Ten of Me ✓

Thirty

A/N: Trigger warning—this chapter deals with suicide.  Please skip if you aren't comfortable.

NICOLE

I waited, staring at Mom for what felt like forever, as she continued to grasp tightly onto my blanket. She wouldn't even meet my eye for the longest time, until finally, with a resolute determination that seemed to come from motherly intuition, she looked up at me and said, "It's Morgan."

"Morgan?" I asked. My hand automatically went to my phone, which was a little ways away from me on the bed. When I unlocked my screen, I saw that Morgan still hadn't responded to me. The pounding in my chest told me it wasn't just because she was angry at me. Something was really wrong.

Mom ran her hands through her hair again, all the way down until she reached the ends which brushed just above her waist. Then she took it all and pulled it over her shoulder, delaying answering me.

"Mom," I said. "Please tell me."

More silence. Finally, Mom met my eye with a withdrawn expression, eyebrows drawn tight as she said distantly, "She's dead."

I couldn't even get out the words I needed to to ask her what had happened and if this was even true, because my throat had closed up entirely. A strangled sob worked its way up and got caught halfway up my windpipe, and my mouth felt unnaturally dry. When I tried to swallow or even breathe, I found I couldn't.

Mom continued to stare at me with that same faraway expression, as if she weren't even seeing me. Slowly, tears began to drip down her cheeks to match my own.

"Mom," I finally eked out.

Even though I hadn't actually asked, she must have understood my question, because she said, with her eyes dropped down to her lap, "She killed herself."

Without even knowing it, I fell backwards so that I was staring up at the ceiling as more tears slid down my face. Eventually they blinded me, so that all I could see were the fuzzy shapes of the lights above me. I couldn't believe Morgan would do that. At least, not the Morgan I'd used to know.

Old Morgan had been strong, confident, and assertive. She'd always stood up for me and had never been too shy to say what she needed to in order to get what she wanted. She'd been someone for me to rely on no matter what.

Then I remembered what she'd told McKenna at the skating rink. Nicole had been her rock, her support, just like she'd been mine. Was this all my fault? It couldn't be. I'd noticed the changes in her before I'd made my first transformation. How she'd started to skip class, not to go have fun as she usually did, but to go to the bathroom and cry. How she began to doubt herself, much like I'd doubted myself. But maybe, if I'd only told her what I was really doing, I would have been able to help her cope.

I didn't realize that I was clutching my sheets with a death grip until Mom gently unwrapped my fingers, smoothing them out against my mattress. "I'm sorry, Nicole," she said softly, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. It was the most motherly gesture she had offered me in a really long time, but I was too devastated to appreciate it.

"How?" I managed, not even bothering to wipe away more tears, so that my face was quickly growing sticky and slick.

Mom got up and I felt her sit down again moments later so that the mattress caved a little under her weight. Then she brought a tissue up to my face and slowly dried my cheeks, saying, "She overdosed."

I shut my eyes tightly, feeling my mascara, which was wet from my ears, adhere to my cheekbones. This was all my fault. I'd seen her go to the pharmacy and buy the medicines. She'd been carrying them in her bag the entire time I'd been with her, both in the car and at the skating rink. I'd tried to say things to her to make her feel better, but evidently it hadn't been enough. I should have said something different--maybe then I would have been able to stop her.