I'll Be Fine

Dead...Not Dead...?!

I'm sitting in my own living room -which I've cleaned since Mason was arrested. I don't realize I'm shaking until Austin gently takes my hand, stroking it with his thumb. I jerk it away. The shock comes and goes in stages. Neither of us says a word, quietly avoiding eye contact even though we came her specifically to talk. Yeah, not much of that happening.

Finally, my (NOT DEAD) old best friend breaks the silence with a sigh. "I'm sorry." I keep my mouth shut. He goes on. "Listen, I know I should've reached out sooner, but I had to lay low." He pauses, turning to actually look at me. "You could at least talk to me here." His voice is low, apologetic. "What I did was wrong, but-"

"There's no "but"!" I shout. Keeping my voice down would be futile, nobody in the neighborhood's home anyways. He looks at me with a pained expression. "I'm trying here!" He shoots back. "You're not exactly making this easy on me!" I hope my eye roll was noticed, but just for good measure I scoff. "I'm not making this easy on you?! Yesterday I thought you were dead, and now you show up out of nowhere and expect me to be all smiles and sympathy? Well, FUCK YOU." I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Damn it, not the tears again...

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry the news that your best friend didn't kill himself is too troubling for you to handle, but I didn't fake my own death for no reason. I would never do that to you." His voice softens, and the look on his face is breaking my heart. "I love you, Soph. Always have. When you're ready for an explanation, call me." I give a small nod, studying my shoes. I know I should do more, say more, but I can't bring myself to. I deserve to hold a grudge for at least a day or two, until I can clear my head at the very least. I'm not ready for things to go back to the way they were.

*****

I do some research. Absolutely zero records of anything related to Austin since he "died." Figures. After all, people would notice a dead guy posting status updates. What would he even say? "It's hot down here"?

That actually gives me a great idea for when I actually die. I'll just have someone continue posting for me. Pretending it's me. Ha, yeah, I can see this. Oh, wait, that would require a friend. Way to kill the mood, logic. I sigh dramatically, sliding out of my desk chair and going downstairs to the kitchen for a snack. Can't wallow in self-pity on an empty stomach. I sift through the contents of the fridge. Lettuce. Lemon juice. A few cans of beer.

...Is that an old chicken?

It's blue and green. Mold. At this point it doesn't even look like chicken...how long has that been in there?!

I grab some tongs from the sink, thankfully clean, and grab the chicken, almost sprinting to the trashcan before dropping it in, along with the tongs, and quickly tying up the bag. Easier just to dispose of all that crap. Besides, it's not like I would ever use those tongs again.

After I've taken the bag outside by the curb, I sink down into the couch. This place is too clean. It's dark, but you can clearly tell where I've cleaned, vaccummed, and scrubbed until my arms where aching and everything was neat and spotless. It was one of those 5 minute bursts of inspiration that turned into a new life mission: making this dump suitable for human life. Now that I've done all that I can, I can almost see the house back before mom got with Mason. It was always spotless, everything shiny. You could see your reflection in our stainless steel fridge. The house now isn't nearly as clean, but it's a start. Can't believe I forgot to clean out the fridge. It still stinks like alcohol and...something else. Rotting meat from the chicken, maybe?

I heaved a sigh, grabbing the Lysol spray and cleaning rag. A look around tells me I've lost the trashbags. Great.

*A few hours later*

My phone's annoying ringtone goes off, distracting me from my thoughts. I shuffle over to the couch, discarding the annoying yet sanitary latex gloves. "Using cleaning as an excuse to get away from your thoughts. It won't work forever, Soph."

How the hell-

"Oh, this is Austin btw"

"IS EVERYONE STALKING ME NOW?" I respond furiously, fingers flying. A small, insecure part of me begs for the curtain call. Wants all to end. I can't afford to rent a house, and hotels are out of the question. But I know that's not what the little voice is talking about.

I close all the curtains in the house, shutting down my mind as if it has an off switch. I power off my phone, turn out all the lights, and watch some mindless cartoon on Netflix to distract myself. Maybe Austin was right. No, he was definitely right. I am putting off this whole thing. Still no explanation from Austin. Maybe he really just doesn't wanna tell me. I probably wouldn't tell me either.

Several episodes and many shed tears over fictional characters later, I don't feel any better. In fact, I feel progressively worse as the series grows more intricate and complex. Twists and turns, betrayal and heartbreak, love and loyalties lost, an emotional roller coaster. Or maybe I'm just getting way too into the first season of AHS again, nothing new there.

Okay but Tate is so hot when he goes full psycho mode! A part of me argues. I shake my head, my eyes landing on something across the room. A silent tear slips down my cheek, falling onto my lap, at the sight of it.

The photo album full of the person who betrayed me, who left me feeling like I'd let him down in the biggest, worst way imaginable.

Without realizing it, I rise from my bed and creep towards the photo album. In an instant, I'm holding the stupid album. No not holding it; ripping out photos, destroying it, tearing all the content of the album apart. Until I'm left with nothing but millions of tiny pieces of finely shredded paper. Okay, maybe millions is a bit of an exaggeration. I did make a big mess, though.

Ha, I guess you could say my life is a tearable mess.

NO. No. I'm sorry, I told myself I wouldn't make any puns today.

And yet we see how that turned out..