Lost: Cannot be Recovered

A girl lies on her bed while staring at the pillow. The rouge cover is coming off on one side and the seam is going through the middle of the pillow instead of the sides. The pillow is holding for dear life on the edge of her bed, a sweater taking most of the place the pillow would be. Tired and worn out, the girl sprawls herself across her bed, blinking every so often. Besides a few blinks here and there, and the slow thumping of a heartbeat, there was not a sign of her being alive.

She pays little attention to how her blinds swung widely against her window as the wind picks up. She doesn't pay attention to the goosebumps forming on her skin from the cold air. Instead, she's thinking of what she has lost.

She lost an uncle. It was murder. Though, others think it was drug-use. Finding fentanyl over ten times what should be in there system could not be an accident. It kills instantly. What should be .04 was 4.0. It was not an accident. 

She lost her great grandpa. Sure, it was his time. He was reaching his nineties. The fact she could have been there by his side one more time eats her to her core.

She lost her best friend. Through time and college, communications had ceased. She had no one to tell her struggles to.

She lost her father, through his own self-centered ways and ego.

She lost herself in her anxiety, panic, and depression. They show in her faded scars.

She only has a few people left, but creates a fear for herself. Now, she's afraid to make new connections.

Afraid.

Afraid of someone close to her dying again.

Afraid.

Afraid of someone important to her ignoring her existence.

Afraid.

 Isn't that a word we are all used to?