Penny For Your Thoughts

4

The news hit him like a wave. Disbelief, sorrow, and anger crashed over him all at once.

She's dead.

He couldn't accept it, couldn't wrap his mind around it. His parents called after him, but he ignored them and ran out of the house. He ran and ran, his legs carrying him farther and farther away from the pain, the shock, but he could not seem to escape it.

She's dead. Dead, not living, late, deceased.

Gone.

He had tried so hard, so hard to get through to her, to get her to open up. He had tried to be her friend.

And he had failed.

He stopped in the park. It was late at night, so it was empty and quiet. His voice broke the silence as he let out a frustrated bellow. He didn't care how many people he woke up. She was dead, and it was all his fault. It was a completely irrational thought, but he couldn't prevent it from swirling through his mind.

How many times had he tried to start a conversation? Had his friendliness made her uncomfortable somehow? Maybe she liked being alone. But who likes being alone? From the first day he saw her in the halls, she had not seemed happy, yet she never did anything about it. If anything, she tried to keep it that way. But why? Why?

That was the question he could not answer, could not come up with a plausible answer for. It just didn't make any sense, but he realized there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't very well go up to her and ask her. But he could have tried harder, been more persistent. What would he do with all his quarters now? What use would there be for his pocket change anymore? He could have bought her most superficial or intimate thoughts; he would have gladly accepted either.

One coin, one thought.

If only he had recognized the problem sooner. What he thought was a lack of friends was something far more serious. Not only had nobody seemed to like her, although he had trouble seeing why not, but she had not even liked herself.

All these thoughts zipped rapidly throughout his brain, making him dizzy. He lowered himself onto a dull red plastic swing, and that's when the tears began to fall, warm, salty, fast, blinding him with misery. They were tears of anger, and of sorrow, and of confusion.

She's really gone. Gone, gone, gone...

Eventually he pulled himself up off the swing. The rusty metal chains moaned and creaked to a stop. He was worried for a moment that his legs couldn't support him after he had trusted the flimsy piece of plastic to hold his unstable self for so long.

At least an hour he had sat there, switching between berating himself and comforting himself. He still hadn't accepted it - he probably never would - but night could not last forever.