Whispers permeated the halls about her. She was known mainly by, 'whats-her-face', 'that girl', or, the most popular, 'the girl who committed suicide'. Not many people knew her real name, Monica. A Greek name, one translation meaning: alone.
Monica had long straight black hair, always in a bouncy pony-tail. She was kind, a little over-bearing, a little loud, but the kind of girl you wanted to have as a friend. She was sometimes unfairly judged for her confidence, her bubbliness. She always had a smile on her face, always had an opinion to share. 'Depression' was the farthest thing from your mind when you heard her name, 'suicide' even further.
NickMonica. Monica was dead. I walked around school in a daze, thinking of Monica, my Monica... The school couldn't have called my family or anything. Her parents obviously felt no need to. Monica. Monica…
I choked back a sob, trying to concentrate on the trigonometry work in front of me. How could everyone sit here and just…function?
"What is the answer to #3?" Ms. Fisher's question jerked me out of my trance. I stared at her blankly, I wasn't even aware I had been asked a question…
"Nick? #3 please?" she said again, irritated. I continued staring, my mind drifting…
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I jump. I look up to see Mr. Corado, our school psychiatrist appraising me quietly. I realize he's said something, and that 20 minutes have gone by, and all I've done is sit there.
Other students are staring, some frightened, some sad. Mr. Corado had a sympathetic look on his face. "You were a friend of Monica's, weren't you?"
My eyes fill with tears at the mention of her name. "Monica…" I whisper hoarsely.
Mr. Corado nods to Ms. Fisher, and she beings to teach again, in a slightly shaky voice, as Mr. Corado slowly leads me to the guidance office. I walk into the small room, only half paying attention and he points to a plastic purple chair sitting next to me. God, Monica loved purple…
He sits down and studies me for a moment. Somehow, his movements are gentle, something probably acquired during his years of listening to others confess their mind's scheme. Just like he was expecting me to do now.
"Nick," he murmurs softly. That unbearably soft voice, trying to soothe me, calm me. How could he be so calm?! She died! No, she committed suicide!
My hands squeeze the armrests on my chair until the knuckles are white. My eyes squeeze shut. "Don't," I whisper. "Don't tell me about how it will be alright, don't tell me I'll be okay, don't tell me she loved me very much, and don't tell me that she's in a better place. Because she's not. She belongs here, with us."
As soon as I finish, I start sobbing. A distant part of my mind feels embarrassed about this, but I can't control it any longer. I just sit there, feeling disgusted at myself for crying, feeling empty, life is empty, she's gone. No matter what goes through my mind, that thought dominates all. That she is really, truly gone. Never for me to see again.
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When my mom got off work, she picked me up from school. I could tell she was upset about her too…but her way of…coping, I suppose, was different. She avoided the subject totally, tried to forget, kept everything bottled up. That was impossible for me. Every emotion comes pouring out of me, every thought magnified until I couldn't avoid it. Every thought in my mind right now was about Monica.
Despite what most people thought, Monica and I weren't in love, we weren't dating. To think we were only having trouble with that the other week…just another jerk, who decided we were in love. We rolled our eyes at each other and laughed, no one could understand how people could love each other, but not be in love. We were just friends. But we were so much more than that. Monica and I were the same person, related in every way except biological. I knew her inside and out…or so I thought. She had helped me through my worst times, and I thought I had helped her through her only bad time.
Turns out I didn't know her as well as I thought I did. I had no idea she was so sad…I mean, she must have been. She must have felt so alone….
Mom pulled into our driveway and we got out without exchanging a word. She tried to squeeze my hand as I walked by, but I shook her off. She didn't know how I felt, and I didn't feel like listening to how she thought she did.
I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me, shutting out my Dad's worried questions ("Why are you home so early? What's wrong? What's happened? Are you sick?") and just breathed. Finally alone.
I put my headphones in, turned my iPod all the way up, and fell asleep, trying not to think.
Amy (Mother)The doorbell rings, and I make no move to answer it. I pull my covers over my head, and I feel Douglas get off of the bed beside me and slowly shuffle to the door. I didn't want to get up to face another day.
I sigh, breathing in, and slowly letting it all out. This wasn't fair to him. She was his daughter too, after all. Tears brim over my eyes at the thought of my daughter in past tense. They all seem to be there, waiting for any little thing to push them over the edge, streaming down my face.
I hear the bedroom door open, and close. I feel someone slowly lift the covers, but I stay still, almost lifeless. I feel lifeless. My eyes open when a hand beings to stroke my hair.
I feel my face crumple. "Mom…" She pulls me into her arms, and I begin to sob. Her hand continues to stroke my hair, as her other rubs soothing circles on my back.
"Shhh, it's okay, I'm here Amy, it's alright." She slowly begins to rock me back and forth, as if I were a child again. I rocked Monica just like this once…
"She's gone, Mom, she's gone…my baby, my baby, "I moaned from the loss. I'd never see my baby girl again, never see her smile, never here her laugh…
I must have been saying everything out loud, I felt Douglas's arms wrap around me as he choked back sobs. "She'll never ask to borrow the car; we'll never see her married…"
We all sat and cried together for a bit, before composing ourselves for our arriving guests. Everyone was coming, from my sister, to Douglas' 3rd cousin. I invited Monica's friends, but most decided it would be harder to come, to see her house, and know she's no longer here…to see her room, and know she'd never sleep there again.
I shook my head. I needed to be strong. I needed to be strong for my other daughter, Bethany. Bethany needed me, it was her baby sister, she hasn't gotten out of bed since it happened.
I braced myself for the longest day of my life. Soon, everyone started filing in, all wearing black, clasping my hand lightly, murmuring condolences. I felt as if my mind was separated from my body, detached, unaware. Everyone was crowding around us, comforting us, being with us, when all we wanted was just to be alone in our grief.
When most started filing out for the night, Mom approached me hesitantly. Her eyes were downcast, face somber. She reluctantly met my eyes, and hesitated again. "Honey, I know you really don't want to think about it, but we need to make funeral plans. Do you know what Monica wanted?" She spoke quietly, not wanting to upset me any more than necessary.
I closed my eyes, trying not to think about the note she left us. "She wanted to be cremated," I said in a monotone voice. "That's what her note said. She didn't want to be buried. She wants to be under the sky, the stars." I reach into my pocket, and softly touch a note, the note. The note she left behind for us, the note that still doesn't make sense, that won't ever make sense.
"Alright," Mom whispered, and hugged me lightly, carefully. She pulled back, tears in her eyes, and touched my face softly. Then she walked away, seeing my cousins and their nieces out.
I turned, and I saw Nick and Cara shuffling by. I called out his name, and his head jerked up.
"Oh, um, h-hi...Mrs. Barnett." His eyes were lowered, and he fidgeted nervously, uncomfortable. His tone was, well, primarily nervous. But, underneath the seemingly polite greeting, was a…almost resentment.
"I'm glad you came," I said softly. A grimace flitted across his face. Then, even softer, I said, "Monica would have been happy you came."
His face twisted and he looked up at me, I was shocked to see his eyes full of tears. "No, she wouldn't have." He said, in slow, clear syllables. "If she had been happy, I wouldn't be here, talking to you about this right now. I wouldn't have heard that terrible announcement in school the other day, and I wouldn't be wishing she were here right now…because she would be."
I looked at him in shock…he was angry with me. Waves of guilt washed over me…he was right. What a terrible announcement to hear. I should have called him.
But there was another accusation underneath his words. Nick thought that I should've known that she had been unhappy. I should've known that she had been unhappy.
My head lowered. "I'm sorry," I murmured. I felt like a child again, getting into trouble for some trivial thing…like getting my clothes dirty, or lying, or stealing a cookie from my little sister. Nick didn't respond, he just shuffled past me.
Douglas wraps his arms around me. "Hey honey." He sighs deeply. I feel his hands wrap slowly around my waist. I look up into his deep, mournful
I turn around and bury my head into his shoulder. He stroked my hair lightly as I concentrated on breathing. It had been a long day.
Bethany (sister)I woke up to hear the front door open and close repeatedly as people slowly filtered out. I hadn't moved since…since I found her. Since I came home and found my little sister…
I shuddered, the movement making my under worked muscles ache. I heard footsteps on the stairs, and paused to listen. I felt like I had been asleep for days.
My door creaked open, and I strained my neck forward to see who it was. I heard a sigh of relief at my response, and I felt guilty. I hadn't responded to anyone for days. Dad came in and sat on my bed. "Hey baby. How are you feeling?"
My voice rasped, weak from disuse, "I don't know." And I didn't. Better, in a way I suppose. The shock had worn off, only to be replaced my raw emotion. Surely that didn't constitute as good? Or well?
He sighed, and pulled me close to him. "I know how you feel," he murmured. I looked at his face for the first time since…since several days ago. He looked aged, new lines creased his forehead, and his eyes were tighter from grief. "Your mother has been worried about you." He spoke in slow, hesitant tones, unsure of himself.
I looked down. I had worried her. She didn't need that, especially not now.