Journal

Four

I rode the teal bike He got for me for my birthday to His house, my skin sweating underneath my leather jacket. Even though it was early June, I still wanted to wear my skinny jeans and leather. My psychologist told my mom that it's because I'm still mourning, but I just like to wear them. It's really that simple.

I parked my bike next to the crepe myrtle tree by the Jones' house and trudged inside.

Instead of seeing Mrs. Jones sadly greeting me inside, I saw her clutching the rope and tearing herself apart.

I didn't see Mr. Jones pointing to August's room. I saw him staring at the ground, trying not to cry.

I made my way up the stairs, each step harder than the last.

I walked into His room and closed the door. I slowly sunk to the floor and lost the battle to my tears. They fell, each one larger than the last. And right as I was about to get up and walk around like a big boy, they started again.

Once I was done with my pity fest, I began gathering things that His parents allowed me to take. iPod? Check. Laptop? Check. Spider-Man blanket? Check. I stuffed everything into my Marvel Comics bag and was about to leave, but it became too overwhelming. I collapsed on His bed, my hands balling into fists and tearing His pillow apart. Guess I'd better add it to the bag, too. As I picked it up, I noticed something that it was hiding.

A pen.

And a journal.

His journal.