Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter Nine

Friday. Therapy again. Jay had almost stayed in bed. He had gotten up once, twice, and then laid back down, but he eventually he had forced himself to get up and stay up.

Amy hadn't come back. He hadn't had anyone to talk to when he was alone, but he supposed maybe that was a good thing. It meant he had alone time, which was supposed to be a good thing, but in his case, it seemed to only make things worse. When he talked to Iris, she could keep his mind occupied, and when he talked to Amy, he could begin to talk about his issues, but when he was alone, he only had his thoughts to himself. He only had himself, and that was where his mind began to wander.

It didn't wander too terribly. But he would find himself thinking back to that night. He could see himself driving to the party and standing inside with his red solo cup in the corner. He could see himself going upstairs and he would feel his throat close up and his voice leave him. He had to stop himself from it getting worse, and it normally led to him leaving and standing on the train tracks. It gave him something to do. He needed to be occupied.

He rode his skateboard again, despite the cold. His cheeks were cold, but at-least his ears were warm. He had decided to break out his beanies, but now he was subconsciously pulling it down, and his forehead kept itching. It wasn't like he could change it now, his hair was already flattened and twisted from wearing it, and he would feel even more self-conscious if he took it off. So much for style, he thought.

At least skating eased his mind. Only sometimes. Sometimes he would think too much, his thoughts would be muddled, and he would skate, but then he only had himself. He would wonder why people were so mean, why the world was so cruel. He had so many questions that he didn't have answers to. Why did it have to matter who he loved? Why were looks so important? Why did he never feel like getting out of bed? Why did he feel like he was better off dead? So many questions, that even Amy didn't have the answer to most of them.

She didn't talk much about her life before, or what life was like after death. And she hardly talked to him at all if he was being honest with himself. It was mostly him talking, venting, and her listening. She would occasionally pitch in with wise words, but it all seemed to revolve around him going to therapy. He was irritated, to say the least. He didn't want to talk about therapy all the time, he wanted to talk about life, or death, or anything that didn't deal with that small room he had to sit in twice a week. It was all she talked about. Therapy this, therapy that, go to therapy, Jay, I don't have all the answers. He'd gotten so angry one night that he had yelled at her, and she had simply disappeared. Now, he regretted it. He wanted her back.

But she hadn't come back, and his worried thoughts began to strike him. What if she didn't come back? And if she did, what would he say? I'm sorry didn't seem good enough, but what else could he say? He needed to get better at social interaction, and what better way than...

"Iris," he said, skidding to a halt on his skateboard.

"What the hell have you done to your hair?"

Her familiar grin lit up her face as she stroked her hair affectionately. "I thought I needed a change of scenery."

"But it-it's pink."

"What's wrong with pink?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "But the purple was better."

She shrugged. "The purple will come back, don't you worry."

"I'm more worried about your brain cells," he said sweetly. "There are so few already."