NECROMANTIC

four.

"Sweetie?"

I kept quiet, my back to her and didn't move, playing ... no, not dead. That pun hit too close to home. Pretending to sleep. I hoped she bought it and left me alone again. A minute or so passed, and I was sure she was about to turn on her heel and go-

"Sarah?"

Damn it, mom, stop with the insistence.

"Sarah, I know you're not asleep. Do you forget that I've known you for your entire life and I can tell when you're faking?"

Fuck off.

"Ok, then. Lie there and continue the pretence. You're only fooling yourself." She sighed, and I heard the soft pad of her feet move toward my bed. She hovered over me, and I knew she wanted to sit beside me, and maybe put a hand on my shoulder. But she didn't do that. Instead, she cleared her throat and spoke again. "I also know you're not ill. At least not anymore. You're down about something, and I get if you don't want to tell me... but Rob's here, so maybe you can tell him."

I groaned, turning my face to mush it into the pillow, moaning a pathetic "Nooooo."

"Ah, so she is alive." Mom joked, and I groaned again, wincing. Not just at her choice of words, but at the lameness of the joke.

She finally put a hand on my shoulder, giving it a soft pat. "He's really worried about you, sweetie. We all are. Just ... talk it out, whatever it is. I'm sure you'll feel better after you've told someone."

It doesn't matter if I feel better, even though that's a load of crap anyway, I'll end up in a mental ward. 'Oh, hey, Rob! Mom! Dad! Did you know that not only can I see the dead, but I can raise them too now! Pretty neat, huh?'

She left after another pitiful whimper from me.

About a minute or so later, I heard the approaching footfalls of my boyfriend - I could tell they were his, because I didn't know another person in the whole world with the gait he had, due to his long, lanky legs. And then it was his voice, from the door, that tentatively said "Sarah?"

I didn't bother raising my voice from the pillow as I muttered "You may as well come in, and make yourself comfy."

"I was planning on anyway." He chuckled, and I heard him come to the bed, felt myself slide slightly as he sat down next to my back. He waited a few moments, before clearing his throat. "Sarah ... you haven't been to school in four days. I haven't seen you in seven. You've barely spoken to me at all in that time. Something's wrong ... and I know your mom told you to tell me, or whatever, but you don't have to, I just don't want you to ... shut me out. It's scared me. It's like you're suddenly trying to just disappear."

That wouldn't be so bad. Don't say it like that'd be so bad.

Another thing about Rob is once he's said what he wants, or needs, to say, he doesn't fill in the gaps with chatter, or repetition, or prompts. He just waits, as he was doing then, for me to respond. And after seventy-two seconds - I counted - I lifted my head, and shuffled up into a sitting position. He had his back to me, still, and for another couple of seconds, I just looked at it. His golden brown hair was a frustratingly adorable a mop as it ever was. He'd abandoned his usual band/videogame/retro movie/TV show t-shirt, and/or plaid shirts today in favour of what I can only describe as a horrendous light yellow Hawaiian shirt, covered in mini palms trees. It looked cute on him. Skinny jeans, as always. Probably that nasty old pair of black Vans that he wouldn't chuck out no matter how many times I told him they really should be - even after I offered to buy him a new pair (they had character, he argued). Then, I looked down at my hands, mostly hidden in the black sleeves of the oversized hoodie I was wearing. "I'm sorry." I mumbled.