♡ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ♡

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IN ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCE, having a day off of work — especially on a Saturday — would send shivers of joy down my spine while I searched for a good book or flipped through the TV channels. In any other circumstance, I would've gallivanted down to the movie theater with Ponyboy for a late-night Paul Newman film, flipping a dime in his hand to pay for popcorn. In any other circumstance, I would've walked hand-in-hand with Johnny to the lot, admiring the stars just after dinner from the early-setting sun. In any other circumstance, I would've been happy.

But I wasn't.

Instead, I lay curled up on my bed, my knees tucked under my chin as my head rested against the pillow, my bedroom door sealed shut as if it were a barricade. From what, you ask? I wasn't quite sure. Anything that reminded me of my parents, I guess.

Because that day dragged on like a ball and chain on my ankle, relentless and pestering, constantly reminding me of the two beds in the hospital that — one year ago today — laid empty, but not of bodies, of souls.

It was January 9, the anniversary of my parent's death. The anniversary of the day that my life turned upside down, the day my life went from perfect to pitiful. The anniversary that the ball started rolling violently downhill, and yet had to slow.

After what felt like hours, I finally rolled over, again realizing why I never lay on this side, facing this wall. The vanity in the corner of my room, though not necessarily anything extraordinary, cast a long, lanky shadow in the corner I was facing, uncannily shaped in the outline of a man. Sometimes, when I'm so tired that my vision shakes (which was becoming more and more often lately), the outline moves in my vision. Ever since Jonathan, my brain always tricked me into thinking it could maybe, possibly be him — silently creeping in my room to watch me sleep, smile as he saw me so helpless and vulnerable...

I shivered and turned back over, squeezing my eyes shut.

Jonathan. Mom and Dad never got to meet him. I kept promising — "Soon, I promise." But alas, the guilt of a promise that can never be fulfilled hangs heavy in my heart. What would have been different if they had met him? Would they have noticed something before it was too late? Saved me from myself and forbid me from seeing him? It would've taken me ages to forgive them — I was blinded by love — but it would've been for the better. I would rather deal with the bummer of a missed opportunity than the pain of trauma from months of abuse I received out of my own stupidity and blindness.

I felt a tear roll down my face and blinked it away.

After a few more minutes of unproductive tossing and turning, I frustratedly threw the blankets off of me, a sort of growl escaping my lips as I stood up. I felt weak, probably due to the fact I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning. I knew it wasn't good for me, but it wasn't by choice. Grief, if strong enough, turns my stomach in knots, and when my presented lunch was a simple, effortless PB&J, my mother's signature sandwich for us, my gut felt wrung out like a wet washcloth.

I stepped in front of my bed, where my chest of drawers and landscape mirror stood. I didn't look awful, considering how I felt, as I had put a bit of makeup on earlier that day for school. Still, the eyebags and pale skin were evident even from behind the blush and mascara. As if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached up and caressed my collarbone, feeling the rough, delicate outline of my mother's emerald necklace on my skin. Then again, it reached towards the dresser, taking in its grasp the stout bottle of pink perfume that once belonged to her. I squeezed the ball on the end, sending a spritz into the air. It smelled of rose petals and vanilla, a comforting yet strangely vindictive scent. Vanilla, I thought as my stomach growled.

I figured it was time I ate something.

I walked towards my door, pulling it open for the first time in hours since I got home. The sight before drew the breath out of my lungs.