It all could've been prevented. If they had found the disc earlier. If they had found the books earlier. If they had taken notice. All preventable.
Now, standing here, listening to the disc she helped record, the warning sign she should've noticed, Kitty couldn't find any emotion. It was just the music.
How long had this taken, to learn the notes and the lyrics, and play perfectly to the instrumental, which the guitar had been taken out of? Just how devoted would you have to be? How come nobody had heard this being recorded?
Why didn't Kitty stop it? Her fingers whispered over the buttons, stopping over a few. She pressed in and the music was amplified and restarted, and she lost herself in the sound of his voice. As Kitty fell backwards onto the bed, floating, unaware, the music consuming her.
Her hands roved over the soft linen, coming in contact and flowing over and embracing an engraved journal. As she clutched the book to her chest, the tears started flowing from the numbness.
"I wish someone would find me, until then I walk alone."
The music was more emotional than ever, the lyrics were pure warnings. Kitty fell under the music again, so loud she couldn't hear, but she felt. You never were alone. I was there, I found you.
As the music stuttered and went into the duet, Kitty's breath caught and she stopped crying. Our last moments together.
If only he would walk in right now and lay down with her. Tell her it was all a joke. The journal entries in his flowing script, detailing things unmentionable, all the pages bordered with the lyrics in tiny block letters. The disc that surfaced on his bed a few days after it was pillaged and the personal effects returned to his parents. They were where only where she could get them.
Kitty stood slowly, stopped the music and stole the disc out of it, floating downstairs, the music still in her head.
Under the tent, the air was perfumed with the scents of flowers, shaded, the glossy wood coffin at the head of the tent. Kitty found the music player. The congregation fell silent.
Kitty put the disc in and pressed play slowly, stepping away. She bowed her head, tears falling again, against her will.
For three minutes of agony, it was silent. Kitty looked up through her blurry eyes and saw only tears in the others' eyes.
"I helped him sing his own dirge," she murmured quietly, before they enveloped her in a hug that couldn't shut out the song. Kitty fell insubstantial, pulling out of the grasp of grief, disappearing from the others' eyes.
She twirled away, falling in the music, her black dress flaring, the black veil over her face lifting away, but when she stopped spinning, her dizzying ascent back to the real world made tears fall again. She pulled the veil back over her face.
"Hey Pretty-Kitty," a soft voice whispered. Kitty whirled around and faced him. Tears crystalline falling, they meant nothing but sadistic amusement to him.
"You killed him," Kitty whispered, voice closed and clouded with anger and grief. "You stole his inducer in gym, everyone saw him. It killed him inside. He curled up in a ball and died, just faded away."
He looked remorseful, but it wasn't enough. In her mind, the duet was playing. From her bodice, she drew a pistol and placed it to her temple.
"You've killed us."
She pulled the trigger.