𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐚

4 ; esprit déchu

9th of October, 2018
Xavier Robson

Dear Amaya,

Today was hard, nothing happened though.

But some days are just so hard.

My soul feels heavy constantly, every movement harder and harder like rocks are stuck to your fingertips. Tears brimmed my eyes the whole day and with one shove from David Conners I was in the bathroom bawling my eyes out being incredibly grateful that I'd worn waterproof mascara.

I wasn't even close to being on my period but it felt like the whole world just hates me. I don't see it as bright as it was with you in it Amaya. The schools bright red lockers seemed more dark maroon and the sun ceased to shine today with clouds storming over our heads. Once I'd calmed myself down, patting my cheeks with water and powder to cover the red stained tears I'd headed to the willow tree.

Only Daniel was seated under eating an apple while leaning against the elegant trunk. I turned to try and see Corbyn but I couldn't.

"he's away sick, he'll be back tomorrow."

I nodded but really I was crippling inside, I was really hoping to see him so he could pick up my fallen spirit.

We sat in silence all day, Daniel read a book sometimes asking a question about my day or just something completely random because that was Daniel. I just sat and ate blinking away crying and trying to steady my staggered breath.

After school, I missed the bus and no chance of mum picking me up so I walked home in the rain, the droplets plummeting into my skin.
I liked the rain. But not when I was walking home.

I couldn't hide the fact that as happy as Corbyn and Daniel made me this sorrow always returned back to my chest, collapsing my emotions in a heap of wrecked thoughts.

I've tried so hard for the past 24 months to get over you Amaya but so many things never happened with so many memories stolen have dragged me down and down into this hole I dug myself into.

Turning up my driveway I find the hidden key to the tune of the neighbours dogs hoarse bark and thundering above my head. Unlocking the door, I hear the repulsive music of Josh, my brother. He's 24 and still lives at home pushing the bills up causing mum to work harder and raise the amount of shifts she has at the hospital to pay off the bills.

I head to my room, stepping into the shower draining the sky water and sadness off my skin still feeling gross as I push my hands through my conditioner full hair.

Mum should be home around 9pm so without thinking, I climb out placing a pair of trackies and old hoddie over before starting dinner with the barely full fridges random items.

The end result of a disfunctional risotto that I leave in the pan to keep warm for her and Josh when he was "free" to come eat. I stare at the blank yellow wall eating mouthful after mouthful.

how was Corbyn sick? the flu? just a cold?
It doesn't even matter Amaya, I just thought about something that didn't make me feel like dying. I remember I pulled my phone case off my phone revealing the little piece of paper Corbyn had slid across the table to me the first time we met, his digits scribbled in front of me. I could've texted? Or called? But I feel clingy and desperate.

Do you remember when I was sad how you would put on a concert for me, singing and dancing to my favourite songs in aim to bring a smile to my face.
I wish the memory still bought that smile to my face.
But nothing ever does bring a smile to my face.

I numbly then spooned some of the risotto in the container for my lunch tomorrow as I tucked away the plates in the dishwasher.

See, nothing happened but maybe I wanted something to happen to distract me from the river in my chest.

Nonetheless I felt like the world was pushing on my shoulder so much it would send me straight into the dirt to be worm food.

but this feeling is so normal.