Like Gold

19.

19.

WHEN I FIRST WOKE UP in that hospital bed, someone told me that living with grief was like pretending you were fine on the outside while you were walking through tar on the inside. Although you went through your usual routine to keep up appearances, you were burning on the inside – sinking.

I couldn't remember who told me that, but it was different for me. I wasn't walking through tar. I was walking underwater.

Every step took triple the energy it used to take. Every breath burned my lungs and when I opened my mouth to speak, nothing escaped but bubbles. And no matter how hard I tried to float, no matter how close I was to the surface, I couldn't escape my underwater prison.

I was slowly drowning.

Today was one of those days.

I woke up with a bitter taste in my mouth and dried tears staining the skin beneath my eyes, flaking and pale against my dark skin.

I couldn't remember what I'd dreamt about – didn't want to remember. It'd only make it worse.

Instead, I blinked the tears away. My breath escaped in bubbles and I stood from my bed, my muscles slow and sore like standing underwater, moving beneath waves.

My first stop was the bathroom. I looked as horrible as I felt, with dark bags lining my bloodshot eyes and cracked, chapped lips. A part of me laughed at myself. Maybe that was why Jace didn't kiss me the other day – didn't want to cut his lips on the sandpaper that was my mouth.

My hair was even worse. Frizzy and sticking out in all directions. When was the last time I'd washed it? My brain fogged. I couldn't remember and there was no point wasting time worrying about it. I had to leave soon if I wanted to get to school on time.

So, I tossed it up into my usual bun and continued getting ready for school.

How did you let yourself get like this?

I gritted my teeth, shoving the voice out of my head. It wasn't like I wanted to be this way. I remembered how I used to take care of myself – how I used to style my hair, do my make-up, carefully pick out my outfits every night.

Every time I skipped a step in my old routine, my chest ached. I felt like a traitor to my old self.

And the worst part was that I didn't care.

I didn't care that my hair looked like shit. I didn't care that my clothes didn't match. I aimed for the bare minimum – whatever would get my mother off my case. Whatever would keep Piper smiling.

I skipped breakfast.

My stomach churned. Whatever I had dreamt about, my body wasn't reacting well, and the thought of food made me want to throw up. Instead, I strode past the kitchen, pecked my mother on the cheek with another broken promise to grab food on the way, and left for school.

After Amber died, I had fully come to realise how much of an effect your mental health could have on your body.

By the time I locked my bike outside the main gate, my entire body was aching. My head pounded like I had a hangover, and worse – I was tired. Even clicking the lock on my bike chain took almost all my energy out of me.

It seemed like I'd been tired ever since the accident. Like, no matter how much sleep I got, no matter how many literal weeks I spent in bed, I never gained anymore energy.

I was perpetually exhausted.

I heaved my bag onto my shoulder and pushed the glass doors leading to the main hallway open. God, it was too bright. Fluorescent lights, and loud students, and lockers slamming – my poor, poor head.