"Laina? Are you okay?" Another knock on the door sounded as I heard Jessie's voice. She sounded concerned, but that didn't affect me. I was determined to sit in solitude until I felt I was ready to face the world again.
I felt that familiar tug at the back of my throat again as the tears start to spill out of my already puffy eyes. Why does it hurt so bad? I don't get it.
I stared at the picture frame that sat in my trembling hands, tears occasionally falling onto the glass. I needed to stop. Acting like this will get me nowhere. Oh my god Laina, suck it up.
I wipe my hands across my tear stained cheeks and do my best to put on a brave face as I stand from my sitting position on my bed. I'm not ready, I'm not ready. But, I have to face the world. I must.
As I troop across my room to my door, I look at my dresser. So many pictures, so many memories. I just don't know what to do.
I almost begin to cry again as I stretch my hand out to open my door.
"Oh Laina. I'm so, so sorry." Jessie says as she engulfs me in a hug.
6 Months Later
It's been six months. Six months since I stopped living. Six months since I isolated myself. Six miserable months since it happened.
Why me? Why did this have to happen to me?
Those are the two questions that have been running through my mind for the last six months.
Why?
I sit up after hearing my alarm go off for the third time after hitting snooze. Another day. No different than any other. My routine is the same. Everything is the same and repetitive.
I slowly get out of my bed, heading towards starting my dismal morning routine. Shower and get dressed for school.
After stepping out of the shower, I take a long look at the girl staring back at me.
Dark rings under her eyes, face stoic, wet dark blonde hair framing her sunken face. Be brave, be strong. You can do this.
I dry my hair and braid it to the side. No matter how bad I look, I won't cover my face. It's what he would have wanted.
Only after applying the lightest amount of mascara did I leave the bathroom. I laid out my outfit for the day. Light wash boot cut jeans, a t-shirt from one of many sporting events. My gray Nike tennis shoes. I take one more look at my mirror and in that moment, I mentally prepare myself for coping. I will make it. I've managed for six months. This day is no different.
As I pad down the stairs towards the kitchen, I hear my mother cooking breakfast.
"Good morning Mom." I say in a monotone voice. She startles and turns around to face me with a smile on her face.
"Good morning hun. The pancakes are almost ready." She says.
"I'm not really hungry. I'm just gonna get going." I say. This was another part of my morning routine. Greeting my mother, her saying breakfast is almost ready, me turning her down then heading out the door. It is all just a repeating cycle.
I head out the door with my school bag and jump into my small Dodge truck. I start the engine and back out of the driveway. Another ten minutes and I would be at school. As a senior, I should be fairly happy to be getting out of high school soon.
Parking my truck at school should be a challenge, but when you show up 45 minutes early, it's pretty easy to get a parking spot.
I grab my bag, step out of my truck and lock it, then walk to the school doors. It is a normal thing for me to be this early. For the third time, I continue my morning routine. I enter the doors, go to my locker, drop off my stuff, and wander the halls of Oakland High until 8:30 when 1st period starts.
