Our Struggle

G is for Grief

*TRIGGER WARNING - dark thoughts, low moods

The next week flew by. Lawyers, police, accountants, reporters. Even after death, my father was a pain in the ass. As much as I wanted to throw myself back into uni as some sort of mental distraction, I had so many things to attend to, so much to sort out, not to mention a pending police interview.

The mysterious death of the richest man in the world brought a heck of a lot of media attention - more than I ever imagined. We still don't know who did it - there's a lot of conspiracy theories out there, me being the centre of most of them.

Harper was my absolute rock - she let me have her bed most nights, was my shoulder to cry on, helped with my uni work, cooked for me. I doubt I'd have made it through this week without her.

I yawned against the back of my hand as I muted the small TV: my father's girlfriend was yapping on about her broken heart, straining for some tears as the reporter nodded empathetically.

What a load of bullshit.

Asher had left to complete another long shift... at Noah's house. A tight pain reverberated around my chest at the mention of his name when I overheard Asher and Harper's conversation this morning. Noah and I hadn't spoken since the night he kicked me out.

With Harper at university and Asher at Noah's, I was left alone. Asher had left me with strict instructions; he resembled an army commander as he listed the many pointless rules of the house. Put it this way, Asher wouldn't know the meaning of the word 'fun' if it slapped him in the face.

So that leaves me here, in the damn kitchen, flicking through online job adverts on my MacBook, but only hitting dead ends. I needed to make a quick buck somehow: finding a place to live isn't cheap.

By the way, trying to get a job is so much harder than it looks.

So. Much. Harder.

I couldn't exactly say that I was a trained paramedic - I still had a year left of university before that would happen, if I somehow passed my exams with my shitshow of a life.

I dialled the contact number of my latest attempt: a telephone interview. Harper helped me write a decent resume - 90% lies, 10% truths.

As the phone rang for a few moments, I felt my stomach lurch. I didn't normally bite my nails, but it suddenly felt fitting to do so.

"Hi!" I greeted in a friendly tone to the shop manager over the phone; I was sat at the table, the evening sun blazing on my face as I twisted a lock of hair around my finger.

"Hello, is this Arabella Gates?" The women replied, boredom oozed through the phone. I've not even said two words and she'd already dismissed me.

"It's Ariella." I piped up, trying to maintain a cheery tone, as my throat tightened. This wasn't going to go well.

"Right," she drawled, unnecessarily extending the syllables, "I see that you have applied for the position of a sales assistant, is that correct?"

"Yep."

"Have you ever worked in retail before?" She inquired, though her question sounded more like a statement.

"No, but I've done plenty of shopping so I know what makes a good assistant." I added keenly, slightly disheartened when I heard her snorts across the phone.

"That's a 'no' to prior experience then," she spoke as I heard her scratchy pen race across the paper.

"What about your degree?" she returned back to her monotone voice after chortling at my answer, "your application says that you are studying to be a paramedic? Yes?