Boy Who Has Everything

8 (draft - unfinished & unrevised)

Closing the door behind you, the wound in your heart was there and fresh. It hurt knowing that Mrs. Fletcher most likely didn't have much time yet. One of the few family members who actually loved you, even if you two weren't truly related. Then again, there was always Tabby, but you weren't as close with her as you were with her mother.

In a fit of sadness, you press your forehead against the door and dropped the bag of paint bottles on the cheap carpeting below. An uncontrollable whimper escaped from your mouth. A sting grew in your nose and the lump in your throat grew. The cold feeling of tears running down your cheeks is what snapped you out of it. You had began to cry. You just got here yesterday, you can't cry now.

Dad said to pretend everything is fine. How can everything be fine when someone you love is withering away quietly. You can't lose her, you can't.

Bringing your freed hand up to your face, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks, your other hand joining in. With a sigh, you lifted your forehead up and off of the door. You stumbled over to your bed and sat down on it. With a hunched back and your head hanging low, the thoughts were low with you.

Your lip trembled. You felt stupid for crying. He said to pretend, but right now that your alone, what does it matter? Why pretend when you're freed from a judgemental eye? Why pretend when you don't have to. With an unintentional act of aggression, you grabbed the pillow from your bed and screamed into it. Why her? Anyone but her. She was special. Too special to let go.

A sort of ease to the pain was applied to your shoulders with the realization of her well being still being active. She's still alive and (partly) well. You were going to see her soon. At least put on a pretty face for her. Smile for her. She doesn't have to know how much her withering is eating you up too.

With a final exhale of anger and sadness, you arose from the pillow on your bed. The cover of it was stained with blotches of tears. Idiot. Ignoring the new need to wash it, you flipped it over to the opposite side and back where your pillow previously was. Sitting up straighter, your head rose with your gaze to look at the mirror that layer on your desk.

Standing up, you took a meek step after step until you grabbed it with a shakey sorrowful hand. You looked into yourself. What happened to that smile? Smile like everything is fine. Wiping the newly produced tears off of your face a bit too harshly, you began to smile. It was fake. Obviously fake. Your smile looked normal, happy even, convincing until you looked at your red eyes, still glossy with tears. Your red cheeks and nose, irritated from the constant wiping and crying in general. Your messy hair from screaming into your pillow, frizzy pieces of it sticking out from either side. It was safe to say that you weren't a pretty crier.

"Everything is fine." You muttered with a soft whimper. Looking over at the bottles of paint that spilled out of the shopping bag that were abandoned on the floor, your heart warmed. Pottery always made you happy, especially the painting process. Maybe that would take your mind off of things.

After fetching the bottles, you placed them down on your desk. You could never afford a real potter's wheel, so you always made your sculptures, pots, bowls, and mugs by hand. They always came out wonky because of this but you thought it added a bit of a homey, hand-made look to it.

Grabbing a piece of clay from your stash, and using a water bottle sitting around your desk, you began to mold. It took a bit, around thirty to forty five minutes until you were happy with the shape of it.