Bereavement

Chapter 4

The next morning, I peel my eyes open with a groan, shutting them when I see the sun shining through the window. For some reason I am sweating, but when I kick the heavy covers off of me, the cool, empty sheets feel good against my skin. Unable to force myself out of bed because of my pounding headache, I lie there until the throbbing subsides a little and the sun goes behind clouds.

Only then do I coerce myself to get out of bed. Luckily the room has stopped spinning, so it makes it easier to walk to the bathroom this time.

I don't turn on the light, afraid that it will only encourage the pulsating pain in my head. I don't necessarily need it though because of the small amount of light that luminates the room from outside. The luminescence is enough for me to be able to see my face in the mirror.

I look...old. Not old as in age; I am only twenty-one. But I look like I have seen too much, been through too much. My eyes are irritated and red, and I have dark bags underneath them. My hair is disheveled. A livid bruise from last night is beginning to form on the right side of my forehead.

I look like a mess.

I have always been wary of mirrors. In Abnegation, when we were allowed to look at our reflections once every three months, I didn't even like to take advantage of that small amount of freedom. I would usually avert my eyes because I never thought I was good-looking.

Tris did, though. But I don't know why. I hate the way my ears stick out too far, the way my nose looks, the ugly scar on my chin.

However, the scar on my chin isn't visible because of the stubble that I haven't done anything about for a while. Reaching into the cabinet underneath the sink, I pull out my electric razor, plugging it in and flipping it on. The hum of the razor doesn't hurt my head, and I run it over my jaw, chin, and upper lip to shave off all the excess facial hair. It reminds me of the time in Amity when Tris hugged me from behind while I was doing this. She was hesitant, unsure of herself at first, but then her arms wrapped around me tighter, desperately.

I miss her.

Setting the razor down after I turn it off, I notice the dried blood on my palm, leftover from last night. I run it under some cool water and rub at the cut carefully to rid the sticky blood. It is worse than I thought, but bearable.

A knock at the door startles me. Who could be here at seven o'clock in the morning? Confused, I head to the front door, dodging fragments of glass on the way. I swing the door open to find Christina and Zeke standing there.

I frown. "What are you guys doing here?" I question hoarsely.

"Good to see you, too," Zeke laughs loudly, stepping past me and into my apartment.

"Not so loud," I complain, pressing a hand to my ear and shutting the door behind Christina.

They look around, taking in the messy room. Everything is still as I left it last night: broken glass from the beer bottle all over, knife on the floor, a chair tipped backward from when I kicked it over. I don't know what to say besides, "Sorry. Last night was...rough."

Christina sighs, obviously not believing my understatement, and says, "You know, there's a support program that Erudite started for people who are having a hard time getting over the war and everything. You should consider it."

I think of being in a room full of people who have suffered like me, or sitting across from some therapist that tries to push me to tell him or her my personal business. Neither option sounds appealing.

Shaking my head, I reply, "I don't need help." The falseness in my assertion is obvious. I probably do need help, but I just don't want it. I don't want to concentrate on all that I have been through; I'm already trying to ignore the past, and although it isn't working well, it is working a hell of a lot better than it would if I poured out my whole life to a judgmental Erudite.