Chapter Thirty Three

The voice of a young boy. It had to be Jamie singing. It just had to be him. I had already started to consider myself at least half crazy, but hallucinating and creating people would round me off to the borderline of insane.

‘I am not insane!’

Jamie was a floor beneath me, so unless he was shouting, it was not his voice. The likelihood of him lurking around the corner just didn’t fall in place.

Fisting my hands, I pushed my eyes deep into their sockets. I had to think this through. Possibilities had no place. I needed facts.

My mind reeled with all the information.

I had cleaned my own room, or so my mum had claimed. If that was the case then why did I have no recollection of doing it? Dad was missing, but that was not an issue I needed to concern myself with at the moment.

The boy. The boy in the painting. Was he real or just a figment of my imagination? 

‘It had to be my imagination, nothing like that can be real!’ I couldn’t stand it. I saw a translucent figure a few hours ago.

I walked back to my desk and checked through the ledger. 

‘Why did they kill you? I know you were killed, but why?’ From the time of meeting the older version of the boy, being killed because of a spirit had left my mind. It seemed so stupid. No, it was worse than stupid. 

‘But wait,’ I said aloud. I started tapping the desk as a new thought hit me. I knew I looked ridiculous; I was talking to myself after all. I needed to go over the options.

‘If he did NOT exist, then was my dream real? Did I create a whole story in my head? If that was the case, then the librarian would have given me another account of what happened. Although, he hadn’t gone into depth with everything,’ I stopped and inhaled deeply. 

‘The boy in red cannot have been real. There were no paintings of him and I hadn’t had a dream of him, nothing. Yet I still had a nagging feeling that maybe he was the one that I should have dreamt about. There was a possibility that I may have replaced him with the image of him when he was young. However, that would mean everything was real,’ I continued on aloud.

‘Argh! Possibilities!’ I slapped the wall out of sheer frustration. But I wasn’t done.

‘There was not a single portrait of the lady in the house. How did she find her way into my dreams? Did she really get raped? Was she real or did I create her? I took the image of my mum and she became Marie. 

Letting out a deep breath, I leaned back against the wall.

Did it matter if the boy was a young boy, or a young man? Not really. What mattered to me right now was the fact that he was killed.

It was time to take my first visit down the neighbourhood. I stretched over and picked up the red book.

‘Mr David Walston of number 9 or Mr Victor Hayes of number 11? Which one should I visit first?’

I received my answer as soon as I noticed the two lines beneath Mr Victor Hayes’s name. It felt as if someone from High above was telling me what to do. Hmm, but that cannot be right. My actions will contradict that of what we are taught.

Pulling out the key from my drawer, I walked to my wardrobe and unlocked the small drawer. Just hearing the clinking noise had me smiling. Picking a test tube, I twirled it between my fingers, intensely gazing at it. It’s hard to imagine that such a small pretty thing could be used for the most important things in life for scientists, for teachers and lecturers. Then there was me. It looked pretty now, but once I was done, it would look beautiful.

I slid it into my bag and added some cotton buds. Locking the drawer, and dropping the key back into my desk drawer, I made a move to the bathroom.

Once outside my room, I froze.

‘When did the test tubes arrive? Where did the key come from? Wait-’

‘Kelly, I’m leaving now, love,’ Mrs Jenkins called.

‘Mum,’ I whispered.

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