The Sweetest Berry

Chapter Seven - Bella

I spent hours wailing in my room until Dad called me down for dinner. My friend died, and it could be my fault. Why am I doubting myself? Oh, lord. Andrew's dead and the least Dad could have done was help me and also his parents with his funeral, but he called me down for dinner. For some reason, Andrew's parents didn't really care about Andrew, which is super concerning. .But, ugh, whatever. I told him I didn't want to but he practically dragged me down to eat. I was hungry, but I didn't care whether I ate or not. I have no friends, and I don't want to be that one cringy girl that wears yellow and pink flower leggings, and her only friends are her family. That's not who I originally was, and that's not who I choose to be, but that's what I feel like I'm forced to be. Dinner was nasty anyways, it was some wet, sloppy burger, between two pieces of toast. The mood wasn't any better than dinner itself, it was so depressing. No one said a word, not even Mom, who seemed a little bit saner than I had seen her this morning. I looked up from my plate, disgusted, and Mom met my eyes. She seemed so old, but she looked so young. Mom gave me a look of sympathy, she moved her hand, so it was on top of mine.

"I am so, so sorry. I know Andrew was your best friend.", she said, softly, a tinge of pity in her voice.

"Is there anything you can do about it? He died, and I can't change that!", I lashed out at her. Mom's eyes were filled with anger, so abruptly, the mood had changed. Mom looked like she was trying to contain her anger, but she spoke sweetly. I know she's trying to be a better mom.

"Honey. There is not a single reason in the world to act like that.", she whispered, as sweet as candy, eyes cold and hard like winter.

"Andrew freaking died, and you can just say that there's no reason to act like that. There's a reason why you don't have friends."

"Okay, so your friend died. You cannot be talking like that to me. Show a little bit of respect.", Mom says, more like a confused question, then it morphs into an angry statement. I don't think she can understand my feelings. That makes sense, I don't blame her for not having friends.

"He wasn't just my friend. He was my best friend. He was practically my brother.", I defended Andrew.

It feels weird to strongly support and side with Andrew after what he did to me. If I reveal any more information about anything else, the whole town will know about the scene at the bar. The people at the bar already know, because they were there, I'm not sure how I could defend Andrew when that happens.

"We could go for fro-yo?", Mom asks, not sure what to do. She must be thinking that I have those "confused, teenage feelings".

"No.", I speak, cold and hard. My voice feels like ice, stern and frozen. I clatter my plate on the dining table. I leave, slamming my chair against the table, to show I don't want to be bothered for the rest of the night, and probably tomorrow.

I stomp up the stairs, tears filling up my eyes. I tried to rub the icy cold tears off, but I only made my face, especially my cheeks, more red, and less pink. The tears just keep coming and coming, like a tsunami. Andrew's dead. Not normal, never normal.

I ignore my tears, making an attempt to think about something else. Donna. Where's Donna? She should be home from work by now. I can't worry about another thing right now. I go to the mirror, trying to fix my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair is tangled, my skin is plain dead, and I haven't shaved in weeks, because I haven't gone to college in weeks. I'm a mess. I'm an unfixable mess. I'm tired of being popular. I cry myself to sleep.

The next morning, I have the worst feeling ever. I woke up because my pillow was too cold. I had then realized that the tears were just spilling and spilling, unstoppably and I really had cried myself to sleep and I did cry all through the night. Weird, huh? My nose is runny and I have a splitting headache. More like migraines. I can't manage to stand up. But my body feels strange when I sit down. Uh-oh. Now I have to. My stomach lurches, and I run to the bathroom and crouch down to the toilet. I vomit whatever was left of last night's roadkill-like, so-called "dinner".