Chapter Text
Friday, April 17th
Another bleak, boring day in Essex. Why did my parents have to send me here? I would have preferred France. I took French in high school, after all. But no, they sent me to boring, rainy, draining Essex. Where they call soccer, football, and fries, chips, and me, Yankee Girl.
Better than an alleged cannibal, I guess. Though they could never prove that…unless they got a hold of my journal. Which they won’t. No one will. At least, not again.
My old title was better. The Butcher. The Antler Queen. The leader of a wild, rabid pack of girls. Now that’s a title! I always smile to myself when I remember the power I once had, but it usually fades to anger when I remember I can never go back to who I was. I’m “recovering," after all.
Can you compare murder to alcoholism? Note to self: look that up later. When my parents sent me here to “recover,” I don’t think that’s quite what they meant.
I’m going to the store later, this shitty B&B doesn’t have complimentary items.
***
Okay, so, less interesting, I have pondered ways I'm going to kill the girl at the counter who’s always talking on the phone. More interestingly…I saw someone. She bumped into ME, though she claims I bumped into her. Whatever. I was about to snap back at the British bitch, but my voice was lodged in my throat and died there when I saw her.
‘Hello?!’ The girl waved her hand in front of my face. ‘Did you see a ghost or something?’
Well, yes. Yes, I did. I guess I’d been staring wide-eyed at her for some time because she gave me an impatient look that I’ve seen way too many times before.
This woman…she looked like Jackie. THE Jackie. The same Jackie that haunts my nightmares. The girl I can never seem to escape. The girl whose shadow I will forever be living in, even in death.
The two were nearly identical. Her body, her face, her nose, her big, beautiful doe eyes, all the damn same. The only difference? Her hair. Jackie’s was much fuller, cleaner. This chick had thin, brittle hair.
‘Sorry.’ I muttered, idiotically. What was I apologizing for? Everything, perhaps.
‘Ah, American. I see.’ Okay, racist.
‘Another pompous Brit. I see.’ I retorted. Definitely proud of that one, haha.
She eyed me up and down then. I remember sorta shifting uncomfortably. She wasn’t Jackie. Definitely not. But, my god. It was like my dead best friend was staring right at me beyond the grave.
‘Watch your back, Yank.’
Bitch, you watch yours. You have no idea who you’re talking to. Is what I wanted to say. I choose to be the bigger person and walk away. I was always the bigger person when it came to Jackie and I’s arguments, wasn't I? Oh fuck, hold on, Jackie’s being an ass again.
She said that’s not true because I left her out in the cold to die. There she goes, throwing that in my face again. You fuck up ONE TIME!
Anyway, the whole thing left me feeling…strange. It sparked some old feelings, of course. I’m supposed to be recovering, and even now, in a whole different country, I can’t seem to escape Jackie.
My Jackie.
My beautiful, horrible Jackie.
Fuck, I miss her.
I’m going to bed; this whole thing is depressing me.