I grab my rucksack, wearing the strap around my shoulder. The bag would have felt lighter without the camera but I have grown used to it by now. I've grown used to a lot of things since you're gone. Giving my room one last look, giving that picture of you and I eating ice-creams together one last look, I closed the door behind me, walking downstairs, to the kitchen. A place I started to dread, with Mom's awkward silence. Even if I eat cinnamon powder and gulp it down with hot sauce, she wouldn't care less.
We've stopped talking to each other. And sometimes I think that they think I had helped you with your camping plan. That maybe I knew. I haven't seen Dad properly since you died. He doesn't look at me anymore. Just walks past me whenever we accidentally encounter each other.
I crept inside the room, opening the fridge, Mom's back on me, cleaning the dishes. I grabbed a carton of milk, bowl and cereal. Placing them on the table, quietly chewing, not wanting Mom to talk to me. She tries to act like you never existed, in front of me. And I hate that. It's not fair how easily she believed Skylar.
"You woke up a little early," Mom spoke up, but her back is still turned to me, "The bus doesn't come for at least an hour."
"I didn't feel sleepy." I say, though that was a lie. I hardly sleep with all those pictures of you staring at me. The only time I do have a chance to sleep is in the morning. Like, in school.
"You did your homework?" She asks me. I frown, holding the spoon midair. She never asked me that since you died. It used to be a way to greet me whenever I used to wake up. Asking me to work harder. To please her. It's been a long time since she asked that and now I feel uneasy. Because I stopped doing my homework to focus more on the charts. On you.
"Sure." I reply, shrugging to myself. It's not like she'll check it.
She nods, finally turning at me. Showing me her red, swollen eyes, dried tear stains on her cheeks. I look away from her, pretending to concentrate on my breakfast. She used to be so pretty before, you know. With her long blonde hair and brown eyes. You looked a lot like her. But now, her hair's sticking out in different directions. Her face a mess. I could only imagine how Dad looks like.
"I'm packing up her room," She doesn't even say your name anymore. "If she used to have something that belongs to you then you might as well take it now. You won't be getting it after school."
I still have my frown, "Why are you packing her room anyway? Let it stay like it is. We should at least have something to remember her by."
She turns to her dishes, saying dryly, "I wanted to make it a storage room. The attic's running out of place."
And I know she's making it all up. We barely put things in the attic. The basement it our main storage room. But she doesn't correct herself. I understand that she wants your memories gone from our family. She's trying hard to get me to stop thinking about you. But I won't let her make me forget you. Not until I find that killer.
"Well," I say, "At least let me do it. Pack away the room. I'll take my time to look for my stuff while packing her belongings."
She sighs, 'Fine. But I want it done as quickly as possible."
I nod, as she hands me some keys. Your room keys. I realize that she meant to take away everything that belonged to you. She wanted you out of the family picture. I clench the keys in my fists, putting them in my trousers' pocket.
"And take off that beanie," She mutters, "I'm starting to hate it."
I look at her, and I feel angry. She wants me to forget you so bad. But I can't, Jesse. You're innocent. You had nothing to do with anything.
My beanie. Your beanie. When you forgot about my 14th birthday and gave me your grey beanie. Grandma made it for you, though you never liked it. You knitted your initials J.W in red on it to make it look more like something you'd wear but it came out lopsided and ugly. But you still gave it to me. I never wore it. Not until you died. I wear it every day now. Everywhere. It suits me. And also because you gave it to me. Mom doesn't let me touch your things. So this is all I have to keep with me everywhere.
Many townsfolk think it should be illegal that I'm wearing something that's yours. They say it reminds them of you and the incident. I want them to remember you. The real you. Not there fantasy of you. Some complained the police about it but they wave it off every time. So I still wear it. And I won't take it off. No matter what.
"I'm not taking it off." I say, my voice getting louder, pushing away the bowl of cereal, "You guys took everything of hers from me, I don't see why I should take off the last thing that belonged to her."
She gives me a warning look, but I gave her an equal glare,
"Just because you believe she was at fault, Mom, doesn't mean that I believe that too."
"Lukas Wells." She says, angrily, controlling herself, "Don't talk to me like that. You'll take the beanie off when her things will be getting packed. Don't make me repeat myself."
I hiss, "I won't let you guys take this away from me. I've been wearing it ever since she died. And I won't take it off until I find the murderer."
"There is no murderer!" She pinches the between of her brows, annoyingly, leaning against the sink, "No one expect Jessi-"
"Don't you say that!" I slammed a fist hard on the table, my knuckles white, "She was no killer Mom! She's innocent!"
She sighs, "I don't want to argue, right now. Do me a favor and finish your breakfast, then just get out of my sight."
"I'll do you an even bigger favor and leave right now!" I exclaim, grabbing my back and heading for the door.
"Luke! Lukas!" She calls for me but I ignore her shouts, slamming the door and walking in the cold morning to the bus stop. It'll be early so I'll just do a little bit of my work.
Work I'm doing to prove you innocent Jesse.