Humans logo

Replica

Origin: from the Italian, replicare 'to reply'

By Mollie ImogenPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
Like

Sascha was laying on her sofa, feet propped up on the worn arm, admiring her new shoes. They were Louboutin's black semi-transparent lacy boots that finished a few inches above her ankle. A distraction and an indulgence. Her phone buzzed in her bag. She tried clicking her heels and whispered, anywhere but here, anywhere but here, anywhere but here. White jagged mountains pierced a brilliant blue cloudless sky. Sascha instantly felt the cold and wet seeping through the delicate fabric of her shoes. She wrapped her arms round herself partly on instinct against the cold and to comfort herself. This was just her over reactive imagination. If this was her imagination then a pair of warm boots, actually fur lined would be nice. Heavy thick soled hiking boots replaced her Louboutin's. Something moved in front of her. A person, tall and bulky was striding towards her. She stepped back. Why? She wasn't in danger. This was her daydream. The person was wearing layers of heavy white clothing. A combination of a thick knitted tunic and furs. As he got closer he pulled down the scarf that was wrapped around his face.

'You got it, of course you got it otherwise you wouldn't be here.'

It was her Dad. Warm brown eyes, his beard slightly thicker than last time she saw him. This was how she liked to remember him. Out on an adventure, though they'd never spoken in any of the other day dreams.

'You need to be more careful about where you turn up. Let's get you out of the cold.'

Sascha wobbled and landed on the pale blue cushions of her sofa. Where was the snow, her Dad? Quickly she pulled her legs out from under her. Her lacy ankle boots were back on her feet. It was just your imagination. That's what her Dad had always said when she had nightmares. Focus on something else. Her phone buzzed. She should see who it was, in case it wasn't them. At least it would be a distraction. She got up to get her phone. The shoes were perfect. They pinched a little in places, they just needed to be worn in. She loved the feeling of being 4 inches taller and the confidence this put into her stride as she crossed the small distance from her sofa to the small breakfast bar to get her phone. With her phone in her hand, dread settled in her stomach. Today had been a good day. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth then dialled her message bank.

'If you think you can get away with this you are as crazy as he was. That twenty grand you got, will be the only money you get. He was my father. I will have that notebook!'

The message was from her sister this time. Her adoptive mother and sister were taking turns. One promising any number she wanted if she sold them the notebook and the other ranting and threatening her. She had thought about selling it to them just to see their faces when they realised it was empty. Laying back down Sascha tightly hugged a cushion. She wished she could fall down the back of the sofa and everyone would just forget about her.

She lazily hooked the strap of her bag with her foot. She wanted to look through the notebook again. She turned each page carefully, inspecting it. Feeling the smooth thick paper between her fingers she could see the pages filled with blue ink. The loops of letters merging into one so you couldn't quite make out some of the words. Some pages had detailed maps of made up lands. To her those magical places had always felt more real than the world she lived in. The middle page was torn. She ran her finger along the rough edge. A flash of a memory showed a similar page in her Dad's book. She was back looking at her empty replica. She threw it across the room and curled around the cushion again. Her phone rang. She turned over, covering her head and waited for it to ring out. She breathed in deeply as silence suddenly returned to the flat. Hopefully ... it rang again.

'There's nothing in it, it's worthless, leave me alone.'

'That's what you would say.'

It was time to get a new number.

...

Why was it ringing? What was the point of waking up early on a Saturday to be the first person in the phone shop if someone already had her number? Please don't be them. She didn't have the energy to go back to the shop. She watched it. Large white numbers glowed on the screen. This was ridiculous when did she become afraid of her phone? When had she become afraid of her mother and sister. She reached for it. It rang off. Disappointment flooded her. It would have just been a wrong number call. It could have been the one. He would tell the story in his groom's speech and you would blush and drink more champagne. You need to get out more, you've spent too much time by yourself, Time to ring Yas.

'Oh right sorry, new number, it's Sascha

Phone, ID, lipstick. Keys. Keys go in door, in door. Going out with Yas was just what she'd needed. Why did the door lock have to be such a tiny hole? Yes, it was in. Now that she was inside time to find the light switch. After aimlessly hitting and waving her hand along the wall Sascha decided she could find her way to bed in the dark. She grunted as her shin found the corner of the coffee table. With one hand spread on the table top Sascha rubbed the spot on her shin until the pain subsided. Half crouching she kept one hand on the low table shuffled slowly round it and reached out with the other to find the edge of the sofa.

'I could just sleep on the sofa,' she mumbled quietly. 'No, no, no my duvet is warmer.'

She found the arm of the sofa, then the wall and suddenly there wasn't any wall and Sascha fell to her knees.

'The door's open.'

Luckily, the curtains hadn't been drawn so the light of a streetlamp silhouetted her messy bed. Sascha thought it would be safer to crawl the rest of the way. Once sitting on the edge of her bed she attempted to kick off her slip-on flats. She hadn't worn her new shoes. Those were for something special plus she had wanted to dance an you can't dance in 4 inch heels. Well Sascha couldn't. How did girls dance in heels? She just needed to check her phone then she would go to sleep. She looked through her bag. Where had she put her keys? She could find them in the morning. What if they are still in the door? There's my phone. She had a voice message. When did she get it? 11.34am. The unknown number. This is exciting who could it be. She stabbed at the message to get it to play. She tried again. Holding the phone close to her face and slowly placing her finger onto the screen the message played.

'Miss Brooke, I believe you have come into possession of a little black book. I'm sure you are keen to uncover it's secrets. Let's have dinner at the Emporium on Claremount Street, 8 o'clock tomorrow evening.'

You're not going, this is how girls get murdered...you want your own adventures, you think Dad listened to logic...look what happened, he's gone...what secrets? It's an empty notebook...he knew her name...he knew her name and her number...Dad! I need to call...Dad's gone...why did I have that fifth shot...that cute guy, oh the cute guy I can call him...focus there is a psycho wanting to kill you.

He could know where she lived. Moving would be much harder than changing her number. She had to sort this out. In the morning when everything stopped spinning. If she did go she had the perfect shoes.

...

Sascha tapped her fingers against a knife as she waited for her mysterious dinner guest. The Maître D' had given nothing away as he guided her through the pristine tables bathed in warm light that glittered from crystal chandeliers in the high ceilings. She ignored the customer who wore clothes that were too similar to what her Dad had been wearing in her daydream yesterday. From the alcove where she was seated Sascha had a full view of the restaurant. A long bar filled most of one wall with a pianist at the end. His hands were blue. Sascha looked again. They had to be gloves no one had dark blue hands. She was too nervous for this. No she needed to know what the mystery caller knew about her Dad or at the very least know what this crazy person looked like.

'Sorry to have kept you waiting but I couldn't find the bottle I wanted for this evening. They say that the flavour of this wine is different for every drinker.'

A man in an immaculate dark grey suit walked into the alcove. The light picked out the gold thread that flecked the material. The collar of teal silk shirt rested on the matching grey waistcoat.

'I'm Mr. Alexander Tavish, a friend of your father's.' He extended his hand to her. Tentatively she took it. Mr Tavish was smiling at her his eyes crinkling at the corners. He started to pour wine. Instead of it being red or white it was amber and seemed to glow.

'I haven't seen you since you were a little girl but your father always talks about you.'

Sascha reached for her glass of wine. Great this was going to be like the wake. Another person wanting to swap stories about her Dad, pretending like they knew him. Though the more she sat in this strange restaurant the more she realised she might not have known her Dad. Her eyes darted back to the man in the white layered clothes.

'Ha, Cal said you weren't good at hiding your feelings.'

Mr. Tavish sat down opposite her. Dad hadn't even let her mother call him Cal. He hated nicknames. Alexander Tavish might know something after all.

'You said talks, my Dad's gone Mr. Tavish.'

'Is he?'

Mr. Tavish looked at her expectantly, like they shared a secret. Sascha dragged her bag closer to her with her foot. She didn't want to be here anymore. Her Dad was missing presumed dead. She'd spent the last couple of months coming to terms with that. Even though you never believed it. Then there was yesterday it had felt reel, too real.

'Look I need to leave.'

On shaky feet she started to walk away. This had been a mistake.

'Have you ever ended up somewhere you weren't supposed to be?'

'Yeah here.'

'I mean you were minding your own business then suddenly you were somewhere completely different.'

At that she moved quicker. His hand grabbed Sascha's elbow. She turned and met his eyes. Her body froze, she didn't want to walk away even though every instinct was screaming run. With a gentle, soothing voice Mr. Tavish spoke again.

'Let me explain. Then you can leave.'

literature
Like

About the Creator

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.