in my time of dying
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In my time of dying
Want nobody to mourn
All I want for you to do
Is take my body home.

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"My parents died in an accident." There, I said it.

My coworker stood there, her mouth slightly open and her eyes widening as she realized what I was saying. Every time, the same thing happened: nobody knew how to respond when confronted with another person's grief. But it was alright; she wasn't really my friend. I didn't have any friends at the time, and I didn't prioritize socializing because I couldn't get out of bed due to my depressive state.

"It's all right, I'm fine now." I broke the silence because I was desperate for normalcy at this point. I despised the look of pity that would appear on people's faces whenever I mentioned my parents. Even at the funeral, it bothered me tremendously. I couldn't take all these strangers shaking my hand and smiling at me like they'd known me my entire life.

"Oh, Audrey. I'm so sorry. Just know that I'm always here for you, okay?" Bullshit. No one was there for me the month before I returned to work. That person in front of me knew nothing about my life. I bet she didn't even remember how I liked my coffee.

"It's fine, really. I'm over it now." I wasn't lying. What I actually couldn't get over was the silence in my house since they'd left, but I'd stopped crying whenever I mentioned them by now, and watching happy families walk down the street didn't bother me anymore.

"Then come join us tonight. Paul is throwing a party for our new lawyer." Because of some issues with our most recent best-seller, our publishing company needed a lawyer. That much I knew because our boss, Paul, kept me up to date on everything that morning before handing me a few manuscripts to read. Mr. White, the man behind that best-seller, had the most ordinary surname but also the most unusual personality. After all, he was a writer. I'd never met him in person, but everyone seemed to have mixed feelings about him. Some people thought he was nice, but the majority of people feared him. Especially those who worked for him.

"Sure." I couldn't help but accept. My therapist, the only person I talked to after my parents died, told me to socialize as much as possible. This was my attempt at doing so.

As soon as I arrived home from work, I regretted accepting the invitation. I tossed my keys into the nearest jar and removed my coat. It was bitterly cold in London at the time of year, but it wasn't raining. My miserable appearance was reflected in the large mirror by my apartment's door. A black turtleneck sweater clung to my overly slim figure, exposing only a sliver of skin. My long legs were almost completely hidden by my oversized green cargo pants. I wasn't particularly tall or voluptuous, but my proportions were good. I used to look much better without make-up, I thought.

I walked past the mirror and toward the fridge without switching the lights on. The cat-shaped clock on the wall told me exactly what time it was: nine o'clock. It was already dark outside, and I lived in a relatively quiet neighborhood in London's suburbs, so the view was surreal, as if it belonged in a dark painting. Because of the neon lights, I squinted as I opened the fridge. As soon as I got used to it, I grabbed my salad and moved to the living room. I sat on the couch and ate quietly after turning on the TV. Even though most people would find this lifestyle a bit depressing, I enjoyed my alone time, especially after a long day of work. Three hours later, I'd changed my mind about solitude. That's when I met him for the first time.

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