Chapter 1: Email To Lewis

When you left town, Lewis, I did too. Though, I didn't leave the same way you left, nor was it by choice of mine, either.

I bet that when it happened, you were off studying hours away from home, or drinking till you forgot me. Those college parties probably weren't so trite like media portrayal, but I assumed it's no better-- composed of bodies intertwined, that of sober will or sickened roofied and manipulated, along with disoriented shouts lost in the blare of some shitty-so-called-music which comprised of only the finest swears, and then there's probably been the gut-wrenching pot stench making home into every inch of some unfortunate bastard's apartment complex.

You haven't called to see how I've been, and to think that the last you'd ever see of me is "Breaking News: Nineteen Year Old Girl, Julia Adonis, Found Dead In The Aftermath Of Family Restaurant Shooting" is honestly horrendous. First of all, it'd be way too wordy of an announcement. Secondly, I didn't plan on being remembered that way. And to die a stranger, to you especially, would hurt like hell. I wanted a chance to see you again. I wanted to see if you'd still call me your best friend.

And so I wonder if you'd believe me if I told you that I was given a second chance after I died. Same soul, different body. I mean, the new body looks the same as my original; same bleached blonde hair, dark roots peaking out from the scalp, same tired pale greyish-blue eyes, and the same faint freckles and lips chapped from conversational mannerisms I've been trying to upkeep with all the regulars and local folk that came to the restaurant in general. The only difference between me and the dead Julia is that her body is motionless, fallen, and swallowed by the pool of her own blood.

The night I was shot-- I'll try to explain it to you as far as I know. Everything's a blur, and I can't quite remember it too well, or if I tried, this new body starts to ache.

Night shift, around 11p.m. I think, I finished wiping down the counters at the bar area. I had swept flooring from corner to corner, scrubbed at dirtied grout, stacked loads and loads of finished plates onto carts and wheeled them to the back. I was trying to keep myself occupied from thinking about stupid shit, like my mom lecturing me during my break about how I should be pursuing something more stable than photography and maybe switch my major to dentistry. How I should stop mooching off my dad's business, and how I should go get a boyfriend to find love and keep me in line. Grow out my hair back to it's natural color because it'll look healthier, or whatever. Also getting a license. I've been working on driving, but too busy to apply for a test. There was so much on my mind that night. I was trying so hard not to get angry, especially when I laid in the back and found your worn out hoodie on a coat hanger hiding behind some crates. I started to feel awful whenever I remembered you. I still feel angry. Why didn't you call ever since you left town? You asshole.

The men at the bar were getting cocky, but I thought I could handle taking note of what alcohol was left in stock when they were there.

Then one of them, a man who aged enough to have an apparent grossing grey in his beard along with wrinkled depraved eyes, told me "I want to see you bend down and wipe the chairs beside me again." He flashed a crooked toothy smile, yellowed, having remnant of his fourth beer. Ugh.

I ignored him, but he started getting more demanding. "I didn't ask you, by the way," he said. "You do as I say. You work here, eh? Be a good girl. Bend over for me, baby."

"I work here, but not for the likes of you. Do us both a favor, and fuck off."

Before I knew it, the man bolted up from his chair. I rushed around the counter to run into the main dining area, but froze at the sound of a cocked gun behind me.

"Come back here, baby girl."

I turn to look, and his buddies were hooting and hollering beside him. They were two other lanky old men, perverted and drunk, too.

"I'm not coming back there. Put the gun down, sir," I said, fidgeting with the keys in my pocket. I tried to sound calm, but my voice wavered a bit, and I think he could tell I was trying to keep my arms and hands from visibly shaking.

He started to get more aggressive in tone. "I said," he gritted his teeth, "c'mere, girl."

I shook my head. Tears pricked in my eyes. "No," I mumbled.

"Don't make me shoot you. Your folk will coming running out, and I'll shoot them too. I'll shoot everybody, baby."

My mom and dad had already left a few hours before to pick up my little brother from his soccer practice. But I still had the lives of fellow coworkers from neighboring cities there that night. Fuck.

I didn't want anybody to die. But I didn't have it in me to be selfless. I didn't feel safe, and I didn't want to live after whatever fucked up shit he would've done to me if I went back and started obeying his orders. I don't even want to think about all the ways it could've ended if I listened to him. I feel like throwing up at the thought of letting his spindly, warped fingers wrapped around that trigger to ever graze me even in the slightest at any part of my body. Don't think about it, Julia. Don't think about it.

I screamed for help, broke off into a run, and reached the doorway of the crowded dining area, and I remembered so many eyes flickered and stared at me before the bang of a bullet went off. These eyes were of the people I've taken care of for so long. Customers who had their quirks here and there, even through their rough days, needing an extra meal or two, and in exchange they told me stories of their day-to-day events, and I indulged in glimpses of their lives and who they were. But they didn't know me. Not really. I never said much on my end, and so I died a stranger to those I held dear, though they didn't know it. And I died a stranger to you. I died a stranger to you, the one I still consider the closest in all my life even though you were the farthest when I needed you most.

But then I woke up. I woke up, Lewis. Somewhere else, but I am awake. And I'm angry, guilty, and lost, and so I need to find you. Julia Adonis, as far as my parents and folk in our hometown know, is dead. Along with a few others who didn't leave the scene in time. I'm not sure what to do, and though you might not care about me, I still want to believe you do. I'm coming to see you-- I've got a plan. Please don't share this email with anyone, and if you think this is some sick joke, give me a few hours. I still have the same belongings I had when I died-- the same jacket, with pocketed wallet and keys. I'm on my way, Lewis. I swear to you, I'm Julia Adonis. I'm Julia Adonis, again.