hell do you begin to pick up the pieces after the one thing you can’t get back has been taken from you?

  Well, for starters, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get over it and move on. You are beginning a new chapter. If you want to get off to a good start, wipe that slate clean. I know you’re hurting now, but you’ll survive. Okay, maybe “survive” is not the best word in this case. I am so sorry. If you want to slap me go ahead, I deserve it. No? Thanks what a relief. I haven’t been slapped in the face since that time I accidently let it slip that my sister -- all right. That is a story for another day.

  I’m sure by now you’re wondering about my story. How did Savannah, a young and talented designer, come to meet such an untimely demise? Well, do you have a couple days to spare? No. Well I’ll just have to shave it down a little then. I’ll spare you the not-so-savory parts. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor here.

  Now where to begin? How about with the part where I was murdered by my best friend? Yes, you read that correctly. My best friend murdered me. Why, you may ask, would my supposed best friend kill me? At the moment, jealousy seems to be the main motive. I’ll get back to you when I figure it out myself. Seeing as how I have the rest of eternity, I can take all the time I need.

  I’m going to get a little deep and serious now, so if you don’t like deep stuff, now is your cue to go to the bathroom, respond to a text message, check your Facebook, etc.

  Of all the people in my life, Emma is the last person I would have expected to hurt me the way she did. It’s funny how those closest to you are the ones most capable of inflicting the worst pain imaginable. It’s one thing when it’s a stranger who hurts you, but for it to be someone you love, it’s so much worse. You’ve trusted this person. They said they would always be there for you. They said they would always have you’re back. They even said they would take a bullet for you if they had to. It’s funny how this all seems to go out the window the moment they stop seeing you as a friend and start viewing you as the enemy. Instead of taking the bullet for you, they are the one pulling the trigger.

  It’s hard for me to accept that Emma, my best friend, is a murderer. She doesn’t possess any of the qualities of a murderer. I’m not sure "qualities" is the right word to use when talking about a murderer. Traits are probably a better word. Anyway, I never found Emma to have the guts, no pun intended, to kill anything. She couldn’t even kill a bug. She had to trap it in a cup and set it free outside. Do you think Charles Manson ever did that? No. He probably killed any bug he saw in his house. The point I’m getting at is that Emma is not the killing type. So she really took me by surprise that night in Paris.

  Emma certainly caught me off guard with the whole jealousy thing. She never brought it up until right before what I refer to as my own personal doomsday. Never once up until I left did she bring it up. I don’t know how long it had been brewing inside her, but it must have reached its boiling point. When she brought it up to me, I was floored. How do you respond? With “I’m sorry”? I mean I can’t help it if I’m living the life she always dreamed of. I didn’t choose my life. It was chosen for me.

  So Emma decided to punish me for it. She felt that by getting rid of me, she could steal my life and be happy. I know what you’re thinking; how could Emma kill me and then take on my identity? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s not as farfetched as you may think.

  Emma and I look alike. I mean we really looked alike, Separated-at-birth alike. Many people thought we were twins. All throughout grade school and high school we had to make sure people were able to tell us apart. Far too often we were mistaken for one another. In second grade, we decided to wear accessories so people could tell us apart. Since we wore uniforms at school, dressing differently was not on option, but we were allowed to accessorize to our hearts’ content.

  This went on through high school. I always wore the crazy accessories like big earrings, several necklaces at once, brightly colored flowers in my hair, glittery headbands, stacks of bracelets going up my arms, and my black Chuck Taylors. I also dyed my hair. Unfortunately, no crazy colors allowed. In high school, I even snuck in some band hoodies when the teachers were not looking.

  Emma stuck with daintier accessories in muted colors. She favored feather earrings, long necklaces, wooden cuff bracelets, gauzy cardigans, delicate beaded bracelets and thin headbands. She had a very Boho style. And, boy, did she rock it. Nicole Richie, eat you’re h
eart out! Emma rocked the Boho style better!

  Sorry, I got off topic again. You might as well get used to it, because -- trust me -- it will happen again.

  Anyways, I guess you could say our accessories matched our personalities. I was the loud one; Emma was the quiet one. We certainly balanced each other out. That’s for sure.

  High school is when things really changed. I wouldn’t say the changes were good or bad. They were just the typical changes one experiences at the time. You start to become your own person, or at least you should. One of the changes that occurred for me was that I became -- wait for it -- popular. Yeah, I know, who would have thought someone like me would become popular? Stranger things have been known to happen, okay? I’m not a complete freak of nature. It happened not long after Emma and I first started at our fancy-pants prep school.

  Ch. 2

  I always kind of thought I was freak or a dork or something. I was very much into music, rock to be exact. My Chemical Romance is my favorite band, in case you were wondering. Please refrain from any Emo jokes. That would be greatly appreciated. I swear if one more person tells me to go find a dark corner and play my Emo music, there will be blood. Just kidding.

  Where was I? I told you I get off topic a lot. Oh, yeah. I also loved art, fashion and comic books. Oh, don’t even get me started on the show “Dr. Who” Once I start, I won’t stop. I’m serious. I could really use a TARDIS. That would be amazing. Someone, please get me one.

  Anyway, in the beginning of my freshman year, Emma and I sat with the art/alternative kids at lunch. At our table, we talked about music, art, movies and a random assortment of topics I won’t bore you with. We were always quoting lines from movies and playing card games. Yes, I used to play Dungeons and Dragons. I’m just going to leave it as that. Think what you want, and try not to judge me too harshly. There I said it. Let us move on now.

  Emma and I enjoyed the people we lunched with. I was the girl who seemed to have her headphones permanently attached to her skull, -- that is, when I wasn’t with Emma. Emma and I were the girls who spent their weekends at shows hanging out with bands. People always looked at her like she didn’t belong, but then stopped judging when they saw how passionate she was about the music.

  The Vans’ Warped Tour was our summer tradition. We never missed it once during high school. When we weren’t at shows, Emma and I were browsing thrift stores and vintage shops for unique clothes and accessories. I also did a lot of drawing, mostly designing clothes. That is what got me in with the popular crowd. The popular girls loved fashion, so when they found out that I liked designing and sewing clothes; they knew they had to befriend me.

  One day at lunch, Emma and one of the other girls at our table were discussing a book they were both reading at the time. Everyone else was involved in a deep discussion on Kurt Cobain. I didn’t feel like joining in on the Kurt Cobain discussion, and I wasn’t reading the book Emma and the other girl were discussing. I also wasn’t hungry, so I decided to get out my sketchbook and colored pencils.

  I began sketching some ideas for my homecoming dress. I could easily have had any designer dress I wanted, but I preferred to make my own. After a few minutes of sketching, I got out my Walkman. There were too many conversations going on for me to concentrate. So I listened to “I Brought you my Bullets, You Brought me your Love” by My Chemical Romance -- an awesome album, by the way. I was sketching some ideas for dresses.

  As I sat there innocently, with my sketchbook, colored pencils and CD player, I was hit in the back of the head with an apple. Not one of those cute, small apples. No, it was one of those behemoth baseball-size apples.

  When I was hit, it startled me, and I knocked my pencils and Walkman onto the floor. The pencils fared better than the Walkman. As I bent down to pick up my stuff, I looked up to see one of the girls who sat at the popular table. She had thrown the apple and began to apologize. She came out and said that I was not the intended target. Well, that was a comforting thought, I guess. I’m glad no one had it in for me. It was the guy sitting across from me. Why he was the intended target, I have no idea. He seemed like a nice enough guy to me.

  How about my poor Walkman? It didn’t make it. Rest in peace, little buddy. We had some good times together. You were faithful until the very end. On the bright side, I got an Ipod that following Christmas.

  Back to the bitch who assaulted me with fruit. She thought she threw the apple high enough. Yeah, I totally buy that one. She didn’t. As she apologized in that fake sweet voice -- you know what I’m talking about -- she saw my fashion drawings. The rest is history.

  I was still the same Savannah, just more popular. I wasn’t about to change for anyone. The popular people put up with my love of “things that could ruin my reputation but miraculously don’t” their words not mine.

  As for Emma, she didn’t exactly become popular. She hung out with me and the rest of the “popular” crowd, but she was never considered popular. Try to figure that one out. My other friends put up with her, but didn’t like her. They constantly made sure to remind her that even though she hung out with the popular kids, she was not actually popular herself.

  I can’t tell you how many times they would invite me to hang out with them in front of Emma. She always knew she was not invited. I could see how much it hurt her. That’s why it was always Emma and I only, when we went to shows. Occasionally my boyfriend Alexander would tag along, but that’s it. So that was where her jealousy issues began. All that I had, she wanted. In the end, she got it. I hope she’s happy.

  Let me just leave you with this. Emma is not a bad person. She is just different. I can’t really explain it. There is just something about her that set her apart from other people. Maybe part of it is living in the shadows of her older brothers. One is a hockey player who I’m sure will make it to the NHL. Her other brother is in medical school, at Yale to be exact. Her parents kind of forget about her, they’re so wrapped up in their sons’ lives. They love Emma, there’s no doubt about it. They just don’t treat her the way they treat the boys. It’s quite unfair. Emma sees how supportive my family is of my dreams; she wishes her family were the same. She gets how important her brothers’ dreams are. She wants to see them succeed more than anything. It’s just that she wants the same kind of support they’re getting form her parents.

  I’m the one who supported her dream of becoming a big time advertising executive. I used to call her the future Donna Draper. For those of you who don’t get it, it’s from the TV show Mad Men. Don Draper is an advertising executive, which is what Emma wants to be one day. Hence Emma’s nickname. If it weren’t for my family, and me Emma wouldn’t have any support.

  Then there’s the popularity thing. Emma just wanted to be accepted. She rarely felt like she was good enough. Thank you, Emma’s parents, for making her feel she wasn’t good enough. They didn’t mean to do it on purpose. It also probably didn’t help that she was friends with me. She thought that I was perfect, that I had it all. I didn’t. I’m just lucky and I know it. She is not a bad person. She was always there for me. Sure she may have told me from time to time that she wished she had my life, but it wasn’t anything to be concerned with. It seemed normal. Emma was not a bad person. I still feel horrible about what happened before I left for Paris.

  Ch. 3

  “Baby, I’m going to miss you so much,” Alexander told me as he held me one last time the night before my early morning to flight to Paris. This was going to be so hard on him, I could tell. The thought of leaving him hurt me, but my dreams of becoming a fashion designer were on the line, and he understood that.

  We stood in the middle of my parents’ living room. It was just the two of us. My parents were on the driveway chatting with the last guests. My sister was out in the backyard with the dogs. All around us were red, white and blue streamers and balloons, posters of famous landmarks around Paris, and French flags. She had also moved my Moulin Rouge movie poster that I had up in my room down to the living ro
om. I hadn’t even realized it. Let me just point out that the poster sits above my bed and I hadn’t noticed it wasn’t there. There was even a 12-inch-tall Eiffel Tower sitting in the center of a table surrounded by French cheeses, pastries and wine. Music played softly in the background. It sounded like the soundtrack to the Disney movie “Ratatouille”. It made me smile. My sister, like me, loved all things Disney, and knew I would appreciate her choice of music.

  “I’ll miss you, too. It’s not like I’m never coming back. I’m just going away for a little while. I’ll try to come home as often as I can,” I told him. I had to reassure myself this was not permanent. As I looked at Alexander, my eyes began to fill with tears. I told myself I would not cry. Good thing I wore the waterproof mascara. Alexander’s last image of me did not have to be of me with black streaking down my cheeks. The raccoon look is not a good look for me.

  “Hey, don’t cry,” he said as he wiped a tear from my eye. “I’ll be here when you get back. Everyone will. No one will forget about you. You will always be on my mind. We’ll call each other every day and we can Skype since we both have webcams”.

  “I know. You promise you won’t forget to call?”

  “I promise” he said and kissed me. “It’s getting late. You should probably get to bed.”

  I had to let go of him. I did not want to let him leave. I would have loved for him to spend the night, but my parents were not so comfortable with it. He has spent the night many times without them knowing. They knew that night I might try to sneak him up to my room, so they were on high alert. Also my dogs love Alexander, and seeing them going crazy trying to open my bedroom door might give him away. “You’re right,” I told him.

  “Savannah, did Emma ever come to the party? I don’t remember seeing her,” he asked me as we walked toward the foyer. I really wished he hadn’t said anything. I was really hoping no one would bring Emma up. I was lucky up until now. The party went smoothly, with no mention of her. I guess it’s natural that a guy might ask his girlfriend why her best friend was not at her going-away party.