Page 87 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder
For…me?
My eyes flutter closed as a fresh wave of tears finds me, and I burrow back into the pillows. This blanket is so warm, and the bed is so soft, and there’s food nearby so I’m not going to starve.
Safe. I feel safe.
It’s the last thought that flutters across my mind before I drift off, finding sleep easily for once in my life.
21
IN WHICH AIDEN ASKS FOR ADVICE
My heart hurts for the woman curled up asleep on my bed, and I didn’t know I had the kind of heart that could do that.
My heart aches for the hungry and the cold and the lost. It aches for the people I can help and the people I can’t. My aching heart is the catalyst behind most of my life’s actions.
But it’s never ached sopersonallybefore. It’s always been a detached sort of hurt, a hurt that I could walk away from at the end of the day and still manage to be okay.
This hurt, though, this pain…it isn’t just in my heart. It’s in the blood being pumped and oxidized and sent throughout my body, branching and spiraling and reaching to the furthest tips of my toes and fingers. This pain I’m feeling for her isn’t the kind of pain I can put into the top drawer of my desk when I’m done working for the day.
It is the kind of pain that ties itself to my ankle and follows me home, trailing behind as I drag. It is riding piggyback, its arms tightening around my neck.
That is this pain. It hurts because she hurts, and I want to make it better, and I can’t.
It’s just…her life has been so rough already. She doesn’t need this mess.
Usually I find my desk chair very comfortable, but right now there’s a weight on my shoulders that makes me squirm. That weight comes primarily from the laptop that’s sitting open on my desk, taunting me.
Whatever is in this document tore my roommate apart. And that’s the kind of knowledge that makes me hesitate. Some things are better left unknown.
But as my eyes drift to Juniper again, her face troubled even in sleep, her eyes still red, her nose still swollen, I make my decision.
I’m going to read it.
No, it’s not mine to read. But I don’t want to wake Juniper up, and I have a feeling that what’s in here relates to the things going on in Autumn Grove right now. So I’m going to ask forgiveness rather than permission if need be.
I debate for a second before unplugging the computer and moving to the bed. Juniper is lying on the right side, where I usually sleep, so I sit on the left side instead. It’s only a few feet removed from my normal position, but it feels wrong, a new world view I’ll never get used to. If I ever get married, that will have to be one of my wife’s characteristics.Man seeking woman. Must be well read. Must sleep on the left side of the bed.
I sigh, settling grudgingly into my spot. Is it colder over here? It feels colder than I usually feel on the right side. Is there a heat vent on the ceiling that I’m missing?
I’m being stupid. I admonish myself silently but firmly to cut out the whining, and then I return my focus to the laptop resting on my outstretched legs. I click the little magnifying glass at the bottom of the page so that the size-twelve font shows up larger for my old man eyes—though I will tell no one—and then begin to read. It’s best, I think, just to get it over with rather than dragging it out.
And as my eyes trail over page after page of what appears to be a novel—unfinished, judging by the word count—one thing becomes crystal clear.
This is not a manuscript written by a gifted writer. It's not written by someone with talent or someone who understands the craft of writing.
It’s written by someoneconsumedwith a story.
That is the beginning and the end of the strength this manuscript boasts—and yet it’s enough. I’m pulled through the choppy sentences, the run-on sentences, and everything in between. This story isreal, raw and livid and vibrant. It jumps off the page, clawing and fighting and drawing ragged breath.
A high school girl, named Cora in the story and clearly a sketch of Nora. Three male friends. And a night in which she is drugged, assaulted, and left alone.
Three weeks later, the pink line appears.
I tear through the story, my eyes growing wider and wider with every line I read. I think I am probably the second person in the world to walk this path, reading these words, but I don’t take them for granted. They settle heavy on my soul, and I’m an outsider; I can only imagine what they did to Juniper. I saw the aftermath.
If this story is to be believed, the story Nora Bean was writing, Juniper is a product not of love, or even mutual, consensual lust. She is a product of sexual assault.
And she has probably been fundamentally changed by that knowledge.
