Whisky and Wax

"You don't need hymns or flowers to mourn someone. Just a lighter, a bottle, and enough guilt to fill the silence."

Emerging from the bathroom after another quick, yet equally refreshing shower, the abrupt sound of a car horn honking jolted me like an electric pulse. My head whipped towards the bedside table, where the small red digits of my alarm clock blinked steadily in the dim light.

"Ten-fifty," I read out loud, a note of surprise curling through my voice. "How is Beatrix always on time?" I added under my breath. It was almost unnerving—her uncanny ability to arrive with military precision, even when the rest of her life seemed to teeter on the edge of barely-contained chaos.

Panic, hot and immediate, surged through me as I darted back into the room like a whirlwind. One leg was already awkwardly stuffed into my jeans while the other flailed behind, dragging across the carpet in a graceless hop as I searched frantically for the bag of candles. I had assembled them earlier in a rare moment of forethought—a strange, mismatched selection pulled from old drawers and forgotten shelves. Tapers, tealights, half-burned jars with melted labels… none of them made sense together, but they'd do. Somehow, they had felt important. Necessary.

"I'm coming!" I shouted, more to myself than to the car horn blaring outside. Beatrix's signature impatience was now reverberating through the street.

With the candles finally retrieved and stuffed haphazardly into a crinkling grocery bag, I dashed to the kitchen. In a brief moment of mad optimism, I yanked open my handbag and began the desperate task of forcing the bag of candles inside. It was like trying to fold a pillow into a shoebox—lumpy, awkward, and loud.

"Come on," I hissed through clenched teeth, shoving the bulging bundle down with both hands until the zip just barely managed to catch. The plastic crackled in protest, but it held.

Breathless, I lunged forward again, grabbing my jacket and bulging handbag from the bench in a single swoop. I paused just long enough for my eyes to find Snowflake, already curled neatly on her heated mat by the wall, her tail twitching once in acknowledgement. She didn't stir. Not even for a farewell.

My breath caught for a moment, a pang of guilt tightening in my chest. "I've left the heat on for you," I said softly, as if she needed reminding. As if the heat could take care of her better than I could.

She looked up with sleepy, half-lidded eyes, her tail flicking lazily in what I took to be approval. It was a stupid thing to say, really. But in that moment, as absurd as it was, it made leaving her just a little easier.

A final glance around. Everything seemed in its place—except me. I flicked on the porch light. Its warm glow spilled out onto the steps like a false promise of comfort. The front door clicked shut behind me, followed by the solid bang of the deadbolt—a sound that seemed too final, too heavy. The house, now silent, locked away Snowflake and all the soft familiarity of home.

Outside, the night wrapped around me like a damp wool blanket—cold, scratchy, and stifling. I crossed the garden path briskly, my handbag full of candles bumping against my leg as I made my way to the passenger side of Beatrix's car.

As I opened the door, my breath caught for a second.

"You're all dressed up," I commented, surprise creeping into my voice.

Beatrix sat behind the wheel like she belonged at a wake—or a séance. The sheer-black lace dress clung to her, elegant yet austere, and unmistakably familiar. I was almost certain it was the same one she had worn to Brody's funeral. The thought lingered like a question on the edge of my lips, but I left it unspoken.

"And you're not," Beatrix snapped, her eyes sweeping over me with cool disapproval.

I glanced down at my own outfit—clean, serviceable jeans and a plain jumper. Practical. Comfortable. Apparently insufficient.

Her tone stung more than I expected. My hand instinctively reached for the car door handle again. "Do you want me to get changed?" I asked, the bite in my voice more defensive than offering.

"Don't worry about it," she huffed, dismissing the idea with a flick of her wrist. "No time for that now."

"You're in a mood," I muttered, dragging the door shut behind me with a soft but deliberate thud. The handbag settled awkwardly at my feet, rustling with every shift.

Beatrix didn't answer. Her fingers, taut and pale, curled around the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, breaking the silence. She reversed smoothly down the steep drive, her concentration absolute.

As we pulled into the street, the tension in the car thickened, unspoken but palpable. In the quiet, I studied her face. She wasn't scowling, exactly, but her jaw was set, her eyes distant. It wasn't just annoyance with me—it was something deeper. Something unsettled.

I looked around the familiar interior of the car, searching for clues. But everything was in its place. The faint pine scent from the air freshener. The radio dial set to some talk station. Her worn sunglasses still perched in the cup holder. On the surface, it was all just as it always was.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

And as the car carried us forward, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were driving straight into something we couldn't name—something we wouldn't be able to turn away from.

The tension inside the vehicle thickened with each passing block, the silence pressing in like a slowly tightening vice. The streetlamps flickered by in a rhythmic blur, casting long shadows that slid across the dashboard and our faces. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the handbag of candles rustling softly beneath my feet.

"Did you get anything for the memorial?" I asked, my voice tentative.

"No," Beatrix replied, her tone clipped and without embellishment.

I turned my head slightly, catching her profile in the low glow of the dash lights. Her jaw was tense, eyes fixed ahead, and though her expression was unreadable, I recognised the brittle edge in her voice. Not anger, exactly—but something colder. Grief's quieter, meaner cousin.

I frowned, her mood settling heavily in my chest. We often bickered, sniped at each other like only sisters could, but tonight felt different. There was a hollowness to her that matched my own sense of disquiet. A pang of sympathy twisted inside me. The day's trauma—bloody bodies, secret portals, and frayed nerves—must have dragged her back into the shadow of Brody's death. The parallel was too close, too raw.

"I got some scented candles," I said, trying to fill the silence with something useful. I rummaged in my handbag, retrieving the handful I'd packed earlier. They looked pathetic now—one vanilla, two lavender, a stubby fig-scented one that had seen better days. I held them up, one by one, like peace offerings.

"We can say they're from both of us, if you like?"

Beatrix didn't look at me. She only shrugged, a dismissive twitch of her shoulder, not even glancing at the candles. Her silence returned, deeper than before.

Well, I tried, I thought, folding the bag closed again and resting it on my lap. The flickering streetlights streamed past in rhythmic succession, lighting up the inside of the car like a pulsing heartbeat. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the world blur by in a haze of shadows and amber light.

"Did you bring any spirits?" Beatrix asked suddenly, her voice slicing clean through the silence.

I blinked, startled. "Cody is bringing the whisky," I said quickly, glancing at her. My mind flicked to the short text he'd sent me earlier that evening—just a few words, but they'd been enough to send a flutter through my chest. That silly, irrational giddiness of getting a message from someone you're not quite sure how you feel about yet. I'd hugged my phone like a teenager.

"Cody is coming?" Beatrix asked, and I heard the surprise in her voice—thinly veiled, but there nonetheless.

"Yeah," I replied, snapping out of my reverie. "He said he'll meet us there."

For a moment, I hoped she'd say more—ask why, or comment on it, or at the very least make one of her sarcastic digs. But she didn't. Her lips tightened, and she returned to staring out the windscreen, her fingers twitching slightly on the steering wheel.

The silence resumed. Heavier now. Final.

Several long minutes later, we turned onto Luke's driveway. The house loomed ahead, quietly indifferent to our arrival. Jamie's car sat parked in front of us, dark and unmoving, as if waiting too.

"Let's wait for Cody," I suggested quickly, reaching out and catching Beatrix's arm just as her fingers brushed the car door handle. My grip was firm, instinctual—a reflex against being left behind in the dark.

"I'm not waiting," Beatrix said tersely. She yanked her arm from my grasp with a force that startled me and pushed her door open, the sound of it slamming shut reverberating like a gunshot in the still night.

I winced, watching her stride off towards the house without a backward glance.

Left alone in the passenger seat, I hesitated. My hand hovered over the door handle, paralysed by indecision. The thought of sitting alone in the dark, with only the sound of my heartbeat and the oppressive weight of everything we'd been through, made my skin crawl. And yet the idea of stepping out—of following Beatrix into whatever awaited us—was equally daunting.

Somewhere out there, a murderer might still be watching.

Reluctantly, I followed Beatrix quickly, not wanting to be left behind. The night air clung to my skin as I crossed the short distance to the front porch, every footstep pressing my nerves tighter. Beatrix stood just ahead, but the porch light cast her face in shadow, making her seem distant—aloof, even. A surge of anxiety rose in my chest, threatening to overtake me. The memory of Joel's lifeless body in the back of the truck came rushing back, visceral and immediate. I blinked hard, trying to dispel the mental image, but it clung stubbornly to the corners of my vision.

Acting before I could lose my nerve, I pushed past Beatrix and opened the front door without knocking. The handle was cool in my hand, and the door creaked open with a reluctant groan. I felt the brush of Beatrix's arm against mine—close, but not comforting—as she followed on my heels.

"Hey Luke," we called out in unplanned unison as we stepped inside.

The sound of our voices together was oddly jarring. A rare moment of synchrony between us, unintentional and fleeting, it struck me as almost eerie. The house smelled faintly of something sharp—whisky, maybe—and the air carried a tension I couldn't quite name.

A sudden clink drew my attention. A shot glass clattered loudly against the stone benchtop, the sound unnaturally amplified in the quiet room. Cody's laughter rang out, warm and unexpected. Too relaxed. Too at home.

"You two couldn't even wait for us!?" I exclaimed, a mix of confusion and irritation bubbling beneath the surface. My eyes snapped to Cody and Luke—standing shoulder to shoulder like they'd been best mates for years. Something about it unnerved me. Their familiarity wasn't right. It was too soon. Too easy.

"How rude…" Beatrix chimed in, unimpressed.

"I was just cheering Luke up," Cody said, flashing a grin in our direction. His eyes found mine—quick, searching—but I turned away before he could lock me in. I couldn't look at him. Not now. Not when my gut kept whispering that there was more to him than he let on.

"I'm sure," I snarked, crossing my arms, my voice edged with mistrust. I kept my gaze fixed on a nondescript point across the room. The silence between us buzzed, taut and uneasy.

Luke, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, picked up his shot glass and lined it up with three others along the benchtop. Cody grabbed the bottle and began pouring, casual and unbothered.

"So how…" Beatrix started, but Luke cut her off with a weary shake of his head.

"I really don't want to talk about it," he said, his voice flat and frayed at the edges. "I'm really tired."

"Or drunk," I muttered, letting my bag drop onto the bench with a heavy thud. The contents shifted noisily—candles, lighters, bits of wax knocking against each other—as if to underscore my discontent.

"Not yet," Luke replied, dragging a hand down his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Well, we've brought the candles," Beatrix announced, sliding into action, ever eager to take charge. She unzipped the bag and began placing them out with a certain ceremony—pillars, tea lights, oddly shaped jars—all jumbled together in chaotic tribute.

I watched her work, biting back a scoff. Of course now she wanted to own the idea, like she'd been the one trawling through old cupboards earlier, fighting off dust and memories to piece together something—anything—that felt like a gesture of meaning.

Luke rummaged through a kitchen drawer and came up with a gas lighter. Without a word, Beatrix took it from him and began lighting each candle one by one. The faint click and hiss of the flame became a steady rhythm, the tiny fires springing to life in soft glows.

"Are you sure you have enough candles there?" Cody joked, breaking the solemnity with a chuckle that felt too loud in the flickering lights.

I stepped closer to Beatrix, drawn by the hypnotic sway of light and shadow. I could feel the warmth from the flames brushing my skin, see the flickers reflected in the sheen of the kitchen bench. The scent of lavender and melting wax began to permeate the air, mingling with the faint tang of whisky and the ghost of uneaten dinners.

"Turn the lights off," Beatrix instructed.

Luke obeyed without question. One by one, the overhead lights clicked off, leaving us in darkness save for the fragile circle of candlelight. The room transformed. The harsh angles softened. The silence deepened. Shadows danced on the walls like restless spirits.

And in the hush that followed, I felt something shift inside me.

A quiet reverence settled over the space. The flickering flames seemed to whisper of lives interrupted, of truths obscured and buried. Joel's name hung unspoken in the air, but I could feel its presence—heavy, sad, inevitable.

The memorial had begun. Improvised, imperfect, yet strangely sacred.

And as I stood in that warm halo of light, surrounded by those I barely trusted, I realised that we weren't just mourning Joel.

We were mourning ourselves—who we used to be, before everything changed.

The four of us stood solemnly around the island bench in Luke's kitchen, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows across our faces like ghosts in the dark.

Cody moved with a quiet grace, handing each of us a shot glass filled with amber whisky. The liquid shimmered in the dim light, catching brief flashes of flame as it passed from hand to hand. It looked almost golden, too beautiful for the occasion.

"Do you have a picture of him?" Beatrix asked, her voice hushed but direct, as though she didn't want to disturb the quiet grief clinging to the air.

Luke shook his head slowly, his eyes not quite meeting ours. "No. We only learnt about him a few months ago." His voice was soft, edged with sorrow—the sorrow of what could have been, of missed beginnings and abrupt endings. The room seemed to darken slightly beneath it.

My breath caught as I absorbed his words. "Does… does Jamie know he's dead yet?" I asked, carefully choosing each word. The name Jamie felt sacred now, like something fragile you could break just by saying aloud.

"No," Luke replied, shaking his head again. There was something final in the motion. "And he won't ever find out. Cody took care of it," he said, his tone slipping into something unreadable as his eyes flicked to Cody.

My own gaze followed instinctively. For the first time that night, I allowed myself to look at Cody properly. His face, usually open and teasing, was guarded—his expression carved in something close to shame or regret. The shadows from the candles seemed to play across the angles of his face, softening him, even as I studied him with cautious scrutiny.

"Yeah," Cody said quietly. He kept his eyes low, fixated on the whisky in his hand. "I took care of it."

Something in the way he said it prickled at me. His words were simple, but they landed heavily. I bit down on my lip, not just to keep from speaking but to ground myself. My throat tightened, and the first sting of tears made itself known. I hadn't expected this much grief—for a boy I never knew, for all the questions we'd never ask.

"It's so sad," Beatrix murmured beside me, her voice soft as candle smoke. "He looked so young."

"He was," Luke confirmed, and his voice cracked in a way that made it real. "He was only nineteen."

"So tragic," I murmured, my voice barely there. I wiped at the corner of one eye with a trembling finger, not wanting the others to see just how much it was getting to me.

Luke raised his shot glass. The movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial. Without a word, we mirrored him, our own glasses lifted in quiet solidarity.

"What do we say?" I asked, glancing around the group, my voice hesitant. "We never really knew him." The confession felt strange, even guilty. How do you mourn someone you never met? Someone whose death had entered your life not by emotion, but by circumstance?

"You say whatever is in your heart to say," Cody replied gently. There was a kindness in his voice that made my chest ache. Our eyes met then, properly this time. His gaze was steady, tinged with something soft—perhaps even hopeful. The smallest of smiles played on his lips, offering comfort I didn't know I needed.

"I'll go first," Beatrix said suddenly, breaking the moment as she stepped forward, her shot glass held with quiet dignity.

She paused, and I watched her steel herself. Her expression, usually so sharp, so guarded, softened under the warm candlelight. Her voice, when it came, was clear and unwavering.

"Joel," she began, "we never had the chance to know you. But we love Jamie. And you are his blood."

I swallowed hard, bile rising as her words wrapped tightly around my throat.

"And so, we love you too," she finished, voice thick with restrained emotion. "To Jamie's son," she said, raising her glass.

"To Jamie's son," we echoed, our voices a muted chorus beneath the flicker of flame.

I tipped back the glass in one motion, the whisky hitting my throat with a searing heat. I welcomed the sting—it cut through the fog in my chest, the ache behind my eyes. The burn was sharp, unforgiving, but it anchored me in the moment, in the shared sorrow and strange sense of unity that filled the room.

Setting the glass down with a soft clink, I looked at the small circle we had formed. Strangers in grief. Strangers bound by the absence of a boy we should have known.

I reached for the glass almost as soon as Cody had filled it, an inexplicable urgency surging through me. The words that had taken shape in my mind demanded to be spoken, like breath held too long beneath water. Around me, the shadows of my companions swayed gently in the candlelight, their faces dim and solemn, carved in grief. For a moment, the world felt suspended—just us, the flickering flames, and the silence of the dead.

"Joel, may your soul one day know your father's, and know the good man that he is," I said, my voice emerging stronger than I felt. My own sentiment lodged somewhere beneath my ribs. A tear welled up, blurring the candlelit forms before me, and I instinctively reached up, dabbing it away with the pad of my finger before it could fall.

Joel would never meet Jamie. Would never know the warmth of his voice, the strange sweetness of his optimism, or the fire that burned just beneath his calm exterior. The thought clawed at me, raw and sorrowful.

"To Joel," I said, lifting my glass slowly, reverently.

"To Joel," the others replied, their voices steady but subdued, as if afraid to stir the air too much, afraid it might carry Joel's name away too soon.

I took the shot in one go. The whisky scorched a path down my throat, its burn no match for the sting behind my eyes. The glass trembled slightly in my hand as I set it back on the bench, my breathing uneven. The tears stayed there, suspended but ever-threatening, just like the grief we were all barely holding back.

Cody stood quietly with his own empty glass poised before him, but he didn't speak right away. His expression was unreadable, and yet his stillness commanded attention. The soft golden light shimmered against the wetness in his eyes, and slowly, we all turned towards him, instinctively bracing for what he might say.

"Joel," he began, and the way he said the name—softly, almost reverently—made my breath hitch. "You met unfortunate circumstances, but…"

He faltered. His voice cracked mid-sentence, the weight of emotion breaking through his usual composure. "But…" he repeated, and the pause felt like an eternity, as though the next words were too large to be spoken aloud.

I leaned forward slightly, drawn in, my nose twitching from the force of my own held-in sniffles. Everything in the room waited with me—Luke, Beatrix, even the flames seemed to slow their dance.

"Death is merely a process," Cody said at last, his voice low but firm, "and when we learn to master that process, we will master death itself."

His gaze drifted to Luke and held there, unwavering. Something about the words sent a ripple through my spine, like the air had shifted in tone and texture. The statement hung in the silence, strange and unnerving. It didn't sound like comfort. It sounded like a truth, spoken too plainly, too confidently, for the moment.

A chill crept along my arms despite the lingering warmth of the whisky. What did he mean by that? Master death? The idea was tantalising and terrifying in equal measure. I couldn't tell if it was grief talking or something darker.

"To Joel," Cody said again, raising his glass even though it was already empty, as if the act itself mattered more than the drink.

"To Joel," we echoed again, our voices thin and fragile in the quiet.

I raised my own glass once more and pressed it against my lips. Though no liquid remained, I closed my eyes and imagined the burn. The phantom whisky poured down my throat, its fumes spiralling up my nose, making me wince from a pain that wasn't even there. My belly churned, a hollow cavern rumbling with sour wine and silent screams, filled now with ghosts I could neither welcome nor cast out.

When I opened my eyes, the candlelight fractured through a veil of tears now spilling freely down my cheeks. They fell hot and silent, cutting through the numbness. There was no denying it anymore.

In that moment, under the wavering light, in the company of three others just as lost, I knew. I truly knew.

Brody was gone. Joel was gone.

And nothing would ever be the same again.