In The Shadows

1. Samantha Marie Hayes.

  "Sam! It's time to get up!" My aunt, Caroline, called, her voice soft and comforting. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and looked in the mirror.

Yep, same stupid brown hair and plain brown eyes. I drug a brush through my hair as I threw on a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, not having anything to do. Then I remembered. I had Support Group today.

Changing into a more appropriate , I walked downstairs, attempting to braid my hair as I walked. I finally succeeded, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the counter and walking out to my car. Climbing in, I started it quickly, driving towards the church where the hell I called Support Group was held every week.

I parked and sat, watching as kids around my age, in various stages of 'grieving,' filtered into the small church. As the time loomed even closer, I decided I should probably go in.

"Sam!" The leader of our little group, Carl, exclaimed, wrapping me in a tight hug. I tensed, hating every second of the contact. "And how are we doing today?"

"Fine, I guess," I replied, uncomfortable with being the center of attention. I quickly found me seat, between Sarah, who had lost her brother six months ago, and Cameron, who had lost his father only two months prior.

It started out the same as always, a few well-spoken words by Carl before we had to go around the circle and talk about our 'feelings.' I dreaded my turn, having no feelings whatsoever. I had stopped feeling long ago, when I had lost my parents.

"Sam," Carl called to me across the circle, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Would you like to share your feelings with the group today?"

Not really. "I'm alright, I guess," I lied. I was far from fine. He nodded, moving on as always. He never stopped to think the people who are 'alright' aren't really alright at all.


I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Samantha Marie Hayes, Sam for short. I'm eighteen, a high school dropout. I lost my parents in a car accident when I was seventeen, and that's also when I lost myself. The happy, funny, cheerful, old me, anyway. I was sent to live with my aunt in London, England, a far cry from Los Angeles, where I had grown up. I dropped out of school not long afterward, not being able to handle it.

What's hardest about losing someone isn't in the losing itself. It's in the fact that people want you to grieve a certain way. To cry your eyes out every time you see something that reminds you of them, or to tell your feelings to anyone and everyone who would listen. That's not how everyone grieves, however. I don't cry out of sadness, and I certainly don't tell someone everything I am feeling the minute I am feeling it. But people try to force their own ways down your throat, make you grieve like them.

That's what happened to me. My aunt wanted me to pour my feelings out to her, and, when that didn't work, she sent me to the support group, where we talked for two hours about our feelings and how it's 'okay to cry.'

Sometimes I wished they had never gotten into that car the night of November 15, the night everything changed. Now, I realize if they hadn't I never would have met him.