AFTER
I think the most infuriating part about this whole thing is my Guidance Counsellor, who happens to be the worst Guidance Counsellor in the world.
She's small and blonde and wear a colourful pleated skirt that clashes horribly with her cardigan. She's so typically Guidance Counsellor-like it almost hurts me to look at her.
"I'm Daisy," she tells me when I go into her poky little office for our first session. It's supposed to be an hour long and I know it's going to be painful the minute I take a seat on one of her couches. There's a whole jar of cookies placed on a small desk adjacent to the couch and her entire fucking office is covered in posters that have pretty white kids feigning what is supposed to portray depression.
"I'm Miss Barley to everyone else," she presses on when I don't answer. And then I think fuck, what sort of name is that? Daisy Barley. Her parents must've thought they were being really funny naming her that.
I must be smirking because she smiles brightly, thinking she's already gotten through to me. Poor girl. She looks too young, too nice and too optimistic for this sort of job. I wonder if she's new because I've never really seen her around school before. I think we had another Guidance Counsellor some time back – there's a memory in my head somewhere of an overweight man who smells faintly like a hospital room that someone just died in. Well he must've been it, then.
"I understand," she continues when the silence between us stretches on for too long, "that you won't be doing your GCSE exams this year then?"
I shrug. "Dunno."
Daisy nods and she's already scribbling into a tiny notebook clasped in her left hand. Something flashes when she moves it and that's when I notice the ring. It's small and cute, like her. Daisy's married too? She can't be more than twenty two years old.
"So Matthew." She looks up at me and grins. "I wanted to name my son that but my husband thought it was too old fashioned. Pfft!"
A son, too? Well wonders never cease.
"I prefer Matt actually," I mumble a little gruffly.
Her smile fades a little bit but I haven't put her off quite yet. Damn it.
"Alright Matt," she responds and she leans back, all casual like, and then nods. "So," she says, "tell me how you feel right now."
I raise an eyebrow at her. She's got to be shitting me.
"Fucking joyous," I respond and I don't even care that I've dropped the F bomb on her, because she's a guidance counsellor and she's trained to handle this shit. Might as well put it to the test; see what she's made of.
Disappointing. Daisy doesn't bat an eyelid. She looks satisfied in fact.
"Sarcasm, yes, alright." She nods enthusiastically. "So that's your strong suit, then? I thought it would be. Your form tutor told me you like to write. Writers like sarcasm, don't they?"
"How – how is this relevant to anything?" I splutter and I'm throwing my hands up in the air because I'm angry and it's stuffy and I just want Adam to be alive right now. Adam. The weird thing is he would've liked Daisy.
"Quick temper too." Daisy nods, more to herself than at me. "Alright, listen," she says and now she's looking at me again, dead serious, and not so cute-looking anymore. "I want you to act exactly like this from now on. Just around me, in here. Get angry. Swear all you like. Channel your anger towards me."
I roll my eyes. "What and you think that'll—"
"It won't make you any less hurt, no," she says firmly. "But it will help you clear your head a little."
"To make room for more happy thoughts?" I bite back but she's grinning again.
"Good, you've already started!" Daisy claps her hands together. "Excellent."
"That wasn't—"
But she starts to get up and motions towards the door. "We're done for today, Matth—Matt," she quickly corrects herself. I must look so stupid to her, just standing there, gawping, like I don't understand any English, like she's an alien. But she is an alien – an alien with blonde hair and a bad fashion sense.
"You're mental," I breathe as she gently pushes me out her door. Daisy doesn't look the slightest bit bothered by what I say and she merely cocks her head at me.
"Everyone's mental, Matt," she says and her voice loses some of its cool. "But there's only very few of us who like to show it."
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I am not scared of the dark.
I've never been. Mum says it's something to do with your soul, how some souls aren't scared of anything because they've already been in bodies that died in gruesome ways in the past. It's all rubbish, like most of what mum believes in. Horoscopes. God.
I just like the dark.
I'm not a gloomy person – a stream of sunlight pouring down my bedroom window is always appreciated. I don't listen to heavy metal and throw my teenage angst around everywhere – though people wouldn't be surprised if I did it now. It fits the situation well. But I hate heavy metal. And teenage angst is for indie movies.
The patterned curtains of my bedroom are shut and so are the lights. I'm in my bed and I'm staring at my phone. It's been two weeks and three days since Adam Fernandes, my best friend, committed suicide for reasons still unknown. It's been two weeks and three days and I haven't shed a single tear. It's been two weeks and three days since Adam stopped breathing. Stopped being alive and here. Here.
I'm reading through our texts. Just the last two texts. The last two texts that I should've taken seriously.
Adam:
Would you cry if I died?
Matt:
No. I'd probably throw a party or something.
Because we were like that – we joked and teased and mocked. This was how it was. This was how it was supposed to be – just a joke, a meaningless little conversation. Just Adam trying to make the pretentious writer inside of me come out and give a long and poetic answer about death. It wasn't supposed to be real. It wasn't supposed to be a boy trying to make his best friend understand that something was wrong. Really, really wrong. He needed help and I gave him none.
I am – was – a shitty fucking friend.
This should be the part where the truth dawns upon me – the truth already has dawned upon me – but I'm not crying and for a moment I wonder if something is seriously wrong with me. There must be.
Adam is dead and there is nothing I can do to change that. But there is one thing I can do. It's late and it's probably half-arsed and Adam would laugh at me if he was here. But I do it.
I give him the long and poetic answer that he deserved.
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Matt:
Hey, Adam, I know this is too late but just so you know, I would cry if you died. I haven't cried yet but I think that's because I'm saving it for when it's really supposed to count and I hope you're okay with that and you're not mad or anything. Death is a really, really strange thing and I'm wondering where you are right now, if there is even a 'you' after death. I'd like to think you're still you after death. I think you might be. I hope you're an angel or something, with fucking wings and everything. That'd be a sight.
You'll probably laugh at me for saying this but I miss you so much. I punched Oliver because he called you a fag. You hated him didn't you? You said you wanted to punch him once but you never really got the chance. I hope you aren't too mad I got the satisfaction of doing it.
Dude, I miss you.
I hit send but the message fails to deliver.
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