~Two years earlier~
I can see it in my grades. I'm going to fail. In school, in relationships, in everything. Everyone at school says I'll be fine. So I hit a few bumps in the road, I'll build it back. I don't know how, though. They'll give a few words of advice, but then they move on. Honestly, it's that they don't know what it's like. They don't know about my dad yelling at me, or even why they dropped. It's not what they think.
No one's ever seen mom here. They don't even know what she did. Or how she died. I almost expected it. Even that didn't prepare me. Every day, I replayed what happened on that night She was supposed to come home the next day. No more guns, fighting, or grenades. My mom would be home at last.
Well, that's what I thought. I thought my grades would get better when she came home. But she never did. I sat there, watching the news, waiting for the day to pass by. As I watched the news about the war my mom was finally leaving, the doorbell rang. I ran to the door, hoping that mom had come home early.
I swung the door open, a smirk on my face. It faded quickly when I saw who was standing there.
"No," I muttered.
"Miss Scarbarrow," the official said, "I'm sorry to inform you, but your mother was killed near her hotel. She was staying the night in New York City, when she went to get breakfast. She was hit by a cement mixer.
I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
I stared right through him, and closed the door. I didn't notice my feet moved me to my room. I moved to my bed, legs hanging over the side, with my hands folded in my lap.
My mother. The one who took me to Disney when I was eight. The one who gave me light punishments. The one who went out to serve her country when everyone else ran away. Dead. Dead. Dead. I curled into a ball on my bed. Whimpers escaped my lips. She even survived the war. She only escaped to be hit by a damn cement mixer.
I punched my pillow. Then again. Then I sat up and attacked it. Throwing wild punches, my stomach filling with emotional pain. I killed my pillow over and over again.
"I HATE YOU!" I screamed, my voice gruff, no longer the soft one I once had. "I hate you! I hate you!" Tears fell down my cheeks, and I hugged the pillow to my face. I screamed into the pillow over and and over and over again. I yelled into it like a five year old. I slammed the pillow on the bed, willing it to be destroyed.
RIP!
Feathers spilled everywhere, littering my room. I punched the almost empty pillow again then buried my face into it and let out strained sobs.
My mother was dead.
I only told my dad. No one else needed to know, it wasn't their business anyway, It wasn't like I had anyone to tell.
Now I wander the halls, going from class to class living my mother's death. I sit in my room, blood pouring from my leg, while smaller lines cover my wrist. I thank the blade for my release, before setting it in my drawer. I don't cry. I never do. I focus on the pain as I fall asleep.
