Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter Seven

Jay stepped into the familiar darkness of his home and dropped his skateboard near the door before shrugging off his coat. His mother wasn't here, but he hadn't expected any different. He wouldn't want to be here either, if he was her. At least at the hospital she had people to talk to, instead of a son who secluded to his room and rarely talked to her.

He flicked on the kitchen light, a small sticky note on the kitchen counter catching his eye, and he picked it up, scanning the small words.

Working a double. Money on fridge for dinner. Hope therapy went well. Love you, mom.

He crumpled the note and threw it in the trash before he looked to the fridge that, sure enough, had a twenty-dollar bill taped to it. He peeled it off and pocketed it. It wasn't like he was going to use it for food, anyways.

He thought about Iris and her cigarettes, and briefly thought about going out to get a pack. He had missed smoking. It had given him something to do, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do it. He also wasn't sure about Iris, but she hadn't really given him a choice on their new-found 'friendship.'

He let out a haggard sigh as he opened his bedroom door, an ache in his temples causing him to close his eyes. He was ready to lay down. The exhaustion in his body was almost over-whelming, and he had barely done anything. It wasn't even twelve yet.

He turned and leant against his closed door; his eyes closed. The future was bleak, but if he were honest, he couldn't see a future at all. When he looked ahead, he saw nothing but darkness. He wished he saw more, saw something. But nothing was there, nothing at all.

He opened his eyes. And the breath left his body.

"Hello, stranger," a familiar soft voice said to him.

Jay's back slammed against his door as he tried to comprehend the scene before him. He rubbed his eyes, once, twice, and a third time, but when he opened them, she was still there, sitting on his bed.

"Amy?" He choked out.

She grinned at him, her blue eyes sparkling. She was lounged near the foot of his bed, one hand propped under her chin.

"Amelia," she corrected him. "But everyone called me Amy."

Jay hardly heard her words, because the next moment he found himself bent over his toilet, dry heaving. There was nothing in his stomach, but still, he gagged.

She wasn't here. There was no way it was possible. So, he had to safely assume that he was going crazy, and he had finally reached rock bottom. There was no way Amy was sitting on his bed, no way that she was talking to him. She was dead, he told himself. She had died months ago.

He gagged again at the thought, before he dropped back against the wall, taking a deep breath. He would look again, and she would be gone. She would be gone because she wasn't real.

Jay peered around the corner of the doorway and felt his heart sink into his stomach. Amy grinned at him from her place on the bed, cross-legged, and waved. He turned his head so fast that he got whiplash, and took giant gulps of air in. Breathe, Jay. Breathe.

"You're not crazy," he mumbled. "You aren't crazy. You're asleep. This isn't real. You are not crazy."

"Actually...you might be a little crazy." She sounded like she was right in front of him.