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Camille

The rain has been relentless since the early hours of the morning. It falls in steady streams, pooling on the uneven pavement outside the church. I’m seated in the front pew, clutching my mother’s rosary tightly as if I believe in a higher power. The beads press into my palm, leaving small indentations, but I can’t loosen my grip. This is the only thing that is centering me and keeping me from falling over the edge.

I rise from my seat and make my way over to the coffin before the preacher can take his place to begin the service. I place my hand on the hard oak wood. My heart clenches in my chest. I lean down and place a small kiss on the coffin.

I miss you, big brother.

I stand upright and then turn to walk back to my seat but then I catch a pair of ocean eyes at the back. They hold so much intensity that they stop me in my tracks for a second. I blink and bring my mind back to where I am and take my seat beside Louise—my best friend.

My brother is dead, and now I am alone in this world. My parents died in a car crash when I was 10, and now my brother commits suicide 14 years later.

Father Laurent’s voice carries over the muted sounds of shifting bodies and the occasional muffled sob. He speaks about étienne as though he knew him deeply—a devoted son, a kind soul, someone who brought joy to the lives of others.

Those were all the things he was up until the last two years, when everything changed. The warm light he once carried had faded long ago. He became a man I did not know.

A memory floats to the surface: étienne, at 10 years old, chasing me around the garden with an earthworm. He was laughing so hard he could barely run straight, and his grin was infectious. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn’t. That laughter disappeared as we grew older. Our once-close bond unraveled, leaving behind silence and secrets. Now, I’ll never have the chance to bridge that gap. And the last words I had said to him…

I would live with that one regret for the rest of my life. I should have told him that I wanted to work things out, that I wanted to be there for him in the ways he had been there for me.

Beside me, Louise shifts in her seat. She leans closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “You need to stay strong, Camille. It’s what he’d want.”

I nod, but I don’t speak. Her words feel like wallpaper trying to cover a crumbling wall. Louise doesn’t understand the weight of what I’ve lost—not just a brother but the answers to a thousand questions I never asked. The why and the how of his death loom over me like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. It doesn’t make sense. My brother would never kill himself. No matter how bad life got, he would never do that.

“You don't know him anymore.” The words echo loudly in my mind.

“...he leaves behind his sister who loved him dearly until…”

The priest’s voice fades into the background as my eyes drift to the coffin at the front of the church. It gleams under the dim light streaming through the stained glass windows, but it feels wrong somehow. étienne was 30. Too young for this. Too young to leave me behind in a world that now feels colder and sharper than it ever has.

Toward the back of the church, a figure catches my eye. He’s tall, dressed in a dark coat that blends into the shadows. His posture is too casual for the somber occasion, and something about him sends a flicker of unease through me. I can’t make out his face, but I feel his presence, like a weight pressing against my chest. For a fleeting moment, I think he’s looking directly at me. But when I glance again, the space where he stood is empty.

Vanished, like a ghost.

A shiver runs through me, but I force my eyes back to the front, pretending I didn’t just feel that thread of discomfort tugging at the edges of my mind. The service continues, words and hymns blurring together until the conclusion is announced. People begin to rise from their seats, their movements slow and heavy with grief.

I don’t know half of them. I never met any of my brother’s friends. Toward the end of his life, he was a recluse.

Louise touches my arm gently. “I’m going to go ahead and make sure that everything is fine. Okay?”

I nod my head in answer. Louise squeezes my arm and heads out of the church while I take a moment to sit in the reality that has been thrust upon me. I watch as they carry out the casket and all the friends and colleagues who had filled the chapel filter out and head to the gravesite.

“It’s time.”

The last goodbye. I walk out of the chapel, my heart heavy and the questions only growing louder with each step I take.

Outside, the rain has softened to a fine drizzle. I pull my coat tighter around me and step into the gray afternoon. My heels click softly against the wet pavement as I make my way to the cemetery. Each step feels heavier than the last, my legs weighed down by exhaustion I can’t shake.

The cemetery looms ahead, shrouded in mist, the iron gates creaking as I push through. The chill in the air seeps into my bones, amplifying the ache in my chest. I’m not ready for this—not the sight of his name etched into cold stone, not the fresh mound of dirt that feels like an accusation.

The last few years had been a slow unraveling of the brother I once adored. étienne had always been my protector, my confidant. But something changed. He started keeping secrets, going MIA for weeks, avoiding my questions with a tight smile and deflections I grew too tired to challenge.

He’d disappear for weeks, and when he returned, there was a sharpness to him I didn’t recognize. He stopped laughing, his once-warm eyes shadowed by something dark and impenetrable. I thought I could pull him back, but every attempt felt like grasping at smoke. He’d brush me off, insisting he was fine, even as the distance between us grew into an unbridgeable chasm.

I come to a halt when I find the grave my brother’s coffin is to be lowered down into. The undertakers watch me with great sympathy in their eyes. They must see at least a dozen funerals a day, and I am no different.

A sob breaks free as I stand before the freshly dug grave. My hand clutches at the damp handkerchief in my pocket, twisting it as though it might hold me together.

“Why didn’t you let me help you?” My voice cracks, the words barely audible over the rustle of wind through the trees. “You didn’t have to face it alone.”

Louise is at my side, her hand already in mine, offering me all the support that she can give me at that moment. There is nothing that anyone can say or do to ease the ache that plagues my chest. All I can do is sit in it.

My head bows, tears falling freely now, streaking my cheeks with a grief too heavy to contain. I hated how we ended, the tension and the arguments, the quiet that stretched like a gulf between us. But I loved him, more than words could ever express. And now, it’s too late.

The wind shifts, carrying with it the faintest trace of something foreign—cologne, sharp and unfamiliar. My pupils dart to the treeline bordering the cemetery. For a moment, I think I see movement, a shadow slipping between the trunks. My breath catches, but when I blink, it’s gone.

I cannot help but feel that I am being watched. Every time I look to the shadows I feel the heaviness of eyes on me. Grief and exhaustion must be playing tricks on me. Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to the grave, the fresh soil over his grave. The rose that I hold in my hand sears my palm. The tears fill my eyes. I throw the rose onto the soil, marking my official goodbye.

“I miss you,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Even when you were alive, I missed you.”

I swipe at my tear-streaked face, but it’s useless—the rain has already left me drenched. Louise stands beside me as they lower my brother into his resting place. The pastor blesses him and prays for the angels carrying him over to the other side. I almost scoff. My brother was no saint but I do hope that he finds peace wherever he may be.

When the dirt is thrown and the casket buried, the people begin to disperse, their duties all fulfilled and their respects paid.

I don’t know how long I stand by his gravesite, minutes, hours… They all bleed into each other. My hair mats together in egregious clumps and clings to my skin. My eyes are raw from all the tears I cry. My heart is nothing but an empty hollow.

In time I will heal, but for now, I will simply break. There are many questions that surround the death of my brother, and not a single soul can answer them. I know that he didn’t kill himself. I may not have had much communication with him in the last months of his life but I knew my brother. I fiddle with the locket that my brother left for me. It is meant to symbolize a token of his love for his sister. Things grew difficult between us, and if he had given to me while he was alive, I would have ignored it. Now…well, it will never leave my neck.

I give the freshly made grave one last look before I turn and make my way to the exit, leaving étienne to rest, praying that he finds peace.

As I reach the cemetery gates, I pause, glancing back one last time. Through the mist, I catch a flicker of movement again—a dark figure lingering near the edge of the trees. My breath quickens, and my grip tightens on the cold iron of the gate. I want to yell out, to demand to know who it is, but the words lodge in my throat.

When I look again, the figure is gone. Only the rain and the rustling leaves remain. But the sensation of being watched doesn’t fade, following me all the way home. Am I going crazy?

By the time I get home, my clothes are partially dry, and my throat craves the bitter taste of a good bottle of wine. I kick off my heels, make my way to the fridge and pull out the bottle I have been nursing since yesterday. Alcohol helps to ease some of the pain.

I make my way to the leather couch and plop myself down, not bothering with a wine glass. I throw the bottle back and allow the bitter taste to massage the tension from my soul.

That’s some dang good wine. But my heart yearns for something perhaps a little stronger. The allure of alcohol to numb all feelings is extremely tempting. I want to not feel but I can’t allow myself to get lost in the sweet abyss of alcoholism. My mother had been proof of how alcohol can destroy you.

So, I reach for the side of the couch where I left my little toy that always helps to take the edge off. I play with it, fingering the vibrator in my hand. An orgasm is like drugs, the happy hormones that release after you come do offer some sense of relief. I take another swig of my wine and then place it down on the coffee table in front of me. I lift my hips and remove my underwear and lift my skirt to my belly. Normally I would have some porn on but my imagination will suffice for the time being.

I place the vibrator into my center and begin to plunge it in and out of my pussy. I close my eyes and imagine my body being touched by a man. Every inch of my skin is scorched by his touch and awakened by his kiss.

Fuck yes.

This is exactly what I want and need. A moment to forget about all the bullshit that has become my life. I work my body until I feel the rush of the orgasm rip through me like an earthquake, shattering me to the very core of my being.

I blink my eyes open and stare at the ceiling. Perfect. But then I feel the weight of something staring at me and I whip my head in the direction of the window that still has its curtain drawn.

I get up from my seat and make my way to it. It’s dark. The storm clouds still loom overhead but the rain has stopped.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t come closer. It just lingers, watching. The same unease from the cemetery grips me, stronger now, more insistent. My mind races with possibilities. Who is it? Why is this person here? Could it be someone from the life étienne kept hidden from me?

I blink, and the figure is gone. The shadows of the trees sway in the wind. I press my forehead against the cool glass, straining to see into the darkness, but there’s nothing. Just the empty driveway and the distant outline of the garden.

“It’s nothing,” I whisper to myself, though the tremor in my voice betrays my doubt. Logic tells me it’s my imagination, a cruel trick of grief and exhaustion. But my gut says otherwise.

I retreat from the window, down the hall to the safety of my bedroom. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lock it. My heart still pounds, and I struggle to shake the feeling that I’m not alone, that there’s someone—something—waiting just beyond the edge of sight.

As I sit on the edge of my bed, I can’t help but remember étienne’s sharp and serious voice during one of our rare honest conversations. “Trust no one, Camille,” he’d said. “Not everyone who smiles at you is a friend.” At the time, I thought he was being dramatic, exaggerating the dangers of his life to keep me at arm’s length. Now, I’m not so sure.

I lie down fully clothed, pulling the blanket over me like a shield. My eyes stay fixed on the shadows in the corners of the room. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and when it does, it’s restless and broken by flashes of memory—étienne’s strained smile, his hollow laughter, the fleeting glimpses of that figure in the shadows.

When I wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, the sensation of being watched hasn’t gone away. It’s stronger now, a constant hum at the back of my mind. I force myself to sit up, shaking off the remnants of my dream. My eyes dart around my bedroom window.

Is someone really watching me?