Paper Cuts (COMPLETED)

Chapter Two: The Kids Are All Right

The walk home was strange. I climbed out of the Tube station with the surging crowd, squinting against the pewter sun, which seemed to soak itself in the grey clouds hanging over London. If the weather wasn't always this way, I would've found it fitting to my bleak mood.

I followed my feet home out of habit, my mind on a different planet. I began to wonder myself how exactly Clara had done it. My stomach felt heavy and full as I wrapped my coat closer around my chest. 

With each crunch of crimson leaves underfoot, a different image of Clara flashed through my head. Crunch. She laughs as she makes a joke, drink in hand under neon lights. Crunch. Her smile fades as she looks away, out the classroom window, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Crunch. She sobs against her drawn-up knees under her bathroom sink, palming the razor in her hands. Crunch. She takes a deep, shivering breath, rope around her neck. Crunch. She floats in a red bath, a dripping red arm hanging over the side.

Crunch.

I gasped quietly, not sure if I had been holding my breath or if I was just shocked by my own conception. I found it hard to breathe, suddenly, and look away from the leaf-strewn path to the cream and white gilded townhouses packed neatly behind their black gates.

12, 14, 16...

I pushed open the gate of number 18, running up the stairs with pounding steps to shake the dirt from my boots. I pulled them off, heel-to-toe, as I inspected the black-painted door. I reached a finger up to tap a new chip in the paint with a half-amused hmph.

The door swung open wide before I could pull my keys from my bag. A woman stood there, her head up to my chest, with watery eyes and tussled brown hair. She folded her arms and looked at me in the way one looks at a child who'd been shoved over by one much bigger than them.

"Mum? Are you okay?"

My mum tilted her head to the side, inspecting my face inconspicuously for any sign of tears. She stepped out into the autumn air, wearing a loose white shirt and a denim skirt that didn't quite fit over her stomach, which might've been flatter if not for her third child.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" She said, and pulled my hair out from beneath the woollen beanie I had on in a gesture that was meant to be caring and gentle, but only made me grimace at the sudden rush of cold air on my neck. I shrugged my coat higher over my shoulders.

"I'm fine," I said irritably, as though it were obvious. I knew she didn't like that tone, but it didn't seem to bother her. I realised then that the school had emailed all the parents about Clara, which made sense now that I thought about it. I pushed past her into the entrance hallway and shook off my coat in the warmth of the house.

"No you're not," she followed me in, thankfully closing the door behind her, "Nobody's fine after something like this happens. Especially to someone who was so close to her."

I sighed up at the ceiling as my bag thudded to the floor, relieving my shoulders.

"I wasn't not close to her, Mum."

She shook her head, "Don't be silly, Sarah," she insisted, "I can't begin to imagine how you're feeling. It's absolutely harrowing."

I stared at her a moment longer, jaw clenched shut. I wasn't going to talk about this with her. I pivoted and continued down the hall to the stairs, dragging my worn satchel behind me. It thudded rhythmically up the stairs as I stomped up to my room, a strange wave of emotion overcoming me. Was I angry or upset?

In my room, I could hear Mum follow me up the stairs, opening my door as I plonked myself down into my desk chair. I glowered at her.

"What do you want?"

Mum wiped at her eyes and matched my scowl, "Don't speak to me like that. I'm serious, Sarah. If you need to talk to me about anything, you talk to me, okay?"

"I would never talk to you about anything like that."

Mum rested a hand on the door-knob, a hurt expression wavering on her face, "Well you should. Suicide is not the right option. There is always something better, okay? Always."

I clenched my jaw as a lump began to rise in my throat, and my voice rose into a shrill wail.

"Why are you telling me this? I know that, Mum. I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

"Language, Sarah."

I turned away from her as angry tears threatened to spill. It was like my constant irritation at my mother mixed with what had happened were working hand-in-hand to chill me to the bone.

"Please get out of my room. I need to study."

Mum began to walk out the door, but lingered at the frame. "You've been invited to the funeral. I know you two weren't friends anymore, but I still think you should go."