March 15th, 2016

[Three months ago]

My parents still weren't back from Bora Bora yet; they were due to return in a couple of days, before Farrow came to visit. I took advantage of that, taking another trip into the attic. This time, I was to take action. I slept on it, and I spent every waking moment thinking about it, and the nagging feeling in the back of my head never left. I had to do my research and really delve into my First Life a little bit more. I had to take a closer look at all the clothes and books, knickknacks, even newspaper cuttings of my death and my favourite stuffed toys as a child.

Once I had secured the ladder, and I was certain (sort of praying) that it wouldn't collapse beneath my feet, bruising up my legs, or even worse, breaking them, I hoisted myself up. Everything was intact, exactly positioned where I had last left them. Most of my old clothes are the ones that would have been too big for me beforehand, as any of my First childhood clothes were thrust on me like hand-me-downs, but mostly when I was at an age where nothing was ever too embarrassing to wear, no matter what era in time they were prevalent. I peered over at the dresses and skirts, the boot cut jeans and the crop tops, and I smiled. I guess this will be one less trip to the mall for a wardrobe reboot, I thought to myself, if I pick out the right stuff. Then I remembered why I was really up here - I had decided on a grand plan, and in order to go further with it, I needed to know my First Life inside and out. I needed to find out about my old friends, and more about Nicole Sanchez. I needed to find out more about Bret Wade. If my mission was to work, was going have to get neck-deep into my old world.

Tiptoeing over to the stack of photo albums, I grabbed the book at the top, labelled 1999. I focused on Nicole Sanchez, taking notice of her happiness when she was with me. The photos of us drinking flavoured milkshakes at diners in denim bomber jackets and high ponytails made me smile. I then flick to photos of Bret Wade, the tall boy with the diplomatic grin and a charm that even radiated through pictures. My chest tightened, for whatever reason.

When I fished out all of the essentials for my mission, I slid out of the attic quietly, and after closing the door above me, I put the ladder back in the garage. I threw the essentials onto my bed and then flicked open my laptop, ready for research. I should have been doing history homework, and I technically was.

If you call tracking down the best friend in your First Life credible research.

◆ ◆ ◆

July 20th, 1999

[Eight days after the shooting]

"We can try for another one." Jeff tells Roseanna, helplessly. He feels like it's his last resort; possibly something she'd agree to. Instead, she laughs manically – hysterically. "You think this was some sort of miscarriage? Some stillborn child? She is sixteen, Jeff!" She's yelling already.

"I'm just suggesting-"

"Don't 'suggest' anything unless you need to!"

"Roseanna, don't you talk to me in that way!" He rises from the couch, giving her a cold glare. "I am your husband. That is our child, not yours. Don't act like you're suffering alone. Don't take it out on me."

"I'm sorry," she sniffs. "I'm going crazy." She begins crying, but it's a wailing noise. She's on the floor, crying into her hands. Jeff stands over her, contemplating to pick her up and take her upstairs, help her shower and put her to bed. But he's tired of nursing her wounds, whilst his are still fresh, wide open.

He leaves her lying there, on the living room floor, and goes outside to light a cigarette on the front porch.