S A F F R O N

The first seven days of grief were the worst.

First came Shock and Denial.

I was on my hospital bed, my arms and legs curled under the white sheets when the doctor gave me the news. I felt the world crashing beneath my feet and heavy rocks piling up on the back as he whispered those words. James didn't make it. Everything in the room stopped, minus the flashbacks. The car, springing out of the darkness, resurfaced bright and clear with James' voice in the background. Everything happened so fast, I barely had any time to process it. The crash, the fire, and later the ambulance lights. The whole episode went on in my head like a video on repeat. I was already so tired. Tired of this shield between me and the world; and tired of backing the weights of this truth on my shoulders.

When my mother came to see me, the doctor told her that I got away with a couple of stitches and a head shock. I couldn't lift my eyes to her side. Next to her, there was Anna — my neighbor and James' mother. After a series of controls and a few declarations to sign, we were good to go.

The ride home was just like I expected it: filled with empty gazes and a cold, cold atmosphere. Nearly two hours later, we were in our hometown. Anna barged outside as soon as the car got parked. My mom followed, turning to my side of the door to help me get out. With eyes lost in the driveway, I wondered how fast two years had gone by. Two years since I left with the name of being in college. At that time, it was the only excuse I could find to move out from this lonely place. I called it winter town, not because I didn't like winter. I loved it. In fact, it was my most favorite season. But something about Bangor made me feel wintered inside and I hated that feeling.

Pain and Guilt.

The first thing I did entering my room was block all the windows with foil and paper wraps. I didn't want anything to get in. Not even the sunlight. So I made this barricade between me and the rest of the world. As long as I was around these walls, I would have been alright, far away from glaring eyes and haunted houses.

The next couple of days I was stuck in my room, sleeping and crying like a baby, wearing the same clothes from the first day. I thought that not getting out of the house would have shielded me from the pain of the outside world. That being stuck in my own bubble would have prevented me from hurting any less. But the hurt was never less. Not  even an inch.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, millions of thoughts would start to play in the back of my head. And I lost sleep wondering if everything would have stayed the same if I acted differently. Funny how an action yielded to an infinity number of possibilities. A reality split between events that occurred and things that almost happened.

Anger.

The universe surely had a sense of humor. It only gave bad people more reasons to do bad, and good people less chances to make a change in the world. A contemporary whicked game — I thought — where one won by losing, and lost by winning. So was I winner? Or just a sinner? Would I ever be able to forgive myself? In the end, I turned to be what I feared the most. The monster under the bed was never under the bed. It grew in me, turning strengths into fears and, eating out of my dreams. And now, guilty eyes and a rotten heart were all that I kept. So why him and not me? Was my life worth the living? Or was it just a waste of oxygen?

Bargaining.

What was death? I scratched my head around this five lettered word that would shut off human existence in a snap of fingers. I never feared dying. Not until it happened to somebody else. It was too easy for someone to just pass away and live a supposed afterlife, while the ones on earth faced the consequences. Hell was a place on earth, with demons masked up as saints, and humans worshiping the wrong kinds. A loss was more about others than the close interested. People cried because they hated the sense of lack somebody's absence fillem them with. They hated everything that was a mess or a chaos. But they would never admit it.

Depression.

My mother came home every night at the same time. Her life was ruled by a timetabled scheme. She would organize every little thing. From the time she would wake up and go on a walk to when have breakfast and head for work. She was a doctor. A heart surgeon, to be specific. So growing up, I didn't face anything different from what kids with strict, ambitious single parents did. Every mistake was seen as an even bigger mistake and no trophy was ever high enough. After my father left, she dived even deeper into this madness. She would stress herself out every night before sleep, torturing herself for not being good or smart enough. She just pushed harder and harder, willing to bring me too into her rabbit hole. Kids were like second chances for parents like this. They wanted us to be what they never were.

Sometimes, I wondered how somebody who was so close to human hearts, would be so heartless? Was this just a coping mechanism? Or a punishment?

Growing up, I never looked up to her. Not because she wasn't a good mother, because she was too good of a mother sometimes. And it was too much to handle. Dad was the cool one. He was my hero. The light to my eyes. The only person who let me dream without sticking a sense of responsibility on my shoulders. I was free. Free to be a kid and whatever kids did at their age.

It was time for the second meal of the day when my mother knocked in my room. She would periodically bang on the door and tell me to come sit with her. Even after rejecting her twice, she didn't give in. She was a tough one. Even tougher than I liked to admit.

"Saffron," she called my name from the other end of the door. I peeked my eyes through the blanket and tried to imagine her face. Was she actually worried or was it just an act to make me crawl out of bed and remind me how awful my life was?

I was never as smart as her, not mathematically at least. My passion was anything but science. I liked to improvise and that was all I knew about me. I couldn't handle the stress of choosing my path since I was fourteen. What would a fourteen year old know about life as an adult, without the right visions and experiences? Growing up, I didn't know what I wanted to be. Like, no clue. I would jump from one hobby to another and get tired of it in no time. My mother eventually gave up on me. She was happy that I went to college and let a certificate title my education.

Reminded by the series of disappointments and hardships I made her go through all my life, I decided to listen to her and reached at the table.

"I made lasagne," she said in her composed, nonfragmented voice. "You're favorite dish."

I scrawled the fork around the borders, drawing invisible circles on the plate. I wasn't hungry.

Was she trying to get a thank you out of my mouth or was it just a way to get a reaction out of me? Did she expect me to smile and forget about everything that happened? If fading a memory was so easy, I would have had lasagne every other hour of the day. But things weren't as easy as they seemed. Or we didn't want them to be that simple. People like me had a tendency to love over complicated things, maybe because of our own complicated nature.

"I know you're not passing a good time." She took a bite of her food and chewed it slowly. "But the world cannot stop here. You are so young and full of potential. A few months from now you'll look back and smile because the worst has passed. You should focus on your life and get back to where you left."

"And where did I leave?" I asked, annoyed.

"I think you should go back to college. Your finals are right around the corner."

I couldn't help but laugh at what she said. In the past seven days I saw my life turn upside down because my friend died in a car accident but — according to her — I should think about college. Right in that moment, I thought about telling her that I was not the girl she thought I was; that college was my free way to leave this winter behind; and that I dropped out a while ago. But I didn't.

"You're so funny." I put the napkin back on the table and prepared myself to get up.

"Why do you act like your life is ending here? You have no faults. James died and you cannot do anything to change that. The faster you'll learn that and the faster you'll recover."

"I'm not going back to college." I moved the chair back to its position and stepped away from the table.

"Why not?" She said, raising her voice. It was very unusual to see her lose her temper.

"Because there are no finals. There is no college. I dropped out the first semester I got in. I just needed an excuse to get out of this cage. You never let me be me and I needed that more than anything. I need this more than anything."

"Excuse me... I think I didn't hear you very well. What did you just say?" She was red and her eyes popped out like they were about to explode.

"I. Won't. Go. Back. To. College."

She put her fingers over her head, like she was counting all the responses and possibilities. Her eyes fired me from a distance. The kind of gaze that I was scared of. She wasn't angry or anything. Just disappointed.

"I didn't get my butt to work everyday and provided for a comfortable life to hear this from my daughter. What do you mean by you dropped out on your first semester? And what about all the tuition fees and the pictures on the campus? The graduation..." she paused to take a breath from her own thinking, "It's all a big fat lie."

"College might have been a good decision for you, but it has never been an option for me. The faster you'll accept that and the faster you'll recover."

"Education is important! What do you wanna do with your life? Be a cashier at a pumping station or a homeless living by the day? You don't know how bad the consequences of your actions are."

"Tell me something then," I opened my mouth knowing I would have regretted saying it, but I did anyway. "You have two degrees, a master's, and dozens of certificates that show what an incredible woman you are. Then why are you so unhappy? Why doesn't anybody want you? Why don't you have friends? Why are you so fucking lonely? You're so good and for what? You didn't even manage to make dad stay. He disappeared because he couldn't stand you. You and this fucking narcissistic behavior!"

I left the drawing room and climbed upstairs, knowing that she wouldn't have had any comebacks after that. Tears started to stream down my cheeks as I looked at the marble floor. Emotions felt like they stumbled upon me, all at once, and I was with my shoulders against a brick. No place to go and nowhere to hide.

I watched the clock strike midnight when the noise of the city vanished completely. Despite the number of antidepressants and antibiotics in my system, I was more awake than ever. The room felt like it was suffocating my lungs, forcing me to remove the blinds on my windows and gasp out for a clearer air. The night was shining over us with its wandering clouds and falling stars. This was the only time of the day when I felt really okay. The darkness accompanied me through my edge cutting memories and this faded reality.

When I turned around, the diary on the bedside table sucked in all my attention. I lifted it up and turned the pages, making me trip down memory lane. When did I stop being so hopeful? Was now too late to go back? Having to keep a straight face all the time and this pessimistic mind didn't bring me anywhere good so far. So why not change and see what the universe has planned out for me, this way?

Without second thoughts, I grabbed the backpack from my wardrobe and started to fill it with clothes and other necessities. I wasn't going to hold back, not again. Before closing the zip, I kneeled down to grab the piggy bank I had since a kid. I used to put in all the money I would collect from the lemonade stand on the frontyard. I saw my father sneak in a couple of bucks too once. Right now, I wondered where he was and how he was. Did he ever thought about me the same way I did for him? Did he miss me enough to leave everything behind and come back to this?

I switched off the lights and opened the glass to my windows. Before jumping out, I decided to leave a note to my mother. At least she would have known that I was safe and sound, wherever I was going to be.

Testing.

The first place that came to my mind thinking about happiness was Disneyland. This was the very first name on my list, and the only one I happened to visit. A week before Christmas, my father and I went on a last minute trip to Orlando. I was seven years old. Going for adventures and coming back with ice cream was our love language.

I walked around the crowd and stopped by the balloon bust stall. This was our favorite game and the place where we would spend most of our time here. I would wait and look at him darting at the balloons for winning me the first prize. Today, I wasn't planning on doing any play, but I ended up buying two tickets anyway. A hopeless attempt of living back the happy, old times I guessed.

After spending the day in Orlando, I caught the next train for the second name in my list.

Valley of Fire, Nevada. The plan was to camp overnight and hike up in the morning to catch the sunrise. The camping facilities were well equipped with grills, tables, tents and restrooms. The idea of spending the night here ngl with strangers thrilled and terrorized me at the same time. I loved talking to strangers, I had always been a natural at it. I thought the best part about meeting someone was the beginning. So many things to discover and so many others to uncover. I could be whoever I wanted to be and wouldn't have had to keep on the act. Strangers were strangers because I wouldn't meet them a second time, and I liked it to stay this way.

After spending the night on my tent, barely catching any sleep for the excitement, I got out with the backpack on my shoulders and the rest of the things that I needed. I didn't have a map or a compass, I could simply follow the line of people hiking in front of me. There weren't too many people, but enough to make me feel at ease. The night was already off and a new day began, between half-open doors and countless possibilities. Looking at the golden light in front of me, I felt something tickle in my stomach. It might have been love after a long time. Love for life. Something that I haven't felt in ages. No matter how dark life would have been, every sunrise was a beginning. And for me, it was a second chance.

And Acceptance?

It was still a work in progress.

A/N

This was a very hard chapter to write because of the emotional roller coaster faced by the character. I hope you're getting more into her psyche and started to understand her reasonings.