Afterwards (Editing)

chapter seven

Mrs. Kilder refused to admit she ate the hamburger i left out for her. I checked everywhere in her apartment and it was no where to be found. I didn't argue with her i was glad she had eaten.

Dustin wakes up the next morning sad. He had really hoped his father would've tucked him in, even just silently coming in and turning off Dustin's lights. He didn't even do that. To make it worse, Dustin had heard his father's footsteps pass his door and seen he hallway lights flick off. His heart cracked in two, but he waited for a few minutes more. Then he got up, biting back tears, and turned off the lights. Every night Dustin would promise himself he wouldn't get his hopes up, but he couldn't help it. And he did.

Dustin doesn't bother brushing his teeth. He wants to have something else to feel bad about and not performing personal hygiene acts seemed like something that would be a simpler terrible feeling but still bother him more. He pulls on clothes that are dirty and goes downstairs. He eats breakfast and listens for the slightest rustling but he knows his father is already gone, and he knows he didn't leave a note so he doesn't bother searching for one this morning.

As Dustin walks past Della's house, not even going up and knocking on the door to get her to come walk with him, she runs out, pulling on her jacket and trying to drag her backpack at the same time. Dustin doesn't slow down for her, even when she calls out. He doesn't turn his head, either. He keeps scowling at the road.

She manages to gallop over while getting herself pulled together and says "What was that?"

Della isn't stupid. She knows Dustin's mother died. Unfortunately for poor Dustin that is only the tip of the iceberg and no one can see the bottom. The thing is, the rest of his iceberg is ten times bigger than that of a fourteen year old's should be.

She pokes him after a minute with no response. His pace quickens for the hundredth time as he tries to escape her. She only speeds up.

"Dustin, you're allowed to have bad days," Della starts, "Do you want to talk about it?" He shakes his head but slows down a little. His pace proceeds to slow down until they are walking at a normal rate. Della twirls a peice of her big, loose, brown curls.

"Thank you for bringing me my jacket," she says.

"Your welcome," he says. Dustin's hair is too long but since his father is neglecting him he hasn't brought him to get it cut. Dustin is quite glad about it though, even if it is quite unnacceptable. His teacher is bound to complain at one time or another and this might lead to a call to his father which might lead to a better life.

His father isn't trying to hurt Dustin, quite ironically he is trying to heal himself. He is truly a nice guy. He just can't see he is putting his son in a hurtful position. When you are fourteen and on your own you're bound to be lost. And Dustin was practically a stray dog.

Dustin and Della make their way through the streets, Della chatting his ear off and Dustin hoping on the inside for something so intricate to happen to make someone notice.

I sit back and think of my brother for a moment. We had walked to school together and some days i would kick stones and be a huge bummer and he would just crack jokes and talk, and talk, and talk. I'm not saying these characters have anything to do with us, but it reminds me of him, as things often tend to do.

I take one last glance at the words i have written and get up. I'm ready to sleep. I always have a hole, a void, that bothers me through out the day. The feeling it emits. Writing gives me an escape from the feeling but, no matter, the feeling has yet to disappear.

I've thought about how i got the feeling. When i was much younger and my brother died i was without it. I know it has nothing to do with my brother. It has everything to do with me. I have no scapegoat. I'm like Mrs. Kilder, just in my own way. Everyone, even Dane, is like that in some way. It's just an inevitable thing.

 I get a glass out and pour some milk into it. The liquid is just plain white, like a peice of paper before you begin to type.

I proceed to drain the glass of its contents and go to sleep.