Cold Coffee and Stale Cigarettes *on hold*

Chapter 27

The worst part about Mason dying, wasn’t that he had been dead. It wasn’t the pain in my chest, slowly expanding into a gaping abyss, or the fact my mother stopped talking and my dad couldn’t look at me because I had my brothers eyes. It was the absence. The nothingness that occupied the space my brother should’ve been in. That’s the funny thing about death –when you lose someone you love, you don’t feel the immediate emptiness of their soul but the physical essence of it, the body, the living, breathing human being suddenly is nothing more than a shell home to oblivion. They should be there. Their footsteps should be tapping the kitchen floor, or their hair should be ruffled in the wind, or the air should be stirring with movement, not still. Not empty. They just disappear.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Then there was the physical pain. The sting of my mother’s palm against my cheek, the glint in her glazed, stupefied eyes, the kiss of metal carving my skin tied together with her screams and mine, the coolness of snow against my burning flesh, and finally the disregard in my father’s eyes as I laid in that hospital bed, listening to the doctor tell me how lucky I was. I did not believe in luck. I believed in fate. I believed in making things happen. I believed in nothing but ghosts and nightmares and the cold winter moon.

I couldn’t stop staring at Dalton. We were watching a movie. I didn’t know the title. I didn’t know the actors. I couldn’t say what they looked like. His nose was nice. It sloped down in a gentle curve, with no bumps or noticeable imperfections. His eyes were still too close together and his lips were still thin and he still looked like the drunk boy I had walked home from Gabe’s party per Fay’s request yet he didn’t seem the same anymore. Why are you still here?

“You’re mad.” I said aloud. Dalton craned his neck to face me, the sharpness of his jaw defined by the shadows.

“No.” he disagreed, watching me. I had my legs pulled to my chest, chin resting on my knees, body facing him.

“You look like it.”

“Not mad... just… frustrated. ”

“Why?”

“Don’t,” He pointed a finger at me, “Don’t start.”

“I’m curious.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Not sleeping will make the nightmare worse.” he said, turning back to the screen.

“I never said anything about nightmares.”

“I did the math.”

“Oh.”

We sat in silence for several moments and he turned back to me, sighing, running his slender fingers through his hair. Is this feeling normal? I wondered, watching the dark strands fall across his face.

“You’re staring.” he said, looking annoyed.

“Why are you frustrated?”

“Sam-” he began, exasperated.

“I’m trying something new.” I cut him off.

“Annoying?” he asked.

“No. Frustration. Go.”

“I’m not a whiny little girl.”

“You’re my friend though, right?” I asked, eyes lowering to the couch. He groaned, pulling his legs onto the couch so he could lie down facing the ceiling.

“You’re worse than my sister.”

“Aw, your sister makes you talk about your feelings?”

“No.” he winced, making a face.