Make Them Believe

Chapter 12

HAYDEN'S POV

It had been a whole month since my fallout with Kasey.

A whole month without talking, texting or seeing my (now) ex-best friend.

A whole month of summer waste to fighting. Or in lack of fighting.

We had our only argument on that night. The next morning after, I got a text from Kasey saying, "I'm sorry Hay. I love you."

And that was it.

I haven't heard from her since.

I find myself constantly thinking about why things went wrong.

Look at me, sounding like I've just came back from a break up.

But this is worse.

Much worse.

But every single time I snap out of it. After all, she's the one who called me out on nothing. She stepped on my heart and our friendship.

I lay in bed and try to ignore the pain in my abnormally slow heart.

I look over to my beside table and my heart sinks at what's missing.

My picture frame.

Since the fight, I haven't been able to look at much in my room because it all reminded me of Kasey. But I especially couldn't look at the picture frame, knowing how much damage I've caused.

I ruin everything.

I cause so much pain.

I'm an awful person.

I don't deserve anything.

I couldn't even save my friendship.

......

"Urg! Hayden shut the hell up!" I scream to myself.

The whole screaming to myself thing has been happening for a few weeks now.

But anyways, I took the picture frame and put it in a box that was filled of all our memories I couldn't stand looking at anymore and stuck it at the back of my closet.

As I looked away from the table and stared at the ceiling, my eyes wandered to the huge frame that was pinned to the wall above my bed.

It was my "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams" painting by: Gottfried Helnwein.

My parents were at an auction and my Dad fell in love with it as soon as it was displayed. But as soon as he was handing in the money, my mothers water broke. She was rushed to the hospital. 9 hours of labor later and there I was.

Of course my dad was bummed he didn't get the painting. My Mom told him that it may still be there, but my dad looked at me in his arms and said, "My baby girl means more to me than any painting. I'd rather stay here with her."

After a few hours, there was a knock at the hospital rooms door and in came the auction sales guy... with the painting in hand.

This story was better than any fairytale story book ever made.

As a child, my dad never read fairytales to me before bed, he'd tell me stories of his life, his childhood, being in a band, stories of how he met my mom, their wedding, stories of my brother and I as kids and everything else in his past.

Every night was a different story.

Except this one.

I'd beg him to tell me "The Boulevard Of Broken Dreams Story". He'd always say, "Again? Are you sure you don't want to hear my story on my trip to Barbados? It's really exciting."