After the funeral when my Mum and Phil's mum had found me asleep on the patch of carpet where they had left me they decided to take me to a therapist. I hated the idea of sharing my thoughts with someone I don't know. These thoughts were strengthened when she started talking to my like a child or a dog. I tried to explain my feelings but I wasn't surprised when I stormed out out of there screaming. So we decided to stop therapy for a while.
Each day I slip deeper into the great abyss as I like to call it. Time was supposed to heal but each passing second the knife that was death drives itself deeper into my heart killing me slowly. I'm starting to envy Phil. He had died on impact. It was so quick and painless I would like that right now, but I couldn't, for one thing my Mum was watching me like hawk, and two there was the message.
A single unopened text from Phil.
