The art of getting better.

Chapter 1.

PART 1.

September 16th, 1998

The universe is infinite and endless.
I feel as though the universe is against me in some way. The matter of fact is that the universe is as random as it is planned. And that's the scary part. I'm sitting in my bedroom, lit up by my lamp, the only source of light in my neighbourhood aside from the endless amount of streetlights. Soft tunes are playing on my boombox. 'Summer of 69' is playing even though it's the Summer of 98. And it's not even summer, it's early September. Currently, it's 3 am? I think, checking my watch, 4:12 am reads on the small arms ticking, I underestimate myself in the best of times, even though I'm awake at an ungodly hour, I'm not exactly a morning person or a night owl. I'm in a sort of limbo that denies me access to either end of the spectrum. But I can't sleep. The looming threat of tomorrow is dooming me for a restless night. And I deserve it. I should feel more pain for tomorrow, except I just feel numb. After a minute of contemplation, I ruffle my hair before yawning, easing into a stretch. wandering to my bed, I fall face-first into a heap of pillows. feeling my way to my lamp trying to turn it off without opening my eyes. I yank at the dangly bit until I hear a soft click. And my entire room is encased with darkness. I try to comfort myself in blankets to feel like someone is beside me, a friend, or a lover. Tossing and turning become second nature as I slowly but surely drift off. trying to fill the emptiness that he left me.

The knocking at my door is what awakes me.
"You have to leave, Tom are you ready?" I hear my dad's voice on the other end of the door after three knocks. I'm exhausted and tired of the world and I miss him. I miss him so damn much.
"Yeah, I'm up," I say wearily. My eyes open and there's sun beaming through my window. I feel my feet hit the awfully cold hardwood floor. Rubbing my eyes I see a hoodie that I stole from him. I want to give it back. I wander to the deep green hoodie that says Vermont on it, it was from his closet and now it's just draped over my chair. I dawn it and it fills me with warmth. The soft cotton rubbing softly on my chest. I throw on a pair of jeans and grab my walkman. I put in the mixtape I made when I didn't feel like my entire world could be crumbling down. It's labelled heart because I have a weird thing going on inside my head, undiagnosed, but present. I put in my left earbud, in case he wanted to talk to me from the right, and 'Friday I'm in love' by the cure fills my ears with pain. Because it makes me remember that he's gone. I wander to the kitchen where my parents are, the look of concern on their faces. I give them a quick smile before going to the front door. I told them that they didn't have to go because they didn't know him and because he's not someone important to them. He's important to me though. Rob Nixon died last week. His funeral is today on a Wednesday, the worst day of the week, and I'm in my car before I know what's even really happening. I'm on an eternal autopilot. Driving through my small town I drive past local businesses and people enjoying the sunny September weather. He would have loved this weather. Cloudy with sun and a chance of a mid-afternoon shower, that means a mid-afternoon chance of seeing a rainbow. Cruising down crescent st I pull into a duplex, I think it's a duplex. Maybe a bungalow. As Abby Evans steps out in a black dress complimenting her golden-brown skin. Her messy hair, frizzy and curly at the same time is pulled back in a ponytail exploding in a collection of individual strands. Abby's a control freak, but she's my control freak, she also had Rob's heart before I did. She enters my car hugging me as she closed the door. It's an Awkward kind of hug because we both don't want it. But we know we both need it. There's a sombre silence before either of us speak.

"Hey," she says "are you ok?"
"Yeah... how are you?" I lie pulling out of her driveway, she feels the same pain as I do, except she doesn't know how close we were. Nobody does, except me and him.
"I'm ok. You don't look so good,"
"I just didn't get much sleep, that's all," I say finding an excuse in my god-awful sleep schedule. We drive down the street and I'm clutching the wheel hard. Harder than normal
"Are we picking up Luke?" Luke is our third member, to our shitty trio, we have a black girl with straight a's, a closeted homo, and a stoner. What more could you ask for.
"That's the plan," I say keeping my eyes on the road. We work well together complimenting each other perfectly because without each of us the others probably wouldn't be where we are today.
"It's ok to be sad about it Tom," Abby's voice is soft and kind, and I brush off her concern. I don't mean to. I just don't want to talk about it. He lived, and now he's gone. I feel bad for his family because they have to bear with the loss of a son. Someone they knew from the moment he took his first breaths. Every milestone. Every heartbreak, every victory. He'll never have any of those anymore.
"I'm fine abbs don't worry, you knew him more than me." Abby used to date him. Before he fell for me. Before he even knew that he could die. I feel her hand feel to my thigh, her fingertips feeling the worn denim.
"You hung out with him a lot, I know you, Tom, there's something up." She always knows how to read people, it's like her superpower.
"Abby I'd tell you if something was up." I'm lying, I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in a week and I don't think my god awful sleep schedule is to blame for it. I turn on the radio and last kiss by pearl jam is playing softly through the speakers, and the universe is trying to ruin my life. Clint Anderson would be having a panic attack if he was in the car with us, considering the accident that nearly took his life a week ago. I turn the station because a song about losing a loved one is not what I'm looking for. That on its own should show I'm not ok. I can't listen to a song on the radio without wanting to bawl my eyes out.