I'll Be Fine

Run, Run, Run

I don't remember much after the doctors pronounced her dead. I just remember running out of the hospital, my legs wobbly and unsteady at first. Tripping over tables, chairs, anything in my way. I guess what Mason always said was true; I can't go anywhere without leaving a path of destruction in my wake.

I remember eventually escaping the hell hole they call Hope Haven, dashing out the automatic doors into the crisp night air. I remember gasping for breath, feeling like I was suffocating. And then I remember flying. Down side streets, alleyways, bridges, always feeling that burn in my chest. Suffocating me even more, threatening to drag me down. But I didn't stop running.

I never stopped. Run, run, run. I kept telling myself that. Sometimes I'd use it for little motivational speeches. Run, run, run, Sophia. Get out of here. Go, run faster. Faster. You can't stay. Too many memories.

And then sometimes, the phrase was just that. Run, run, run. Short and sweet. No more or less motivational than anything else. Somehow I ended up running to my house. Funny, it was over 60 miles. But I hadn't been running that long...right?

The main thing I remember is feeling helpless, lost, scared, broken. The list goes on. There are thousands of adjectives I could use. But I could never hope to match the burning sensation in my chest, my lungs, my heart, to words. Thousands of adjectives, yet there aren't enough in the world.

I don't remember running up to my room, locking the door, and crying myself to sleep. All I know is there's no other explanation regarding my tear-stained pillow. The police never followed up on taking me in for questioning. I know they will soon. I haven't a clue what I'm going to tell them. Mason hit me a few times, sure, but is he really capable of murder? I guess now I know. Never underestimate the wickedness of an alcoholic drug dealer. Actually, never underestimate the wickedness of anyone. You don't know what they're capable of until it's too late.

I get out of bed, brush my hair, straighten it. That stray lock, still wavy, would normally bother me. Now, you couldn't pay me enough to care. My outfit stays the same. Ripped jeans, plain black t-shirt, Converse high tops. At least death hasn't altered my outfit. That's a start, right? ...No, not even close.

I brush my teeth, put on deodorant and light perfume. Going through the motions. I pick up my backpack and drag myself to school. I feel like a zombie. Had I looked in the mirror at all this morning, I could confirm that I probably look like a zombie, too.

When I reach the school grounds, everything stops. People stop chatting and all eyes turn to me. A frisbee flies through the air, eventually clattering to the ground, forgotten. How lucky that frisbee is.

I trudge into the school, my feet feeling like they're encased in blocks of solid cement. I don't miss the whispers behind my back. They don't hurt. It's what comes after that hurts. All those sympathetic looks. Like any of these self-obsessed pricks has any idea what I'm going through. They're just skimming the surface of the misery that has become my life.

Oh, that poor girl.
Did you hear that her mom died?
Her name is Sophia, right? Poor thing...
Now she's stuck with her druggie stepdad.

On and on, the whispered news catches like wildfire in an African savanna. By lunch, everyone knows. I wish I were exaggerating.

So many times I brushed off apologies and encounters from people who never would've looked in my direction 2 days ago. So someone close to me dies and then you decide to be a halfway decent human being? Sickening.

I pride myself on being humble, no matter the situation. Not that it really matters. No one ever asks my opinion, asks if I'm busy tomorrow night, asks if they can borrow these adorable shoes. It's just something I've come to accept. No one needs me. I don't mean anything. And I'm okay with that. But all of a sudden my emotions matter because my mother died?

I can't handle this. I dump my untouched tray in the garbage and stack up my tray, spinning around to leave. To get out of here. To escape. To delay the inevitable.

But as I spin on my heel and go to walk out, I hit a solid wall of muscles and body mass. Oh, joy, it's Gotham. Kill. Me. Now. I'm begging you.

I keep my head down, turning to go around him when his arm snakes around my waist, rendering me immobile. I immediately look up to glare at him. He doesn't seem to notice and instead seems motivated to continue holding me in this awkward position. "Hey, sorry about your mom. She seemed nice."

I sputter and choke for a few seconds before forming an actual sentence. "Are you kidding me?" I ask, my tone dubious. "What?" He asks, clearly confused.

Bitch Mode: Activated

"TWO DAYS AGO  you had NO idea who my mother was and you met her once. You talked to her once. She was nice enough to have me politely tell you to fuck off and here you think you have the right to tell me that my own mother seemed nice? I can't believe it! You think you have any idea what I'm going through?! Well, newsflash, ya don't! You don't know me and you sure as hell didn't know my mother! So you can stop acting all sympathetic. You and everyone else is this goddamn school because I'm sick of it. All of it. I don't need your pitying looks. I hear everything you all whisper behind my back. Every last bit of it. All you people with your freshly manicured nails, your designer bags, your trendy, outrageously priced clothes, you couldn't have been bothered to so much as breathe the same air as me until my mother died. Well guess what? She's gone, and no amount of  "I'm sorry for your loss"s are going to bring her back. So you can all just stop with the act because you're not helping anyone except yourself that at least you gave an ounce of fake sympathy to that weird, antisocial girl you've gone to school with since kindergarten."

After my rant, I look up at Gotham. He's once again red as a tomato and he looks to be 5 seconds away from snapping.

It doesn't take him that long.

"You think you're so entitled to act like a bitch just because your overworked mother that you barely tolerated died. Well guess what? I lost two caring parents when I was 5 years old, Sophia. So cut the shit. You're not the only one that deserves any sympathy." Gotham's voice is low, guarded, full of anger.

..oops?

I slam my elbow down on Gotham's hand. He doesn't flinch in the slightest but he does release his grip on my waist, backing away slowly. I push past him and sprint towards the double doors, the only things standing between me and freedom. I leave, once again feeling the burning sensation in my chest.

But this time it's for completely different reasons.