Undertow: A Short Story (part 1 of 3).

Date: (March Seven, Year  2012, A sandbar in the middle of the Missouri River, near a Dam).

It’s been exactly three weeks since Belle Smith was laid in the ground. Exactly three weeks since her corpse was put in an ash wood casket stained dark brown, which was laid in a white stone vault to prevent the worms from feasting on her flesh, which was then lowered into the ground and covered up with dirt. 

Daniel took it hard, of course. She WAS his wife, admittedly one that was 9 years older than him and had a pretty lengthy and passionate affair. He’s alright now, I think. I haven’t seen him in about two weeks. I left that horrid little town and I’m not going back, not until I make sure I’m safe.

NO, I did not kill her. I worry, though, that I, Trevor Olin, number six of the artistic collective known as GreenStar, (As characterized by my tattoo signifying membership, located on my right shoulder of a manta ray with a red number six in the middle) is responsible for her demise. Paranoid? Perhaps, but I have grounds. I saw the whole thing, her entire tragic saga; unfold in that small seaside village that is Pelican.

I’m not there. I took a vacation, I said. Let everyone know I was leaving and wouldn’t be back for a while. Told them I was off visiting relatives and gave them my cell number.  With that, I fled from the town and headed to a small town near the Missouri river in South Dakota. I bought a jet-ski and a small barge to carry things and hauled it all over to a sandbar in the middle of the river. Then, I set to work building a small grotto, about 20 by 20 feet. I attached large steel tubes to the bottom of the base, so that even if the spot I had built it on flooded, I would still be able to float on the water. I put in hardwood floors, a generator, a water purifier so I could get water from the river straight into my sink, and a futon. The whole process took less than forty eight hours, thanks to some hired help. Now that I had built a fortified enough hiding place, I could concentrate on what I had left Pelican for: Belle’s diaries.

I stole them. I admit it.  I had to know, I needed to know, that what I did caused her death. It can’t be because of me. I can’t live with myself without knowing the truth.

I take the first diary, labeled with a poorly drawn Roman numeral I, and crack it open, hearing the crinkling of paper as  I pull the cover back. This is an old journal, definitely older than I am (I'm 25, Belle Smith was 34, meaning she might have gotten it when she was 16 or so). I flip through it, checking the dates. Nothing close to the time period where she was in Pelican, but perhaps I can find out information on her past.

A few hours of reading later, I’ve gotten the basic information. Belle Smith was born in Nevada in 1982. Her parents were both in Reno’s gambling business, though they didn’t live in Reno. Both of them died in 1998 in a plane crash over Russia, the only ones who died. Belle went to Oregon University, double majored in sociology and English, graduating near the top of her class and chosen to speak at graduation. From there, she took two years off working, traveling around Eastern Europe, where she met a man named Nikolai in Romania. Despite being a major focus of her six months there, his last name is never given and she talks about him rarely afterwards. I’ve determined the probability of them being lovers is 46%, seeing as no romance is talked about in the diary, but affection for him obviously leaks through her prose. I won’t copy any onto this document, as I have no intention of leaving a paper trail behind me. 

Continuing onwards, she returns to work after the end of her trip. She gets a job as an editor of a magazine, and she finds a friend in one of her writers, a blonde girl named Rose who looks a bit like Charlize Theron (at least, she wrote that, didn’t bother to go the extra step and add in pictures). Rose and Belle spent a lot of time together, going through periods of lots of activity before not doing anything at all. Still, during these inactive periods, Belle still writes about Rose. Apparently their friendship’s intensity lessened. Odds of something more under the surface: 65%.

I’ve stopped reading the journal for a bit, as I’ve gotten halfway through. I’m going into town now, restocking on food.