Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter Five

The days seemed to slip by. He didn't know how long it had been, he hadn't checked his phone, hadn't started his classes. He was falling desperately behind, but he didn't care.

He had begun to hate his bed, even though he stayed in it constantly. It was uncomfortable, and so sometimes he would sleep on the floor. He rarely ate. His mother would come and bring him broth, but it would go untouched on his bedside table. Sometimes she would stand by his door and watch him drink it and wouldn't leave until he had drunk it all. He hated her in those moments, wanted to scream at her, curse her, but he silently thanked her. He was crumbling, slowly, painfully, and there was nothing that he could do to stop it, and she was saving him, even if it was just a small bit, even if he hated it. But there was one good thing that came from it, he supposed. He had not dreamt of Amy.

But that didn't stop his other nightmares. There was now room in his mind for the party to infiltrate, and every time he closed his eyes, he could see it. He could see the packed room, full of drunk teenagers. He could see the winding stairs up to the second floor. He could see the room at the end of the hallway, the room he went into, the door he should have never opened. He could see it all, and yet he couldn't scream, he couldn't call out for help. He was living in his own nightmare, every day, and he couldn't escape. Death was rather enticing.

As soon as the thought jumped into his head, he jerked. Was he the cause of her death? He had left that day planning on ending his life, and he wondered, if he hadn't would she have lived? The thought was like a smack in the face. He sat up straight, his heart thundering. No, he couldn't be the reason she was dead; he couldn't be. It was impossible, he had just happened to be there when she was, right? Right?

He felt his stomach turn, and before he knew it, he was kneeling on his bathroom floor and dry heaving. He didn't have anything in his stomach; it was the only thing he could do. His eyes watered with the effort, and he fell back against his tub, pressing a hand to his chest. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't focus on just one thing.

"Not your fault," he gasped. "Not your fault."

But even as he said it, he didn't believe it. He had been there. It was his fault.

He pulled his legs up to him and rested his cheek on his knees. He had to stop thinking like that because that was what got him to his lowest in the first place. But try as he might, he couldn't keep the thoughts from invading his head.

Was this how things were supposed to be? He had to wallow in his room forever, unable to brave society? He had to feel this constant, deep sadness, that rarely stemmed from anything? He had to relive the worst memories he had, with no way to get rid of them? When was it going to end? Would he have to die to stop feeling this relentless pain, would he wither away into nothing, alone in his room, until he was just a shell of himself? He wanted to tell himself that this couldn't be it, this couldn't be all that life had to offer, because if it was, he was already through with it. If this were all, he would be glad to be rid of it because he felt nothing, only sadness. He felt empty.

He wished more than anything that he could believe things would get better, but looking at life now, it was hard to see it that way. It was hard to believe that he could go up from here. He was stationary. He was stuck.

He fell right back onto his bed and nestled into his covers, his eyes on his open window. It had been nearly two months since that party, since she had died, and he still felt as lost as he had that day. And, if it was even possible, he felt worse. The bruises had long faded, but sometimes when he looked at himself in the mirror, he could still see them. He could still see the scratches on his shoulders, the handprints around his throat. He could see the bruises on his back, he could see his busted lip. It was still there, all of it, and he wondered if it would ever go away. He nestled further into his blankets.