The Lasting Days Of Samantha Piper

12- Back to Normal, Not Really

TROY's P.O.V.

I can feel my eyelids fluttering like a butterfly. Hastily, I sat on my bed with this light swirling ache on my forehead. My eyes barely open.

The sun hasn't risen yet on my bedroom window. Maybe it's somewhere around 5:00 to 5:30 a.m. so I adjust my eyes to the darkness. I can tell by the hue of the sky that the night will soon vanish.

Maybe I can get some shower first?

I zombie-walked through my room and unhooked some clothes and a fresh towel from the cabinet, then I entered the bathroom. Opening the faucet slowly, I stripped by alcohol-smelling outfit and sunk myself in the cold vibrations of the tub water. I stayed there for like an hour, letting the cold calm my mind and sooth the guilt I'm feeling for being the rebellious teen I am not raised to be yesterday.

I can hardly remember all the details. All I can remember is that, I've been not so accidentally drunk last night and Carlo was on the floor lying dead and a mysterious guy drove me home with Michael. Shantelle is there too, blocking a punch on my face.

Maybe last night, I've starred some young-adult movie where I get beaten so hard but I didn't have the part two where I should beat the crap out of the villain and have my sweet revenge. Anyway, at least I'm safe. Hopefully my friends are too.

. . . . . . . . .

After so, I head back to my bed. The sun is beginning to dawn on my window and I shut the curtains off. Today is the last week of school. I think I still need to get some more sleep before I try to face the reality (that most people hate).

. . . . . . . .

I readied myself at 10:25.

Then, after a quick bath and breakfast I changed to a new pair of jeans and a gray flannel topped over by my moss green leather jacket. It's freaking cold outside, the fog has already clouded the rest of my window.

Though it wasn't the rain on a Monday afternoon that bothers me, it was this fire burning in my insides. I don't know what it is yet. It's just there at my chest, sitting and forging this flame on my nerves to do something. To justify something.

Denial.

Anger.

Despair.

Is this Bargaining? Is this the fourth stage of grief?

There are five stages of grief as I've seen on movies and TV. The last would be Acceptance, the most likely I will never get.

Bargaining means there is an exchange of terms, a condition in which you can be at peace if attained and performed. Maybe this is it.

I need to justify the death of Samantha, by that I can finally have peace.

. . . . . . . . . .

Mom drove me to school just like the way she used to. She didn't speak to me at all. When I sat with her at breakfast she just looked at me like I'm a bad news on the radio and shook her head as if I am the symbol that Trump has won the elections.

And now inside the car, I am next to her but she was just focusing on the road and turning up the stereo volume in traffic stops. The Beatles taking the vast space of unoccupied silence with every hit single.

Maybe she's mad for what happened?

Then she shouldn't have carried me all the way here if it burdens her. Finally I got some nerve to say something.