Free Unspeakable by Abbie Rushton

Something flickers through me. A hazy, drunken memory. A feeling. I try to grab hold of it, but it’s like trying to catch a cloud.
    ‘I guess that means I’m forgiven?’
    I nod.
    Mum totters out of the kitchen. ‘Just popping to the shop. I fancy something naughty. You want anything? Chocolate?’
    I fix her with a look. I assume ‘something naughty’ means fags.
    ‘What?’ she says, with a wicked grin. ‘God, Megan. Sometimes I think you’re the mum and I’m the kid!’
    I try to smile back, but it falters. Mum lost her own parents in a car accident a couple of years before I was born. She must miss them so much, especially now Gran and Grandpa are gone.
    We wave her off, then I lead Jasmine up to my room, tapping the banister in a nervous, staccato rhythm as we mount the stairs.
    I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, seeing it through Jasmine’s eyes. It’s immaculate. All the surfaces are clean and clutter-free, my books are alphabetised, my CDs grouped bygenre. I almost want to chuck an old plate on the floor, or leave some dirty socks lying around, to make it seem normal. Jasmine is looking at the walls, though, which are decorated with prints from the Wildlife Photographer of the Year Award.
    Early afternoon light slants through my window and highlights drifting dust motes. I watch them for a moment, transfixed, then wrench my eyes away, looking for something else to distract me.
    Jasmine’s waiting. I have to do this. I almost can’t bear to let Hana go again, but she’s not here any more, and Jasmine is. Hands shaking, I reach beneath my pillow and pull out a stack ßof letters, all addressed to Hana. All unanswered. I pass them to Jasmine.
    I watch while she scans the pages. Her eyes are red, her skin blotchy. I hate seeing her like this.
    When Jasmine finishes, she tucks the pile of letters beneath my pillow again. Then she stares at the floor, trying to gather the right words. After a few moments, she seems to give up, and just lunges forward to grab my arms. ‘Oh, Megan,’ she gushes, ‘I’m so sorry. Sorry you lost your best friend. Sorry you had to see it. I wish I could make it all go away. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.’
    Jasmine draws me into a fierce hug, her fingernails digging into my back. I focus on the feel of her chest against mine, the sound of her breath in my ear, the brush of her hair against my neck. A knot of tension in my shoulder blades loosens.
    ‘Do you have any pictures? I’d like to see, if … if that’s OK.’
    My heart quickens, but I drop to the floor and scrabble around the bottom of my wardrobe for the right photo album. I find it and quickly flick through.
    There it is. Hana and I standing in Grandpa’s garden, arms wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed together, her grin matching mine. Hana’s wearing a black top with glittery stars, paired with some combat shorts that end just above her knees. Everything looked great on her. Even the scruffy Dr Martens were kooky and cute. I bet she was wearing odd socks beneath them. She was the kind of person who’d wear Christmas socks in August.
    Jasmine studies the picture. ‘You look so happy and comfortable with each other,’ she murmurs.
    I wish Hana were here. Wish you could meet her .
    Tears glisten in Jasmine’s eyes. She tries to hold them back, but they overflow and roll down her face. Seconds later, we’re both clutching each other again and crying.
    ‘You know it wasn’t your fault, right?’ Jasmine says, her voice thick with tears. ‘You keep saying sorry in your letters, but your mum said it was an accident.’
    I pull away from her sharply and stand to look out of the window. I’ve told you as much as I can. Don’t ask for any more .
    Jasmine starts to say something else, but Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Are you two hungry? I’m starving! I could make lunch if you like?’
    ‘Are you hungry?’ Jasmine whispers.
    I shrug.
    ‘Be right down!’ Jasmine calls.
    I turn to