The Best Thing He Ever Wrote

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

I've slept for almost three days straight, I feel rather emotionally tired and sick. The sun makes way through a gap in my drawn bedroom curtains and onto the foot of my bed, and in my opinion, is weird. I don't think that the suns ever hit there before.

I stand up thinking that if I don't, I probably never will. If I was at Johnny's house, I would have taken the dog out for a walk. If I was at Sydney's house I probably would have taken him for a walk. It’s strange how too good friends are so entirely different from each other. Johnny hated homework, Sydney never minded it, Johnny liked being rebellious, Sydney didn't and Johnny liked to try and fit in at school and it never bothered Sydney.

And me?

Well I was kind of the guy in the middle. I didn't hate homework, but I did it, at times I liked being a rebel, but usual I couldn't be bothered, and I didn't really mind who spoke to me at school or where I was to fit in. I just was.

And now?

I still am ‘just was’.

I open my curtains and pull up the window, sticking my hand out to determine what I should wear depending on the weather. Of course, to absolutely no surprise, it's cool. So I grab out a jacket and a pair of track-pants. I run a free hand through my hair and stand up, looking at myself in mirror. I frown at what I see and I'm not sure why or if it's just a natural reaction. I look pail and sad and nothing like what I use to look like before Sydney died.  Back then I had colour to my skin and my face was brighter, not to mention that I tried to keep my hair tame and slept properly. I hadn't really noticed the change and now it's as clear as anything. Like it happened over night.

I try to promise Sydney, even though I'm not at his grave, that I'll try my best to become that better person again. The one that people knew.

My mother places a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Cindy and then in front of me. She grabs one for herself too and I don't know whether to be grateful for the food or to acknowledge that she's just trying to kiss my ass. Either way I haven't had a proper hot breakfast in a long time so I begin to shovel down my food.

I watch Cindy poke her food for a minute, a much smaller portion then mine, and then she pops a piece of egg on her fork. She further studies it and then my mother, almost me, and then she does it. She pushes the fork between her teeth, chewing like the food might just be poison. I watch her eat for a moment and I know that she knows that I'm watching, but she doesn't let off the hint. A usual mealtime routine.

By the time that I've finished eating and my mother and Cindy are only half way through, I chuck a dozen words around my mind as to what I should say. There are a few things I want to say, but I'm not too sure whether the time's right to say them to my mother. All that I know is that now that it seems a little too late to try and talk to me, she wants me to talk to her.

17. Sometimes the better person turns out to be the worst of them all.

I remember the promise I'd made to Sydney not too long ago and let out a silent sigh, a sigh that doesn't make the usual whoosh kind of sound, but still lets out the air. My mother looks at me, her eyes somewhat small and tired. For a short moment our eyes connect and it's me, of course, who looks away first. “Thanks mum.” I say and although at first it feels a little awkward, it feels a little better too.

“It’s ok.” She says.

I turn to leave the room, a room with twelve million words waiting to be said, but none that actually make their way out. It makes the air seem a little thicker, like mud. I turn before leaving the room completely, “Do you know,” I stop, consider, “that the word ok is the most common word used in the English language?”