Daughter of the Demon (I)

Daughter of the Demon-23-Love is Overrated

Chapter 23: Love is Overrated . . . I Think . . .

~Jacob~

I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

It’d been a month since Jemma ran away. It was just days before the funeral, and she still wasn’t back. However pathetic it was, I couldn't eat. There was no use. Food just tasted like cardboard in my mouth.

My days were built of a mundane routine. On weekdays I’d get up, go to school, go through the day with minimum strength, and come home.  On weekends all I did was lay in bed. Maybe I’d chomp on a cracker or something, but then I’d just go back to trying to sleep. I never could sleep, though. The funny thing was that there wasn’t even a lot on my mind. I just wasn’t physically able.

Belinda was worried, even Tony sensed there was something wrong. My mother, most of all, was frustrated because she thought she had something to do with this. She didn’t.

I could see the flurries outside my window, swirling against the grey sky and scattering against my frosted window panes. I sighed, feeling a sense of emptiness beyond regular empty. It was an utterly consuming, overwhelming hollow feeling. I hated it. I wanted to feel again.

My door opened and Belinda poked her head inside. She asked if she could come inside. I said nothing. She took that as a yes and walked in, sitting herself on the edge of my bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, more of her strange accent slipping through. I never could identify what it was.

I pulled my blankets up higher around my shoulders. “Empty.”

She nodded knowingly. What the hell did she know about this feeling? I mean, I didn’t even know what it was!

“I made you lasagna downstairs,” she offered.

“Not hungry,” I replied in a monotone.

“Jacob, you must eat. This isn’t healthy.”

“Not hungry,” I replied once more.

“Your mother is getting extremely worried, and . . . and so am I.”

I looked at her through the tips of my hair. I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. What was I feeling? Was it guilt, confusion, frustration, anger? What was it?

“Abby called. She’s worried.”

Why did her name make me feel sicker inside? “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“I can’t. You have to.”

“Then she can wait.”

She paused. “Trevor also called. The basketball team has missed you at practice. And he’s worried, also.”

“They can wait,” I said again, quieter, surprising myself. I was devoted to basketball. I never missed a practice.

Yet, here I was and I’d already missed two weeks’ worth altogether.

“Can you leave, Belinda? I want some time alone.”

Belinda went nowhere.

“Belinda?” I begged. “Please?”

“No.”

I shoved the blankets down. “Why not?”

“Because I have one more thing to say to you, something I’ve noticed for quite a while and I’m awfully surprised a smart boy like you didn’t figure out.”

I looked at her expectantly. “Well, what is it?”

“It's only one question,” she said.

“And that is . . .”