LaToya

"You're acting strange? What's wrong?" My mom asks as she tries to hold my hand.
"Nothing, I'm fine. Just 'cause I'm not talking doesn't mean I'm not okay." I say back to her, pulling my hand back.
She wrinkles her forehead, which she always does when she's concerned or frustrated. Which means she wrinkles her forehead a lot.
But the truth is, I'm not okay. My best friend killed herself last weekend, and my mom consistently asks why she hasn't come over in a while. I always respond, "I don't know. Guess she's just busy." I'm afraid if I tell her the truth, she'll think I'm the same as my friend.
Not only is my friend who I confine in gone, but my Dad left us 2 months ago. I loved my dad, my mom just didn't love him. If I were him, I would've left too. she's a demon. I just wished I could've packed a bag and left with him.
I sit, at the wooden brown stained table in the kitchen with my mom, fiddling with my thumbs, and pulling on the sleeves of my sweater.