Death is something we know nothing about.
Our heart stops, our mind dies, and yet our bodies remain. But where do we go? Where does our soul go?
Maybe if I believed in heaven, I'd be able to live with the thought of my brother cracking open a cold one with God. But I don't believe in an afterlife. I believe that people want to be comforted and not afraid of dying, so they tell themselves these lies about where they will go after death.
And maybe they're right. Maybe heaven is real.
But, like I said, death is something we know nothing about. And I don't mind the not-knowing. I don't think I'm afraid of death. I'm more afraid of being lonely forever.
Loneliness scares me more than death, mainly because I've lived with it for years upon years. Loneliness isolates you, and it makes you believe these tragically painful lies about life after death.
Loneliness is bittersweet. It's peace and it's pain.
And when my eyes fluttered open to the bright fluorescent lights of the quiet hospital room and I saw that I wasn't alone after all, I almost felt okay for a few seconds.
Almost.
"That's true, but..."
The ceiling above the hospital bed is paneled and white, and I can hear Jean and Owen softly talking from across the room, both unaware that I'm awake.
"How is she going to..."
Their voices float in and out of my foggy head as I stare at the ceiling, my body not even attempting to move or comprehend their conversation. In a strange way, I feel a sense of relaxation over my body, like the emotions I should be feeling are absent.
I don't even remember anything after Owen left to go work. I know I what I did, but I don't remember it.
"And I think we should..."
I let out a deep breath in a moment of exhaustion. I clench my fist around one of the white linens and feel the fabric begin to ground me into the hospital room that I'm in.
"Oh, you're awake," Owen beams, my sudden movement accidentally attracting his attention.
Within seconds he's at my side, looking down on me with the same warm smile he always seems to hold.
"What happened?" I croak through dry lips.
The sun outside the room is brighter than I could've imagined, and as it peeks out from behind the clouds it begins to shine more light into the room that my eyes are not adjusted to.
"You don't remember?"
Owen sits down in a hospital chair and I turn my head to follow him with my adjusting eyes.
"I mean, I know what I did," I mumble as I bring my hand to my face. It feels like such an effort to move any muscle, and just rubbing my eyes is exhausting. "But I don't remember doing it."
Owen leans toward me and looks down on me in the hospital bed with a smile that's somewhere between pain and relief. But for some reason—for some inexplicable reason—I feel like there's something more.
My memory feels hazy and unsteady, and I almost feel as though something happened between the point when I tried to kill myself and now. I feel emotions that I have no business to be feeling, things like fear, and the sudden urge to ask Owen something that I've never asked before.
"Are you okay?"
The look on Owen's face drops. He looks at me with some kind of confusion that I've never seen in him before. It's the kind where he's suppressing a laugh and looking at me like I'm absolutely crazy.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
I use my weak, bandage covered arms to push myself upright. It hurts to use my arms, as I can practically feel my weight pulling at the stitches. But once I manage to pull myself up, I take a deep breath and focus back on Owen.
"I'm sorry I never asked that before," I admit as I swallow the dry lump in my throat. "I know you miss him, too."
"I do."
I feel my body get pushed back to the fragile state of grief I was in before as Mason's face appears in my head. I hear his laughter, I see his smile and his eyes.
But I also see his dead body laying in a coffin. I see his skin flushed into a pale grey; cold and lifeless as his limp body is buried beneath feet of dirt.
"Wait," I gasp. I'm suddenly more awake than I was before, and I feel my heart sink into my chest as a horrible realization creeps over me.
"Mason—What about his burial?!"
Owen's eyes grow sadder than before, and he gazes at me while letting out a heavy sigh.
"We already went this morning. It wasn't exactly something I could reschedule."
The thought of Mason creates a throbbing lump in my throat, pushing tears to my eyes quicker than I can contain them. It makes my chest burn in pain as I realize what I've done.
I was so caught up in my own feelings that I didn't even consider Mason. I didn't think about him, and how badly I needed to go to his burial. I needed that closure—I needed to say goodbye.
"Oh my god," I choke through my tears, throwing my head into my hands in shame. "I'm a horrible sister. I didn't even go to his burial!"
My body begins to shake as sobs escape from me quicker than I can contain them. It feels wrong to have missed something so vital. To have missed my only opportunity to see him one last time. And now, the last memory I have of him is of the fear in his eyes as the nurse took him to surgery.
Owen's arms fall around me and begin to encompass me in a tight hug, and I find myself clinging tightly to him while my sobs become muffled by his shirt.
I should've been there for Owen, too. I should've known it was hard on him.
I should've been there.
"Why was I so selfish?"
"It's okay, Ramona."
"I should've been there," I cry while ignoring his useless attempts at consoling me. "I'm so sorry."
Owen sighs, his arms still wrapped around me, and he continues to hold me. He waits patiently, laying a kiss on the top of my head while I cry everything out of my system. While I let it all out onto him.
It feels relieving, though—not having to feel alone is a concept that's still completely new to me.
Once my cries have quieted, Owen leans away to get me to look up at him. Cries still find their way out of my shaking body as I wipe away the remnants of my pain, but Owen remains calm and patient.
"Ramona."
A voice from across the room startles me and brings me away from my Mason-centered thoughts for the moment. I look over to see that it's Jean. I'd completely forgotten about her.
"We should talk, Ramona," she begins softly.
She begins to step towards me but stops when Owen waves his hand in front of him.
"Wait, Jean. We should wait to talk about it."
I look back over at him and raise an eyebrow. I'm barely even able to comprehend any real information through my tired and emotionally-wrecked mind, but that doesn't mean Owen gets to keep secrets. He should know better than to hide things from me at this point.
"Talk about what?"
If he thinks now's the time to hide something from me, he's terribly mistaken. I stare at him and wait impatiently for an answer until he sighs and hesitantly relents.
"She wants to talk about the things in your journal," he admits.
I feel my eyes grow wide and I drop my mouth open as I look at Owen in disbelief.
That's one way to wake me up.
"You let her read it?!" I shriek as my heart begins to speed up.
"Of course I did," he defends as he tries to calm me by placing a hand on my shoulder. "The abuse that you described—it's illegal."
"I don't," I lean back against the pillow and place my shaky hands over my damp face. "I don't wanna talk about it right now."
"I know you don't," Owen adds. "That's why I'm telling her to wait."
I peel my hands away from my face and gaze over to where Jean is. She backs away and nods while a look passes between her and Owen. A look that shows that they have some kind of unspoken understanding.
"Alright." She sits down on a chair across the room and relents. "I can wait a moment."
Owen keeps his tired eyes on her for a lingering moment before he turns back to me. I look up into his eyes with a guilty stare while I lay helplessly in the bed.
I feel like I'm crazy, like I'm being judged and pitied.
"I read the note you left me," Owen begins, his smile gone and his eyes turning downcast.
My cheeks immediately turn hot and I clamp my hands over my face, the thought of Owen actually reading that note making me want to run far away. He knows I have feelings now.
It's pathetic. Every thought that I poured out onto that note was incredibly personal, and my emotions were open and raw, exposing me and making me vulnerable to anyone who read it.
Although I did just have an emotional breakdown in front of him, so I don't know how much more vulnerable I can get at this point.
"Ramona," he says softly. "It's okay. I just want to talk about it."
"No," I mumble through my hands.
"Ramona. Look at me." His voice is quiet yet demanding, and I slowly peel my sweaty hands off of my face as my heart begins to slam against my ribcage.
I try my hardest to shake off the guilty look in my eyes, although the lump in my throat makes it hard to rid myself of the pain and shame that I'm suppressing.
"Why didn't you tell me how you were feeling? I told you I was here for you," he pleads, the concerned look in his green eyes practically bringing me to tears.
"You didn't have to go through that alone. I was here—I am here."
I feel my vision turn blurry as Owen's sad eyes study me. He's practically pleading with me, desperately trying to make me to understand what he's been saying all along—he's been saying that he's here for me, and that he wants to listen. He wants to help, and all I do is push him away.
And the truth is, I understand. I know he cares, and I've known it all along. I just wanted to ignore it so that I could die guilt-free. It's unfortunate that life doesn't work that way, though.
"He's right," Jean chimes in from across the room. I take in a shaky breath and wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. "You should've told us about your parents and Joseph."
She knows now. She knows everything I never told her. Owen knows, too. And I'm not sure how I feel about it.
I watch with cautious eyes as Jean stands from the chair she was resting in across the room. I hadn't realized that she looks just as tired as Owen does, the bags and lines indented into her dark skin signaling a great deal of sleep-deprivation. She approaches me slowly, and her chocolate eyes study me as she chooses her words carefully.
"We have some serious things to talk about, kiddo."
My breath is still shaky against my ribcage, and I take an unsteady breath as I nod.
"I know."
"First off," Jean addresses carefully, and her tone is sensitive to my weak composure. "What happened with this Joseph guy?"
"You read the journal." My voice remains stuffy and weak, not having recovered from all the crying I just did. "You know what happened."
"But why didn't you say anything?"
I scoff and shake my head at her words. Of course, it's my fault. I didn't speak up. I let it happen. I was asking for it.
"I was already working at the bar illegally! Who was I going to tell? My parents? Oh, wait," I remark sarcastically, my puffy eyes showing my irritation and my tone becoming rather harsh. "I don't have any."
"You could've told me," Owen chimes in softly.
I can tell he's trying to calm me by acting understanding and kind in the way that he always does, but it's not going to stop my attitude this time.
"Well, I didn't want to."
"Do you want to press charges?"
Jeans voice directs me back to her immediately, and I feel my tired body lean back as far away from her as it can get.
"Woah, woah. Who said anything about pressing charges?" I put my hands up, leaning away from Jean to show my hesitation. "Besides, I was the one who lied on my job application. I don't want to get in trouble."
"You wouldn't. He illegally employed a minor, so he would be the one getting in trouble."
I raise an eyebrow and look up at Jean with worried eyes. I'm sure she would know what she's talking about, but it doesn't take away the fear of facing Joseph in court.
He would lie through his teeth. He'd make me out into some kind of whore—it's public humiliation that I don't know if I'm ready for.
But that doesn't mean I can't consider it. I did take pictures of the bruises, after all. I have evidence.
"You're sure I wouldn't get in trouble?"
She nods, clearly very adamant in her answer.
"Yes. Have I ever steered you wrong, Ramona?"
Yeah, kinda.
I bite my tongue to keep from saying something I'm going to regret. My attitude has already gotten me in enough trouble lately, and the last thing I need is to make my situation worse.
"Nope," I reply with a sweet smile.
Jean doesn't seem to notice what I'm harboring, though, and she continues on with whatever she needs to say.
"But what I don't understand about this—did Joseph not do a background check on you? How did he not know you were underage?"
"I don't know," I shrug as I sniffle and wipe the last of breakdown off of my cheeks. "He never asked for my birth certificate or anything like that."
"That's shady." Owen shakes his head. "You shouldn't have taken that job."
"Clearly," I deadpan.
Jean gives him a look that reciprocates how I feel about Owen's comment. It's a 'that was dumb and obvious' kind of look, but Owen shakes it off without notice. Jean just sighs, and I watch her turn her focus back down to me.
"Now what about your parents?" she asks while being careful to talk sensitively to me. "You could take them to court for what they put you through. Their prison sentences would be made longer, for sure."
Again, I lean away from Jean in a moment of uncertainty. The thought of going back to court feels overwhelming and triggering; having to face the very people that hurt me for so long seems impossible.
And it's not that I'm afraid. I'm just tired of everything in my life revolving around the abuse they put Mason and I through. They're already in prison for drugs, and I don't want to go back to court. I want to be more than the abused kid. I want to be me, for fucks sake.
I'm tired of letting my parents control my life. Why would I want to get caught up in a court case that's likely going to stretch on for the entirety of not only the rest of this school year, but also the majority of my senior year?
Why would I want my last year of high school—what's supposed to be the best year of high school—be controlled by court dates and lawyer meetings?
I'm sorry, but my parents don't get to take that from me, too.
"I just want to move on with my fucking life," I admit with a sigh.
There's no way that I could explain it to them in a way that they would understand, and I'm just going to have to trust that they'll respect my decision.
"I'm tired of being hung up on shit that happened in the past."
"But you have to face what happened to you. You can't keep running from it," Owen cuts in.
I know he means well, but he doesn't understand. He grew up with a family that did nothing but love and support him. He hasn't spent his entire existence being defined by trauma that he was forced to endure.
He doesn't know how it feels, and I hate to play that card, but it's true. He has no right to tell me what to do with my life.
"Running from it and letting it go are two different things," I explain. "The fact that I don't want to press charges doesn't mean I'm running away from it."
"You don't want to get justice?" Jean asks, the look on her face suggesting that she's shocked that I'm turning her offer down.
"What I want is to get some sleep."
I lay back down and yank the covers over my head in an attempt to put an abrupt end to the conversation. And maybe, if I get lucky, Jean and Owen will leave me in peace.
That, of course, is unrealistic. Owen pulls the covers back, revealing my face to the world once again.
"You've been asleep for almost fifteen hours. How are you tired?"
"I'm tired of life," I snap, purposely being dramatic just for the hell of it. After all, I've got to keep Owen on his toes.
He ignores my comment and continues with his questions, all the while keeping his hand wrapped tightly around the blanket to keep me from yanking it back again.
His kind composure is disappearing, and I can sense the frustration growing inside of him. I don't blame him—I haven't exactly been a joy to be around today.
"And by the way," he continues in a much harsher tone. "Where the hell did you get Oxy?"
"I know people."
"What kinds of people?"
He drops the blanket from his hold and stands up straighter with an eyebrow raised. I take this as an opportunity to grab the blanket again, although not before I answer his question—or, more accurately, not answer his question.
"Doesn't matter. I'm going to sleep now. Goodbye."
For the second time, I pull the thin hospital blanket over my face. But again, Owen yanks it back, unamused by my immaturity and more serious than ever.
"Hey. We're not done here yet."
"Are you sure about that?" I remark as I glare at him through disobedient eyes.
He stares down at me for a moment before he and Jean share a look that's somewhere between amusement and frustration.
"Nevermind," he concludes as he turns his gaze back down to me. "Take your nap. We'll talk later."
I watch Owen as he and Jean both leave my bedside. I don't know where they go or what they do, mainly because I pull the covers over my head once again.
But what I do know is that they're leaving me alone in the sweet confines of bitter loneliness. Loneliness that's familiar and comforting, but treacherously isolating.
It's peace and it's pain, but it's unfortunately been less peaceful lately. It hurts now, but so does living. So what the hell is real anymore?
Because my emotions are more mixed up than the chicken salad that Owen's mom made the last time I saw her.
And that's what I have to hold onto as I try my best to fall asleep in this uncomfortable hospital bed—painful loneliness, chicken salad emotions, and birth parents that are getting away with horrible crimes because of my exhausted soul.
In other words, a recipe for insomnia.
~
"Hey."
I'm awoken in the hospital bed by an icy finger poking me in the cheek.
It startles me enough to make my eyes shoot open, as I fear that the entirety of Antarctica has somehow imploded on my face.
But seriously, who's fingers are that cold?
I look to the left to see Owen standing at my bedside. I wonder if he was the one with the cold fingers.
"What do you want?" I mumble as I stare through heavy eyelids.
I can make out the window behind him, though, and I can see that the sun is still up and shining bright, signaling that I wasn't asleep for very long.
"Wake up."
Another voice coming from my right makes me jump, and I jerk my head to the side to see Nadia standing there. I can see Luis' smaller frame hiding behind her, and as I use my unsteady arms to push my body up in the bed, I look at Owen with a confused expression.
"How did they get here?"
"Nice to see you, too," Nadia interjects.
I ignore her comment and look over to Owen for an explanation. My vision slowly begins to adjust and my eyelids start to open as I feel my tired body start to wake up.
"They kept blowing up your phone. I told them you were here," Owen explains. "I hope it's okay."
"It's fine," I yawn, rubbing my exhausted eyes. "I wanted to talk to them, anyways."
Owen takes my words as a hint, and he pats my shoulder before walking towards the door of my hospital room.
"I'll be outside if you need anything."
The three of us watch quietly as Owen exits and leaves us to talk by ourselves.
"Okay. What the fuck?" Nadia immediately asks, her eyes filled with concern.
"Yeah, why would you do this? We've been worried sick about you," Luis echos.
I groan and put my hands in front of my face as their questions hit me with the force of a brick wall.
"Geez, you guys really don't chill, do you?"
"Not when you spontaneously attempt suicide on us," Nadia confirms. "We're concerned friends and we need you alive."
Luis sits down on the edge of the bed, and I can see now that he looks exhausted. He's got bags under his eyes and his clothes consist of nothing but sweatpants and a hoodie.
On top of that, he hasn't even bothered to comb his hair, which is evident from the brown locks sticking up in odd places. He seems more solemn than Nadia, from the way he's patiently staring at me to the way he's calmly waiting for an answer.
Nadia just seems more straightforward and anxious, which is just standard for her personality.
"I just don't understand why," Luis breathes.
His eyes turn downcast and the longer it takes for me to form an answer, the sadder and heavier his eyes become. I look out the window for a moment, the silence hanging heavily in the air, and try my hardest to clear my head.
My friends deserve answers, out of all people that I know. They've always been by my side.
"I'm just not happy," I begin. It's not very descriptive, but it's the best that I can do. "Everything feels wrong all of the time. And Mason died, and now—"
"What?" Luis gasps.
He and Nadia share a shocked look, presumably trying to see if the other knew about it. But I didn't tell either of them, and they realize that I didn't when they look at each other.
Luis even lets a tear escape down his cheek, though Nadia stares at me in disbelief.
"He had a heart problem," I explain.
Every time I think about it and talk about it, it somehow gets easier. For some reason, I'm not choking on my tears just from thinking about it. I'm either numb or I'm healing.
"I'm so sorry," Nadia whispers, her voice choked up and mouse-like.
"Don't be."
"God, I wish I wasn't leaving for college this summer," she adds. "I don't want you to be alone, now that Luis is moving."
I shrug and take the opportunity to move the conversation away from my brother.
"Yeah. But I'll be fine."
"Will you? You said you were fine last week and here we are. I'm worried about you."
"I'm so sorry that we didn't see this sooner. I should've known you were—"
I cut Luis off sharply, noticing the direction he's going in before he even has a chance to finish what he's saying.
The people that I love can't blame themselves—it was all me, and the blame goes on me.
Absolutely no one else.
"Luis, no. Don't do that to yourself. This wasn't your fault."
"I just feel terrible. You were literally on the phone with me yesterday and you asked me about suicide and I didn't even—"
"Stop," I demand with more authority than I think I've ever talked to him with before. "Don't put this on yourself. And besides, I'm fine. I'm alive, aren't I?"
"I suppose."
"What's on your wrist?" Nadia interrupts, gesturing to my left arm.
I look down and take notice of the thick bandage around my wrist, from when I decided it was a good idea to carve a long, deep line into my arm. Just another one of my bright ideas.
"Did you cut yourself again?" she asks abruptly. "How does your foster dad feel about the cutting? He seems nice, is he nice?"
I almost want to laugh at the fact that she's not even giving me time to answer any of her questions. She just going at it and rambling on, though I know it's just how she is. She's just got a lot to say, and that's how it always is.
"He is, and he's been trying to help me with it. But I'm guessing everyone at school knows about my cutting now, right?"
Luis nods, and I watch as a scowl forms on his face.
"Yeah. Because of that dickwad, Jasper."
"Apparently someone at school told a counselor about my cutting while it was spreading around school. That's how Owen found out about it."
They both glance at each other, which raises a slight suspicion in me. I watch them share a look, and my curiosity grows as I raise my brow.
"Any chance you know who ratted me out to the counselor?"
Luis crosses his arms, staring up at Nadia from his perch on the edge of my hospital bed.
"I found out this morning. You wanna tell her, Nadi, or should I?"
Nadia scratches the back of her neck awkwardly, glancing nervously around the room and avoiding my eyes at all costs. Her nervous look tells me everything I need to know.
"Nadia!" I shriek. "Are you fucking serious?!"
"I'm sorry! You wouldn't answer any of my calls once Jasper started telling everyone, and I was worried about you!"
I scoff and stare angrily ahead at the TV across from me.
"It wasn't your place to say anything. You didn't even know if it was true at the time."
"Well it is, and you need help, Mona."
"Don't talk to me like I'm broken."
"I'm not! That's not what I—"
"Okay, stop," Luis demands, cutting into our argument and silencing us at once. "We're not getting into a fight right now. We need each other more than ever, so don't start shit."
I close my eyes momentarily and try to think rationally for once in my life. I know she didn't mean to cause trouble. She was trying to help me, as much as she ended up making things worse.
"He's right. I'm sorry," Nadia breathes, sincerity laced in her voice. "You're like a sister to me, and I love you so much. But you can't keep shutting us out. We're here for you. You have to understand that."
"I know you are." I open my eyes and stare up at her with a small smile. "And I'm sorry, too."
She smirks at me, a devilish look on her face as she changes the conversation topic.
"So can I just ask about this kiss that apparently—"
I'm interrupting her before she can finish her sentence, my cheeks slightly heated and red. Apparently my friends have bigger mouths than I thought.
"Luis! You told her?!"
"I'm sorry. You know I can't keep my mouth shut."
"Clearly."
"It's cool, guys," Nadia confirms. "If you're jumping each other's bones—"
"Oh my god! It was one kiss!"
"I'm fucking with you," she retorts, throwing her head back in laughter.
Luis watches from the edge of the bed, shaking his head with a small smile curling onto his lips.
"Could you actually give us a minute, Nadia?"
She nods, still giggling in between breaths.
"I'll let you catch up on your kissing," she teases as she mocks us through duck lips.
I'm tempted to throw my IV bag at her, though she settles down and changes the topic before I get the chance.
"I'm going down to the cafeteria to try the hospital food. The pudding looked interesting."
She picks up her jacket and walks towards the door, Luis hollering after her.
"Okay. Don't have too much fun."
She shakes her head in annoyance, waving to me before exiting into the hospital corridor.
Luis doesn't make any move to speak once we're left alone. His eyes linger on the door for a moment before he turns back to me.
"I wish I wasn't moving," he states after a long pause.
"Tell me about it."
He smiles at me as he fidgets with his nails, but after a moment he finds the courage to say what's racking his brain.
"I'm gonna miss you."
I smile at him and use my foot to tap him on the side.
"I'm gonna miss smoking blunts with you."
"We could do that over Skype. I've heard there's plenty of weed in Colorado."
I laugh and look out the window in a moment of reminiscence.
"Yeah, but it's not the same."
"I know."
Our conversation falls dead as I sit up straighter in the hospital bed, the uncomfortable mattress making my back hurt.
"Can I kiss you?"
My head snaps up to look at Luis, who is staring at me with a newfound intensity that makes my stomach explode in butterflies.
"You don't have to ask, Luis."
I watch his soft lips curve up into a smile, and he moves his body to sit closer to me on the bed. His face leans in towards mine, though he doesn't kiss me. His face stops inches from mine, his hand reaching up to touch my cheek.
"It doesn't matter where I go. You'll always have a piece of my heart," he whispers, his eyes trailing down my face.
I have to laugh to keep the moment from getting too serious, remembering that he'll be gone in less than a month.
"How poetic," I tease.
He doesn't laugh with me, he just keeps looking between my lips and my eyes as his minty breath tickles my face.
"I'm serious. I feel something when I'm around you. Something I've never felt with any other girl or guy."
His words pierce deep underneath my skin, making my heart ache and burn at the thought of him leaving.
"Don't say stuff like that. You're going to make it hurt more when you leave," I murmur, looking up to meet his eyes.
"It's hard to not say what I'm feeling."
I bite my lip, pushing my face even closer to his.
"Then just kiss me. We don't need to say anything."
I watch as his beautiful lips turn up into a smirk.
"Works for me."
His arm slips around my waist and he pulls me towards him, his lips falling onto mine slowly. I kiss him back with intensity, not realizing how badly I've been craving his touch throughout this past week.
And it's the perfect temporary remedy for loneliness; having Luis' lips intertwined with mine and feeling his hands on my back.
For a moment, I don't feel so alone.
Sitting in the hospital bed with Luis' body pressed against mine, the feeling of lips and his tongue setting my mind on fire, I remind myself that these are the moments I live for.
It's these little things, the everyday wonders that take me by surprise. The surge of pride that fills in my veins over the smallest of accomplishments. These snapshots of bliss, and the wonderlust that takes over my mind in the heat of the moment.
And maybe that's part of my problem.
I often forget that I'm not living for utter perfection and undeniable happiness. I'm living for the crazy, the unpredictable, and the insanity of life.