There was only the sound of forks hitting plates.
My dad had decided that it was about time we ate as a family again and so here we were, sitting at the dinner table, awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. I was just waiting for the inevitable question asking if Deidre would be coming over this weekend or for Christmas. Deidre had made herself a second home over at my house long ago, and my parents noticed her extended absence.
“Are you mad at Deidre, sweetie?” My mom asked after a long period of silence.
“No,” I lied, keeping my eyes on my fork and knife as I meticulously cut my piece of chicken into perfect little square bits.
“She hasn’t been around lately,” My mom pressed and I sighed.
“I know.”
Thirteen squares and three more little strips to be made perfect. How many squares would I get out of them? Well—
“Is she going to be over this weekend?”
Four squares to a strip gives me a total of twelve squares more—
“No.”
And twelve plus thirteen is definitely—
“Why?”
Twenty five.
“She killed herself.”
Twenty five little squares of chicken breast. How many chews would it take to get them all down?
My mother’s fork clattered to the plate and I looked up sharply to find her staring at me. Glancing at my dad, I saw even he had paused in eating to look surprised.
“What?” My mother demanded, “Why would you say something like that, Halley?”
If I chewed each square thirty times, it would take seven hundred and fifty chews to get all of my chicken down.
“It’s the truth.”
But if I only chewed each piece twenty five times, it would be only six hundred twenty five chews.
“I don’t understand.”
“She swallowed her bottle of sleeping pills and killed herself.” I snapped, tired of my mother’s gaping look.
“Why?”
“Because she was depressed, mother!” I said loudly, pushing back my chair as I stood up to glare at her. Maybe I wouldn’t even eat the damn chicken. “She was depressed, and it was severe and she’d been fighting it since we were eleven or twelve. She lost her battle two weeks ago and I ditched school last week to go to the funeral. Any more questions?”
“Halley, sit down,” My father said quietly.
“Make her understand!” I cried, pointing at my mother as I looked beseechingly at my dad, “Make her realize that depression and anxiety and self harm is a real thing and people actually do escape from it by killing themselves. Lord knows how much I’ve tried to, but maybe you can.”
“Sit down, Halley.” My father snapped and I slowly sank back into my chair, glaring at my plate with the twenty five squares of chicken as my eyes welled up with angry tears. I heard my mother’s chair scoot out and then she was gone, the front door slamming as she left.
“Halley,” My dad said softly, but I shook my head, refusing to look up when my eyes were watery.
My chicken was swimming in front of me. If it took six hundred and twenty five chews to eat my chicken and I also ate my mashed potatoes with each scoop taking four chews and about enough to make ten scoops, then I could finish my dinner in six hundred and sixty five chews, plus a huge gulp of my juice so I could go shut myself up in my room for the rest of the night.
“Halley.”
“Nothing you can say will make it better,” I said quietly, before putting a scoop of mashed potatoes in my mouth and chewing once. Twice. Thrice. Four times.
My father fell silent.
There was only the sound of forks hitting plates.
Here's chapter 5, guys! Thanks so much for reading. It really does mean a lot. If you liked it, leave a comment or something to let me know! :)
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Letters From The Dead
RandomIt's junior year and Halley's has started off less than perfect. Her best friend has just committed suicide after a long battle with depression and Halley doesn't feel. . .anything. It's all blank until she gets a letter from her dead best friend a...
