The day I had found out my best friend had brain cancer, I had gone berserk.

"Baby, honey, please, calm down!" I remember my mother pleading with me. Calm down? How could I calm down? My best friend is sick. The real kind of sick, the sick that can't be cured with lots of sleep, fluids and chicken noodle soup.

I think my tear ducts may have been out of commission that day, because I don't recall shedding a single tear that day. Instead, I screamed until my lungs couldn't take anymore, and stormed around my house until I reached my room.

Crash. All my jewelry boxes and random trinkets had all been shoved on the ground by an angry hand.

Rip. The posters had been torn from my wall, the covers had been recklessly pulled to the ground, the clothes from my drawers tossed from the drawers, and finally I'd detached all the drawers for from my dresser.

After my little tantrum had been thrown, my room was trashed.

Glass from my random trinkets littered the floor, clothes and covers were in piles from throwing them and the shreds of my remaining posters did for make shift snow in my room.

My mother had left me all alone, to cope with the grief in my own way.

I think I'm calm now.