N O R M A L

S O R R O W

Tristan's hands were shaking. Each hour that had passed has been excruciating. One, he spends pacing between the empty to full chairs. Another, he's sitting and adrenaline is running through his body to his limbs, his leg bouncing up and down as his hand holds his chin and he stares at the ground in deep thought. And another he spends walking around and asking for updates on Brooklyn.

It's not that he cared about Brooklyn, no one cares about her, she's nothing. But the sight of Janice, she looked like she was literally losing her mind. Tristan couldn't even look at her, she was a literal mess.

Tristan rose from his seat and passed Janice with a shame filled bowed head. "I'll be back." He muttered, and she didn't respond. She'd been worn out from all of the crying and answering all of the questions the police and psychiatrist had that she could barely even answer. Her head was hurting from the constant denial to see her daughter.

Why didn't she want to see Janice? Was this truly Janice's fault? Instead of ignoring Brooklyn's behavior, maybe she should have asked questions and sat her down and maybe even forced her to speak up and tell the truth. What if Brooklyn had succeeded? She would no longer have her baby girl.

Janice was shaking, her lip was being pierced from being bitten harshly. It hurt so much not to know any answers to the questions she was being asked revolving around Brooklyn's stresses. She was her mother for goodness sake, she felt smaller from the looks the police gave her, how did she not know anything? If she didn't know why, then why couldn't she answer how often Brooklyn had been cutting herself? She hadn't even known she was cutting herself! Now the psychiatrist would have to get the answers out of Brooklyn who is capable of denying, resisting, or just flat out lying.

Tristan made his way outside quickly, towards the very back of the hospital. He couldn't be in that hell a second longer. Just the medical scent itself was sickening. Tristan pulled out the only joint he had, it would barely do but it was the only thing that would be legal at this point.

Tristian took the already rolled joint to his lips and grabbed his lighter. Tristan watched with watering eyes as the flames appear and harshly sway from how much he was trembling. Tristan let out a whimper as he finally was able to light the joint. He could really go for a cigarette to relieve and calm his nerves, but he swore he'd never touch another one in his life.

Tristan took in a strangled breath, thinking that the urge to cry would just disappear, but it pushed against his moistened lips as he listened to the distant and constant blaring siren of ambulance trucks. But he didn't want to cry.

Tristan held the smoke in his mouth for a second as he tried to clear his mind. But it just wasn't working. His mind revolved around Brooklyn. He walked in on her cutting herself, he dropped it. He walked in on her screaming to find her half conscious in a pool of her own blood. He can't drop that.

The blood, it was so close to him this time. Tristan shuddered as he let out a strangled breath, he looked down at his shoes. He didn't have time to change them, he was too busy trying to get here. They were blood stained, Brooklyn's blood.

Another chill ran up Tristan's spine. He didn't even remember stepping in the blood, but once thinking about it, he had to in order to get to her. It all happened so fast, but every step of the way was crystal clear.

Tristan inhaled another dose of the poison, this breath was a bit more strained than the other. If he didn't care about her, why did everything about this hurt him so much? Tristan let out the breath of poison to reveal the sob built up in the back of his throat.

It was loud, hefty, raspy, ugly, and hurtful. Tristan swore he'd never cry again, especially not because of another girl that's supposed to be there for his needs, and nothing more. They aren't even humans at this point, they were made for pleasure.