Zaire | Before

It doesn’t take long for me to stop thinking of her as Charlotte and start thinking of her as Charlotte’s body.

Charlotte’s body is laid out on a long table in the Assembly Hall, flat on her back. She looks exactly as she had on the beach when we had found her about four hours ago. Back when she was Charlotte and not Charlotte’s body.

She had been lying half in the sea and half out. Her hair was swaying in the water as the waves lapped around her. Sand clung to her damp legs, something she would never have allowed. She was always the image of perfection, like a model in a glossy magazine. She was on her front but her head was tilted to one side, her lips tinged an unnatural blue.

It had taken me only a second to realise what had happened. She had drowned. Charlotte, the star swimmer who had taught me to swim when we were five, had drowned.

Everyone else who had been there is asleep now. Only I had refused to go to sleep, not wanting the image of Charlotte’s tangled hair and pale skin and blue lips and twisted limbs haunting my nightmares, burning an unforgettable picture into my mind.

So I sit here, on the table with Charlotte’s body with my head bowed. Maybe someone else would hold her hand. Raffiel would. So would the twins. They would say some sort of prayer so her journey to the next life or whatever is peaceful. But having her soaked, slender body in my arms as her heart finally beat for one last time was the last time I will ever touch her.

“Oh, Charlotte,” I whisper. “What have we done?”

Her body is drier now, but the police hadn’t wanted anyone to dry her with a towel properly. Around her was a Charlotte sized outline of salty water from the wild sea of Cornwall. At first, I had compared her to a saint in one of those paintings. Now I see how wrong I was.

Those saints have torn up bodies, but perfect faces. Peaceful faces. Charlotte doesn’t look peaceful. She looks like she’s scared.

Those saints have calm eyes. Before Natalia closed her eyes, Charlotte’s had been wide and blue and terrified.

Those saints weren’t fifteen year old girls who died far too soon.

I lift my head to see Charlotte’s parents walking into the hall.

“Zaire,” Mr Cezanne breathes, walking quickly towards me.

Mr Cezanne’s raven black hair- so different to Charlotte’s- is tousled like he’s come straight from bed. I can see the pyjama top collar peeking out from above his black trench coat and how his trousers are pinstriped navy- abad match. The phone call must’ve startled him. Mrs Cezanne is right behind him, face already streaked with tears and her eyes bloodshot.

“She’s really gone?” Mrs Cezanne hiccups. “Really?”

She sounds like a small child asking their mother if the toys were really sold out at the shop. Holding onto a small shred of hope.

“Raffiel did CPR,” I mumbles. “Guy passed every Red Cross course there is. But she was already nearly gone when we found her.”

I stumble towards the woman and pull her into an uneasy hug. I have known her since I was a baby, but physical contact has never been a strength of mine. Or Charlotte’s, for that matter. Mrs Cezanne clings to me, sobbing uncontrollably.

Mr Cezanne is worse. He sits on the table just like I had, touching Charlotte’s cold hand.

“Charlie?” Mr Cezanne’s voice is hollow. “Charlie, it’s Daddy. I wanted you to hang on, Charlie. Hang on until we get here and you fo up to the angels. You’re my angel, Charlotte. My gorgeous, Charlotteful angel.”

“Mr Cezanne-“ I begun.

His voice cracks. “My Charlie didn’t even make it to sixteen. So much ahead of her.”

“What’s that?” Mrs Cezanne asks suddenly, pushing Charlotte’s damp hair back.

Creeping over her shoulder, onto her collarbone, is a black stroke of ink. I feel my throat tighten as Mrs Cezanne gently turns her daughter over and pushes her shirt up. She makes a sound like a kicked puppy while Mr Cezanne draws in a sharp breath. I close my eyes for a second, trying to block out the memory of seeing it for the first time.

On Charlotte’s back is an elaborate inking of a raven, pitch black against her pale skin. The symbol of death at Claire Hall.