Not Quite Sure Yet

Chapter 2

2

Dear Joey

We moved. Me and Mom packed up the house I had spent my whole life in, stripped down all my memories into neat little boxes.

Mom said she couldn't stay there, said she couldn't let me stay there. They blamed me.

I was blamed for your little stunt.

For a while, I blamed myself. The first few months consisted of nothing but self hatred and guilt, eating away at what was left of my happiness.

I'm on antidepressants, if you were wondering.
The doctor said I was showing all the signs of depression; not eating, not sleeping and not speaking.

I take one magic pill every morning and suddenly I'm dancing around happy as fucking larry.

Or not, because this is the real world not some ridiculous teenage novel.

I'm not depressed, by the way. Just though you should know.

In case your ego grew to the size of a fucking continent thinking you had effected me that much.

I'm taking the pills for Mom. For Dad. For Beth and R. I'm taking these stupid pills so they can see that I'm trying, I'm really bloody trying.

I'm trying to be less of a fucking saddo.

Don't you miss all those people too?

My mother, who took you in and treated you like her own when yours gave up?

My Dad, who fed you and housed you when I found you on the streets?

Beth, who showered you with all the affection your own family never gave?

R, who was the brother you never had?

Me.

Don't you miss me?

Was I not a good enough reason to stay.

And I'm sat here, in my new room, surrounded by piles of boxes, crying about someone who doesn't care.

So fuck you.

This is gonna be my story, Joe. Not a sequel or continuation of yours, mine.

For once, I'm gonna have a story.

Cole.