Rejecting Hope

Memories

                                               (Ezra)

     There are various levels of pain. When I was a five, I skinned my knees and thought that it was the worst thing I was ever going to experience. And then I turned ten and broke my leg from skateboarding. At that point, I thought for sure that nothing could be more painful than cracking your tibia straight down the middle. That was until I reached the age of thirteen and found out that my best friend's mother had died. Worse, she had been abused by her father for five years, and I never knew. After that, she stopped talking to me, and I realized that emotional pain was way worse than physical pain ever could be. Because I never got to tell her that I loved her. My first heartbreak has had a name ever since, and that name was Ariana Raines.

     Up until a week ago, I found myself stupidly thinking, again, that nothing could triumph that pain. Then my dad was walking home from work and got struck by a drunk driver. Now I've learned, to stop thinking that things can't get any worse.

     My father's surname was Hope. Which is ironic now, because sitting in a living room filled with family members dressed in black, hopeful is the last thing I would call this room. My great uncle sits beside me on the couch, and I get up before he can reiterate how badly he feels for me for the thousandth time. I stand and approach the memoir table. It's littered with pictures of dad. Pictures of him playing baseball with me and Ariana on a sunny afternoon, or taking my little sister, Rowan to her first dance lesson. The first time he held me as a baby or the day he got married to mom. There are so many pictures of him. Pictures of him being lively and loved. It's like we've suffocated the table with memories of him. Almost as if mom thought that adding more pictures to the table could will him back to life.

     "You know, I never liked him anyway," my aunt Marie whispers to her husband behind me. "He was always so irresponsible. My poor sister, Emma always had to support the family all on her own, but she knew what she was getting into. She was the one that married a starving artist after all." She takes a sip of her wine. "Pft, writers, am I right?" She puts her cup down and the heat of my hatred singes on my veins. "You know," she continues, "this is a good thing. Once she gets over this, she can find someone that'll better support the kids."

    I was right, the pain could get worse, but I didn't want to feel it anymore. I wanted to block it out, all of it. I turn around and punch Marie in the face.

     "Ezra! What are you doing!" My mom screams, but I couldn't care less. I storm up the stairs and she chases me. "Ezra!" I turn around.

    "Your sister is vile, you know that?"

    "What?"

    "Dad just died and she was going on and on about how this was good for us. How you can find someone that'll be better for you financially." Her face falls.

    "That's just Marie, honey. She didn't mean it. It's just the way she grieves." My face goes scarlet.

     "Well, if that's the case, then maybe punching is the way that I grieve," I say, and my mother's brows furrow. "Look, if someone had called her out on her bullshit a long time ago, maybe she wouldn't be such a bitch."

    "That's it, your grounded."

    "Fine," I shrug and Her eyes widen. I slam my door. Lock it, and then slide down its frame. I've never punched anyone before, and I can't stop staring at my hand. My knuckles are red, angry. Did I really just do that? I drop my hand, lean my head back and sigh. Things are calm, but only for a second because that's the thing about grief. Every time you think your about to catch a breath, it catches you instead.

     I missed my dad, it was as simple as that. Every time my mom and I fought, he was always there to check on me afterward. Somehow, the silence at my door seemed louder than his old knocks ever were. I close my eyes and repress the grip my love for him has placed around my throat. I stand up. When you lose someone, you don't stop loving them. Real love doesn't know goodbye, it just evolves into something new. Something that becomes easier to carry with time. But tonight, it's evolved into a beast. A tear slides down my cheek and I'm quick to wipe it away. I open my eyes and find her staring at me.

     Her piercing blue eyes are wide and curious from behind the window on the other side of our yard. She hasn't looked at me since she shut me out of her life four years ago. With our eyes meeting for the first time as seventeen-year-olds. I wonder if she looks at me know because she feels my anguish. Because she sympathizes with me.

     I want to talk to her. To ask her if it ever gets better after losing someone you love. I hold up my hand and give her a small wave, then remember how distraught she looked after her mother passed. I wonder if I look the same. She gets up from her desk and my heartbeat skyrockets. Is she actually not ignoring me? Is she going to open the window like she used to and talk? Or write a note and hold it against the glass? I watch in anticipation. She grabs a cord and drops the blinds. My heart deadpans.

     I forget, I already know what it is like to lose someone. I guess, I just thought that it was different because she's still alive. I fall onto my bed. At least dad won't haunt me like she does. At least I won't see his face every day and be reminded of the conversations and laughter that we used to share before everything went wrong. At least he won't ignore me because he chooses to. He'll ignore me because fate forces him to. I close my eyes, she was the only real friend I had. Or at least... that's what I had thought. A tidal wave of emotions flood over me. First sorrow, then anger, and then... curiosity. Why did she stop talking to me? What was the deciding factor that caused us to fall apart? I sit up and stare at her window frame. Tomorrow, at school, I'm not going to let her hide anymore. I'm going to bug her until she gives me an answer, and I'm going to face her, just like I had faced auntie Marie.

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Thanks so much for reading my story! This is actually a re-write to one of my older stories, but I'm really happy to be back on this website again. If you guys liked what you read, please, feel free to comment and like the chapter! Whoever leaves a comment and a like, I'll dedicate the next chapter to you! Thanks again!

- With Love, Savanah.