Letting Go of Jamie

Chapter 7: Lunch Time With A Lion

My first reaction to Jamie’s death was a bone deep, soul retching, sob inducing sorrow. Like my heart had been ripped open by dull claws and was left to sit and bleed out, then rot and spoil and fester with grief.  I fell into a deep depression and I believe I spent about two months sleeping in Jamie’s old room. Surrounding myself in his memory, depressing me even more. I distinctly remember a time in which I had to consciously remind myself that I had to refer to him in the past tense. My little bro was nothing but a body, sitting in a box in the ground, being eaten by maggots.

And then the anger took over….

Anger became my best friend. And hate. I was angry and hated everything. My mother, for never loving me and my brother like a mother should, instead, focusing on her career as a politician. At my father, for leaving my mother and barely ever sending a reminder of his existence in the form of a Christmas card and 50 bucks. At the people surrounding me, for all their fake smiles and “I’m Sorry” and pity.  And especially at myself. For not realizing how sick he was before, for not noticing that he didn’t eat as much anymore, or that he threw up a lot. Or that he would get awful headaches to the point of his sobbing form coming into my room at night to be held. 

I hated myself.

The hate I held towards myself is what originally fueled my obsession to fight men ten times my size. Even though I was a woman, I made them fight me. A lot were hesitant to try and fight this teenage girl, but enough jabs at one’s ego can make any man snap. I fought other woman a lot too. It was during that time that I gained my reputation as “The Bloody Rose” because by the time I was done, there’d be enough blood, there’s and mine, to paint the empire state building. Sometimes, I would just stand there and barely fight back; sometimes I would become unconscious from the pain. I thought that if I felt enough physical and emotional pain, I could atone for my sin. That I could somehow make the wrong I had done, right.

Because it was my fault he died. I should have caught it earlier; I should have paid more attention.

I should have done something.

But I didn’t.

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The next day at school, I was unsure on how to approach Matthew, but I knew I wanted to approach him. Screw my previous plans, because I knew that took a swan dive out a twenty story building the moment I stuck up for his pathetic ass. Thing was, I had worked out so many plans on how to avoid him; I didn’t know how to talk to him. To anyone, for that matter. Ever since I got to Little Creek, I have done nothing but avoid people. So I decided to hell with it and would just walk up to him at his locker before first period, which we had together.

And believe me, it took a lot more balls that was expected, which was surprising to me; I was never one to chicken out, it just wasn't in me.

So there I stood, watching him from across the hall as he put his books into his bag. He wore his usual jeans and t-shirt, with his adorable glasses and messy black hair. (At this point I kind of gave up in my attempts to say that he wasn’t attractive, he was smoking’) It was while I was admiring his attractive physic that I noticed bruises. They were faint, like he tried to cover them with make-up, but they were there. On his neck and wrists, like someone had tried to choke him and held him violently by his wrists. When I noticed this, my wimpiness seemed to disappear and I marched down the hall towards him, knocking people out of my way.

He had just shut his locker when I came up behind him, and he promptly turned and ran right into me. He stumbled back and I caught him by his shoulders, stopping him in his path to the floor. He seemed stunned and a bit surprised to see me, holding him by his shoulders no less. I quickly let go and held in the blush that was threatening to surface.