Midmorning

xiv. two days

Torment never leaves. It always stays. The plaster isn't sticky any more but it was still used, discarded, whatnot. It's still somewhere, ashes or drifting. I'd wished I was the former.

But not all of us were that lucky. Some kids go to parks in the day and some sneak out at night. Some kick up at dinner tables and others learn to use their cutlery from the outside in.

Instead I was at the Three Broomsticks with a boy who didn't love me, who would never love me, not with any ounce of his being, who wasn't human. This was my sneaking out, my kicking up.

Tom was halfway through his glass. I had hardly touched mine since it was tasteless like everything else but I'd still gone to the toilet three times, sitting and thinking and leaving again. I would stare at the grease knotting my hair in the mirror every time but it didn't matter, not really. Suicide wasn't a pretty girl dolled up before she took two gashes to the wrists.

There were only two days.

'How do you feel?'

But it wasn't like he cared. Nobody cared when they asked. It was courtesy. Taught manners. And the polite response was okay, how are you? because you weren't supposed to say sad and you certainly weren't supposed to say suicidal. You would have people listen, maybe one person or five, and they'd all act the same—it's okay, it'll be fine, it'll get better, just you wait. God must pick His suffering children wisely if He places it upon those for no particular reason and makes them wait. And He must find ultimate pleasure when He decides if it gets better or worse. The inconsistent triad plays its part all too well, evil and omnipotence holding hands and singing ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

The whole truth was that nobody, not even God, cared.

People listened because it was a rite of passage. It was the same as singing carols on Christmas day, as saying I love you to family. I didn't do either any more and soon I wouldn't be doing anything at all.

I faltered. 'All right.'

'You're lying.'

'I'm aware.'

'Why, then?'

'Why am I lying or why am I not all right?'

'Both.'

I couldn't look at him. He knew.

He was toying with the necklace again. I wanted the feeling tattooed along my throat.

'Tourmaline is meant to induce healing and happiness.'

'Do you really believe that?'

'Not at all,' he said, 'But you might.'

I scoffed on instinct. 'Why are you still trying?'

'I'm not. I'm just talking.'

'About nothing.'

'Would you rather we sit in silence?'

Silence was vicious. 'No.'

His face said well then as he leant back but we still sat in silence. But it was kind silence. Detention-silence.

'How do you want me to do it?'

'Do what?'

Tom was cautious. 'You know what.'