Everybody deals differently with loss. Some people won't eat for days, some won't come out of bed and some can't stop crying. When I lost the love of my life, I became numb. I wouldn't talk, nor eat, nor cry. I went insane. The thing about dealing with loss is that you're supposed to actually deal with it. I didn't. I never dealt with the death of Edward Styles.
It was the day before the day of the funeral. The funny thing about people is that they will still judge you when you're inside your own coffin. They will still talk about you in a bad way, it's human nature. I heard a friend of Edwards' mom say that it was his own fault and when I did I ran to the bathroom to puke. I was disgusted by her. I was disgusted by everyone. I felt disgusted about life.
Only five days ago I was sitting on a bench next to Edward and he was telling me about how all of the people on earth always seem to find a way to cope with pain. I didn't understand why he was telling me. Now I do. He warned me. It was his way of saying goodbye. I don't think I can live much longer thinking about how I shruged it off when I noticed the way he seemed to be hidding something. His voice was stable, but his eyes were dull. I could've known. I should've known.
It's a quarter to five a.m when I attempted to grab Edward's bottle of sleepingpills and take about 20 of them. I would say luckily, but I'm not sure if I'd mean it. Luckily the bell rang and I was stopped just before I could swallow them. I spit them into the trashcan and opened the door. It was my mother and she looked frantic. She had been coming over every single day after Edward left me. She was worried, but I couldn't deny that the tiny voice inside my head saying: 'I wish it would've been her. I wish it would've been her body they found inside our house. I wish it would've been her blood on the wall. Either hers, or mine.'
My mother was a women who didn't care. She never wanted me. I was an accident. I was the small bumb in the road of her life that made her trip and fall. In college she had had a little too much to drink and a boy she liked had had a little too much more. Long story short, they were careless and so I was born. Too bad she couldn't have an abortion when she found out. She was already 25 weeks.
I can only imagine her cursing and maybe even beating her stomach up in attempt to kill me. All my childhood she was either drunk or high and I despised her. I stayed with my aunt, who was a lot more decent to me. I spent every May 20th standing next to our mailbox, asking the postman if maybe, maybe there was a birthdaycard from Arizona inside his bag. Never was there. I stopped standing there each birthday when I turned thirdteen. Then, at sixteen she suddenly decided to show up.
Introducing herself as 'a changed woman with a lot of sorrow'. I blew smoke into her face and laughed at her. Now she cared? When those things were spiraling down into one big mess of anger and sadness at my mom, Edward showed up. He was the only piece of hapiness in my life back then, and looking at myself now- he probably still was.
I didn't even protest when she hugged me and forced me to drink a cup of tea. I hadn't said a single word after he died. Inside my head, I cursed him out. I told him that he was a selfish bastard. He should've told me about what was going on. I would've died for him. I would've. And maybe it was the thought of me dying for him that made him choose to do what he did. When the woman I called my mom left, I threw my now empty tea cup against the cupboards in our kitchen.
I clenched my teeth and grabbed my coat, sprinting out of the door. Brian didn't say a thing when I walked into the gym a couple minutes later. He just gave me my boxing gloves and nodded towards the punching bag. A few people in the gym awkardly looked down at their feet when I passed by. It's weird how people don't know that pity or awkardness is the last thing they need when they're hurting.
I think I needed somebody to say, you're doing it right. You're dealing with death and you're not doing it wrong. Everybody deals differently, no way of dealing is wrong. But all they did was talk behind my bag about how I should be crying and wearing black. No, I didn't need somebody to tell me what to do, so I won't now either. The only one that I wanted to scold me was Edward. I wanted him to hurt me, even. I wanted him to shoot me the way he had been shot.
The flashes of him laying on our bed, lifeless made me punch the bag in front of me harder. My ponytail was bouncing to the sides and beads of sweat rolling down my body. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. My vocal cords seemed to be broken.
'How. How could you do this to me?'
How could he be so selfish. He couldn't do this to me. He shouldn't be laying in a coffin. He should be here. Smiling at me in a way only he could. He should be swiping his curls to the side like only he could. Never would I be looking into green eyes like those. Nobody in this world was even a bit like Edward. Nobody. Or so I thought.
