A Prose With No Direction

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Tears come down, but my soul screams in sadness. 

I try to whimper, try to wail, try to sob. 

But in the end, I only sound like a girl with the hiccups. 

A girl sharply gasping.

A girl choking.

A girl struggling to breathe.

A person struggling to cry.

"He killed himself," I say, gasping, choking, and sounding asthmatic. That's how I cry. "He was depressed. He's been like that for a while. But... he got over it, at least that's what he said and what his therapist said. But..."

Hugh doesn't say a word.

He only listens.

"I did something that made him sad again," I say. "That made his complimenting and contradicting colors all turn into a muddy brown and a dark empty black."

I gasp, choke, and sound asthmatic.

That's how I cry.

"The house you took me in was the house of his closest friend, Keira Malowski," I tell, explaining a story so long and long buried to a complete and utter stranger. "She was my friend, too. I went there uninvited, demanding an explanation. She told me he wrote us all letters; he had one for me, too. Ben and I weren't in good terms before his death—me and Keira weren't in good terms either—so I was surprised to see a note."

My breath inhales sharply. 

"One subject, two sentences, three words in the first, four words in the last." I reminisce. "I'm not sorry. It's all your fault." 

I cry, sounding asthmatic, throat choking, and breath gasping. 

That's how I cry. 

"I'm not sorry. It's all your fault," I repeat. "I'm not sorry. It's all your fault. I'm not sorry. It's all your fault!"

"I'm not sorry. It's all your fault!" I scream. I laugh, tears streaming as I look up to the ceiling.

Why the hell am I laughing?

"I'm not fucking sorry. It's all your fucking fault!" I scream, cackling. "I'm not fucking sorry. It's all your fucking fault!"

Amidst my insanity, Hugh speaks.

"You said three words in the first sentence," he begins. "And four in the second. But 'I'm not fucking sorry' is four words and 'It's not your fucking fault' is five."

My eyes find comfort in his ocean-filled ones.

I smirk. "I'm not sorry. It's all your fault," I chuckle, hugging knees to chest. "He wrote that in a fucking Kermit the frog sticky note." I pull my head to my knees, scoffing. "Goddammit Ben."

Silence plays its melody in the air. 

"It's not your fault, Clara," Hugh interjects, the silence's song abruptly stopping. "Even if he says it is, in the end, it was his choice to go to hell."

"I know," I say, voice muffled between my knees. "But I led him there."

"Did you guys ever talk about the incident that lead him to be sad again?" He asks.

The incident. 

The ninth of January.

A lovely day indeed. 

"Yes," I murmur. "I gave my statement."

"And did he believe you?" He asks.

Believe me?