She wanders aimlessly through her lost
twin's room, touching everything briefly, except for the small puddle of unidentified fluid, because it looks really gross. She has lost everything, her
playmate, her
scapegoat, her
best friend. Mournfully she checks all of his pockets and drawers for loose change, discards the bags of white powder, pockets the rolls of bills. From his desk she takes a Polaroid of the two of them as children, Bruschetta with light, curly hair and
Bela still
short, blond, innocent-looking and forever carrying around that damn broomstick. Slipping the photo, just over a week old, into her coat pocket, she takes a last look around, then as an afterthought, picks the bags of powder out of the trash and stuffs them into her backpack. They nestle against Bela's favorite teddy bear. His chinchilla naps peacefully atop her makeup kit.
Pausing, she flips open a copy of The Silmarillion and studies it. She's almost positive that she's an elf. Her parents have taught her little in the two months since her birth, what with all the explosions and incest going on; everything she knows, she's learned from TV, mostly Cheetos ads. And this book. The cover is covered with a large yellow warning sticker in her
father's handwriting-- "CAUTION: CANON. HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE. READ ONLY IN CASE OF VIRUS ATTACK." She ignores the sticker entirely. The book says that dead people go somewhere. If they go somewhere, maybe they can be brought back.
She leaves a note on the front door for her parents: I'm going to find Bela. Bye.
And she leaves, stepping in duckshit as she goes.