Another Reason To Live (Watty Awards 2014)

Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

I felt like I was drowning.  Like someone threw me into a pool of dark water with a weight tied to my ankle, pulling me down to the bottom.  No matter how hard I fought to swim up and break the surface, I just couldn't.  But I could see everyone else in the pool floating at the top, swimming gingerly and having a great time.  But I couldn't be a part of that great time.  I was drowning.

I didn't know what to do with myself.  Everyday depended on what Gerard had planned to do.  I always looked forward to his phone calls or his text messages that gave me information on our next little adventure, which would lead into his next big lesson on making the best out of life.  Even if those messages were in the middle of the night.  I couldn't help but remember the one of the first times he took me somewhere and he called me at five o'clock in the morning to tell me about it.  I was annoyed about it being so early, but I would give anything right now to have him call me right now, even if it was three thirty in the morning.

Sleep didn't come to me that night.  Everytime I closed my eyes, Gerard's pale, damaged body flooded my vision, like a movie being projected onto a screen.  And everytime I saw that image, I would hurt inside and feel that much more sad.  And the only way to get rid of that image was to open my eyes.

I couldn't really find words to describe what I was feeling.  When my mother knocked on my door and asked what was wrong, I didn't have the motivation to even acknowledge her presence.  I simply laid on my bed and looked at the ceiling as I tried to convince myself that I was dreaming.  No, scratch that.  That I was having a nightmare. 

But as my clock changed to quarter to four o'clock in the morning, my eyes gave up fighting exhaustion and I finally managed to fall into a semi-deep sleep.

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"I'm not hungry, Mom," I mumbled at the breakfast table the next morning.  I gently pushed the plate of french toast away from me when she set it in front of me anyways.

"Scarlette, you need to eat.  You didn't come down for dinner last night, so eat up," she replied as she served Noah his plate.  Noah ignored his breakfast as well and kept his gaze focused intently on me, obviously knowing that something was up.

"I'm not hungry," I repeated.

Looking over her shoulder as she poured herself a glass of milk, she said, "Are you sick? Does your stomach hurt?"

'Everything hurts, Mom,' I wanted to tell her.  'My stomach, my muscles, my head, my heart. Everything.'

"At least have a few bites of breakfast.  I know you love french toast," she reasoned as she put the milk jug back in the fridge and joined the rest of the family at the table.  My father was looking at the front page of the newspaper and contributed nothing to the conversation.

"I'm not hungry," I repeated slowly.

She gave me a stern look and picked up her fork, ditching the concerned-mom role.  "Well, you're not leaving this table until you eat something."

I remained silent as I watched steam rise out of my breakfast before thinning out and disappearing into the air.  The smell that normally would have me drooling into a bucket was making me even more sick to my stomach.

"Scar," Noah whispered as my mom asked my dad something about the bushes in the backyard.  I looked at him to see an extremely concerned look on his face.  "What's wrong?"

I stared at him and shook my head.  "Everything."

He paused for a moment before asking, "Is it Gerard?"

I felt tears rim my eyes at the mention of his name out loud.  It was one thing to think it, but it was like rubbing hand sanitizer on a deep paper cut when it was said aloud.  It hurt.  Badly.