wednesday, november 19th

One month and six days of frustration. Of lounging around my house in wrinkled sweatshirts and bearing with knotted hair. Of taking my meds and eating light meals because my stomach was weak. Of rotting away in my house, suffocated by ennui, doing nothing but eating, watching TV, reading books (barely, though; I'd get massive headaches and my eyes would start to throb) and sleeping. A lot of sleeping. It was always, "you need your rest if you want to get better" and "oh, you should rest your brain instead of putting stress on it from all that reading". It was pure torture. Plus, having your best friend and boyfriend dead never helped.

Dead. It took me some time to process that. Faye and Devan dead. It still sounded unnatural in my mouth when I said it. It sounded so unrealistic. For about the first two weeks I was confined to the house, I bawled my eyes out until my body was drained of all fluids, screamed till my throat was raw and burning, and then curled up under the covers letting out soft, dry, muffled sobs afterward. I stayed that way, immobilized by grief, for a long time. Too long. The next week or so, I was a little more stable, able to crawl out of bed and eat small snacks, but I would break down every time something reminded me of them, which was pretty much anything and everything. It just hurt so freaking bad. Literal, physical pain in my chest. I couldn't breathe. I loved them. I loved Faye and Devan. And they were out of reach now.

After that phase was over, I was numb. I didn't feel consumed by misery, but I wasn't exactly jovial, either. I was just... existing. Taking up space. I didn't feel anything.

I worried a lot, too. Like about how much school I'd already missed. It was kind of funny how the things that people usually cared a lot about never seemed to matter in a time of tragedy. School, for instance. I wasn't exactly a top student, despite how much I liked to read. My average was a B- in almost every class; I figured missing a lot of school wouldn't exactly help my grades.

On the ninth day of my confinement, I'd whined about how many classes I'd be missing. My mother just gave me a kind smile and reassured me, "School will still be there when you get back, hon."

Oops, I accidentally dropped a glass and it shattered on the floor? "That's okay, hon."

Oh no, I left the door open and a raccoon stumbled in and chewed all the furniture? "Don't worry about it, hon."

Gosh darn, I just brutally murdered an innocent person and all the blood is staining the rug? "It's okay, hon."

I was seriously tempted to keep testing this to see how far I could push my mother. But I figured she'd been on a lot of strain lately, so I wouldn't want to add onto that.

Along with the pain, I was immensely bored, waiting in anticipation for the day when my parents would say, "I think you're well enough to go to school today." It was killing me, eating me out from the inside, that I had to bear staying home while classes went on and homework piled on and on. I shuddered, thinking of all the assignments I'd have to make up.

That day eventually rolled around, to which I eagerly sprang to my feet from my bed and thrust open the closet doors like they were the doors to a castle in a Disney movie. I didn't think much about what clothes I slipped on, just some random t-shirt and jeans, but then my fingers brushed a sagging, mustard-colored lump of fabric. I pulled it out and a melancholic smile grew on my face. Faye knitted it herself for me, two years ago, for my thirteenth birthday. I slipped it on. It was warm. And was that a hint of Faye's old perfume? When my vision became blurry I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking the tears from escaping. Don't cry. Do NOT cry. I had nine days to wallow in my pain. It was over. They were gone. Time to move on.

After taking a deep breath and wiping my eyes, I tumbled ungracefully to the bathroom where I tripped over various objects to get to the vanity. Whilst there, I attempted to make myself look presentable to the public eye. After all, it was my first day back. I didn't want to look like a broken mess of tears (even if that was how I felt inside).

I argued internally over several exquisite and outlandish hairstyle ideas that I would probably need to summon a demon and conduct witchcraft on my bobby pins to be able to do, before just deciding to leave it down, plain and curly. I studied my pale, blotchy, displeasing face in the mirror. Ugh, you look like crap, I said to myself, making a face, tracing a line over the mountain range of acne on my forehead. I pulled out my makeup bag.

I had limited resources to work with. I never left the house with over-the- top, exorbitantly-priced piles of makeup on my face like some girls, constantly having to fix or reapply, so I never bought much. I groped around inside the bag, fingers brushing my meager supply of beauty products. Grabbing a few items, I squeezed out some foundation and quickly smoothed it over my face, doing the same with concealer under my eyes and on my forehead. I hastily swiped mascara under my eyelashes and spread an almost nonexistent layer of nude lip gloss over my mouth. Assessing myself in the mirror again, I decided the makeup held some avail.

Shoving everything to the side, promising myself I'd clean it all up later (spoiler: I wouldn't), I scrambled out of the bathroom to grab my backpack from its spot in the hall. Checking my phone for the time, I wreaked havoc on my way down the stairs, my feet furiously crashing against each step. I was already ten minutes behind schedule. I'd have to cut breakfast short or I'd be late to school on my first day back.

Taking a moment to register that I was barreling across the house still in hamburger socks, I took a moment to think about where a pair of shoes might be. Once the closet was spotted, I didn't hesitate before careening into the door and deftly plucking out a pair of grubby Converse high tops.

Hooking the shoes onto my fingers, I rushed into the kitchen where my mom was—in no haste—making breakfast. I could hear eggs sizzling on the stove and the sound of bread springing out of the toaster. "Come on!" I screeched, sliding a plate out of the cupboard as quickly but carefully as possible, then scraping an egg off the frying pan with a spatula and swiping a piece of toast out of the toaster, to set it down on my plate.

"Whoa, slow down," Mom said. "It's your first day back, which doesn't mean you're completely healed. You don't want to put too much stress—"

"I'm fine, Mom! Really," I assured her, shoveling the food into my mouth.

"Are you sure? You could take an extra day off..."

"I am absolutely fine, mother," I said, gulping down a glass of water along with the breakfast.

"You have the doctor's note in case you don't feel well?"

"I have the doctor's note," I clarified exasperatedly, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to miss my bus."

"Bye, honey!" I could hear my mom shout from the other room.

"Bye!" I yelled from outside the door.

_______

Tires screeched to a halt at my bus stop, the doors creaking open for me. I self-consciously walked down the bus aisle and slid into an empty seat in the area that was considered the property of the sophomores. I slipped my book out of my backpack and opened it, reading from where I'd left off. There were a bunch of people around me; popular kids. I wasn't really that high up on the social hierarchy. I had, like, four decent friends that I ate lunch with, and I was pretty much nice to everyone I encountered during classes, but if I was seated next to someone actually popular, they'd either ignore me altogether or use me for the answers.

The other sophomores just talked to each other; the usual chatter: who was cheating on who, who broke up, who was a huge whore, who should totally get together. I didn't even think they noticed me there, sitting in the middle of the group. I wondered if they even noticed that I was even gone. The thought left a sour taste in my mouth, a feeling of resentment towards them. I could've died. Would they have noticed?

________

Walking through the halls that day, everyone acted like nothing was wrong. That two people that were loved and appreciated at this school hadn't just died. It actually made no sense; Faye and Devan were relatively popular, probably my only popular friends, besides Claudia (and she was more of a last-resort kind of friend, the one who you'd find comfort in having when paired with total strangers in a group project.). They were pretty known throughout the school. Why was everyone walking around with a spring in their step, giggling with friends and acting all... normal? I couldn't believe this.

I was an antisocial, tenebrous being all the way to my locker, where I fumbled with the combination until my locker swung open. Seeing that nobody seemed upset about Faye and Devan's death had put me in a mood, and I gave Claudia a glare as she approached me.

"Hey, Grumpy," she teased, flashing her purple braces at me. She leaned her elbow against the lockers, twirling a strand of annoyingly perfect platinum blonde hair. "Where were you all this time? I didn't have anyone to give me the answers in Pre Calc."

I shut my locker, biting back a torrent of words I would regret later. "I had a concussion, Claudia," I said in a soft growl. "I had to recover." I tried to avoid her and step into homeroom, but she yanked me back by the threads of my sweater.

"Hey, why're you in such a bad mood? Shouldn't you be happy now? After all, you're back in your happy place where you get to learn and do nerdy things and shit." She placed her hands on her hips and gave me a condescending, almost sympathetic look. "Oh, hon, we need to go shopping. Clearly, your taste in fashion has deteriorated since I last saw you. I mean, that sweater is so baggy, and that yellow does not go with your skin tone. C'mon, girl..."

That comment was the last straw. I could feel all my emotions sizzling and bubbling up again inside me, and my vision began to blur as tears tried to push through.

How dare she? She knew Faye made me that sweater. She knew Faye and I were best friends, and she knew Faye was gone now.

I couldn't believe she could just prance around with her perfect blonde hair and prissy attitude, calling herself my friend, and acting so, so bitchy. I closed my eyes and a wave of pure, clean anger rolled through me.

My body was trembling,

my mind in a hazed frenzy of rage,

my chest aching,

my throat closing up,

breath caught,

stuck,

my vision becoming red, blurry,

and all I could think about was Faye.

Faye was dead.

Dead. Faye.

And then before I knew what had happened, my arm was swiping through the air and all of a sudden Claudia was jerking back, squealing and cupping her cheek in her hands, and my own hand was stinging and burning.

The tears were coming now, in a steady, rapid flow and

I couldn't see through the red and the hot, pooling tears,

dripping onto my collarbone,

and all the screaming was filling up my head and

my throat burned, burned, trying to suck in air that simply didn't exist,

more voices filling up my mind,

Murmured cries of panic,

someone yanking on my arm,

my books slamming to the floor, and

I, a tiny object swallowed by chaos,

a sad, minuscule sound escaping my lips,

a defeated sound,

trying so hard to make someone understand.

Dead.

She is dead.

I was shaking,

shivering,

it was so...

it was... cold...

here... I was alone...

only I was moving, being dragged... somewhere,

tripping over my feet,

fingers tangled in the threads of my mustard yellow sweater,

the red was fading, fading,

and I was still falling,

cold,

hard,

alone...

my mind jumbled and

blots of color swimming behind my eyes...

... Faye... Faye was dead,

and I was alone.

No, I wasn't. Out of my haze, I could see a silhouette, not far. I was still being yanked by the arm, I could feel the unpleasant sensation of my knees stinging, but as if it were muffled, coming from somewhere distant. A trail of red, red staining the knees of my jeans and blossoming into flowers, pools of dark crimson. I was still falling, I was still cold.

He was standing by the corner of the hall, the long, dark hall filled with shrill voices and blurry faces.

Lush, curly dark hair.

Falling. I'm falling.

Stiff, sharp jaw.

Cold. Hard. So, so cold.

Slim, but muscular frame.

Dead. She's dead.

And those eyes.

Those somber, milky brown eyes that held centuries of grief and loss, ages of loneliness and spite and fury. Colorful, evocative galaxies of brown. He understood. He understood the falling, the cold, the lonely. We locked eyes, blue to brown.

"Faye is dead," I told him as if expecting him to hear me. He did. He understood. Blackness trickled in at the edges of my vision, growing into thick vines and thorns, growing, growing, until his eyes were the only thing I could see before I was choked in a jungle of darkness. 

✽  ✽  ✽

So what do you think of this chapter?

 Who is the mysterious guy that showed up with the oh-so-intriguing eyes?? 

How does he understand London? 

Remember to vote on this chapter if you liked it :))))

XOXO ~brooklynrose~