Oh um... hey. I'm not dead, I think. And this is a really short chapter. And I'm sorry. And I feel bad. And I'm tired. And I'm depressed. And I still haven't done my homework for tomorrow. well crap.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own it, god dammit.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. I honestly didn't know where the time had gone, but I knew life was different. I was living. I was aware of the soft tick of the second hand on the school clock, on the smell of the heater when I turned on my truck and let my hair dry, of the feeling of the warm water cascading down my back in the shower. I knew the footsteps of someone walking behind me, the sound of someone scraping their chair along the cafeteria floor, the unique drone of each teacher's voice. I knew the scratch of pen on paper, the clacking of the old-fashioned typewriter in the school office, and the sound of rain hitting the roof of the buildings. But most of all, I knew him– his face, and his family, and him playing the piano. It still hurt like hell, but I was living. And that was something new.
I had broken free of my zombie-like trance. Charlie was more than happy—thrilled even—but I still politely refused his offers to take me fishing with him on Saturday mornings. I wasn't that much different. Realistically, I felt guilty, guilty beyond measure that it took this to wake me up. Was I so far gone that it took physical pain for me to start living again? But I didn't care that I broke my promise to Edward, because he had broken his promises to me.
It wasn't as if I was perfect, or that everything was great. I was depressed; every waking minute hurt. Every time I thought of his name, or his face, or his smile, the pain came rushing back, punching a ragged hole in my chest and then tearing at the edges with a rusty knife. It hurt. And I couldn't stop it. So I settled down and cried myself to sleep every night, gently caressing my arms with the razor blades that had become like a drug to me.
I could never tell Charlie, or any of my friends for that matter. They would think I was crazy. And if he ever found out. I shuddered at the thought. He was go insane. But that was then and this was now.
He's not coming back.
I let the words hit me, taking deep, ragged breaths. I couldn't control when the pain hit, but I could try to control my reaction. Because this hurt. But no one was allowed to see.
I sat in bed, the comforter wrapped around my shoulders, clutching my arms to my chest. My cuts stung, my head pounded, and my chest ached. And I screamed. I screamed at the walls, at the sky, at him. And I reveled in the silence that followed.