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Haveyou ever felt so alone that it sucked the breath out of you? A feeling of emptiness in your chest so overwhelming that you honestly believe you may not make it out alive? It's like you're drowning. Your body is screaming for air, and you can see the surface, but you just can't reach it.
There's no air.
There's no relief.
There's just...pain.
That's how I've felt ever since the night I lost my best friend, but there's no end when you're not actually drowning. No white light, no finality. There's just life. A life I'm forced to live without her.
It's been nearly two years since she died, and I think I've heard every single one of those overused and unwanted comments.
Time heals all wounds.
She's watching over you.
And my personal favorite, the one that makes my fist tighten and triggers the need to punch someone in the jugular...
She's in a better place.
Fuck you.
No.
Just no.
Call me selfish, but a better place would be with me. A better place would be the two of us doing everything we planned. It's not in some fantasy dreamworld that no one can prove exists, and it's sure as hell not six feet underground, rotting.
Maybe that's cruel of me. Maybe the death of the one person I trusted with every fiber of my being has made me cold, but it's the truth. And I've never been one to shy away from the facts, no matter how painful they are. Hell, I've never been one to shy away from anything. That's one of the things Davi always loved about me.
The playground is filled with spoiled brats who have probably never been told no in their lives. That's the thing about going to private school—just about everyone here comes from upper class families, and that means a bunch of little rich kids running around while teachers who don't earn nearly as much as they deserve try to control them all.
Please. Even our parents don't stand a chance.
I'm sitting on the swing, aimlessly moving back and forth, when an older boy walks up. He's got at least two years on me and at least six inches, but that's not hard when you're small for your age. Judging by the look on his face, I'm supposed to be intimidated, but I'm not.
"Get up, twerp," he orders. "It's my turn."
"Twerp? Really?" I mock. "That’s the best you’ve got?"
A red tint covers his cheeks, showing he never expected me to talk back. I get the feeling he's used to kids running in fear the second he looks at them funny, but he picked the wrong girl today.
"Just get off the swing, little girl. Big kids get dibs anyway. We rule this playground."
I snort. "And if I don't?"
His mouth opens and closes as he searches for an answer. "Th-then I'll tell the teacher. You're barely swinging, anyway."
"So tell her," I answer with a shrug.
He huffs and storms away before coming back with an older woman. I've seen her lingering around before, going from class to class, but I've never cared to learn her name. I've had enough to deal with, being the new kid in this place and all. The boy points at me, and as she looks away from him, he smirks, obviously thinking he won.
"Mercedez," the teacher calls, using the name I wish everyone would forget.
The same name my dad uses when he sneaks into my room at night.
The one that makes me sick to my stomach.
"It's Tyeler," I correct her.
