the sun looks good on you - solangelo

16- yelling into nothing

(warning; heavy subjects such as death and suicide)

"tell me about that day, nico." my therapist tells me. "about bianca."

i stop to think about where to start. i gather my thoughts and take a deep breath. a lot of emotions have been thrown at me lately. more than i am used to- and i am used to very little. i close my eyes tight, trying to create a dark emptiness in my vision, i open them again and i see her. her standing there the last time i ever saw her. i see it clearly and i speak.

it was a winter day. i could tell you the exact date, but it doesn't really matter. it just matters that it was a bitter cold. a bitterness that only a new york winter could bring. i remember the cold because before i left to walk to school, bianca told me to wear another jacket over my sweatshirt. i begrudgingly allow her to put a jacket over me.

and i remember as i grumbled about leaving or being late, bianca kissed my forehead. she doesn't normally do that. i usually get a hug. like always. i should have known something was wrong right then when her lips brushed my face. they were so chapped. she looked so sad. but everyone looks sad around the house those days. no one ever played on the piano anymore. it became terribly out of tune. sometimes i would try to play, but only when there was no one home. it made everyone else too sad.

she said goodbye to me and i said goodbye back. her hands lingered on my shoulders as if tentative to let go. but she did. i should've known then, too, that something was wrong. i should have known a thousand things.

i put that aside and walked to school that day like normal. bianca went to a high school that was began later, so she stayed behind. i remember looking over my shoulder back at her to see her still watching my retreating back sadly. that face is the last i saw of her. strands of dark hair hung over her pale face. she looked older than she was. she didn't look fourteen. her breath was barely visible in the grey air. her pale pink hands were clasped to keep warm. her chapped, pink lips were thin and pursed. the day was grey and cold. her red coat was stark against it. she stared at me with empty, sad eyes. her face was like a porcelain mask. beautiful, but unfamiliar. her cheeks were flushed against pale skin. her empty eyes follow me, yet looked far off and unfocused.

as i left, it started to snow.

i was still in middle school. i think i was twelve. it was the peak of the bullying issue. after that day, though, none of the kids talked to me. they felt bad, i think. that made me angrier. that they stopped only out of pity and didn't even bother saying sorry or talking to me. being alone almost was worse than the bullying.

i'm getting ahead of myself.

i went to school. i sat through class. kids picked on me. i ate lunch alone and watched snow fall gently outside the window. i was sent to the office. i walked the hallway very slowly, not eager to be in class. if i had known, i would have walked faster. not that it would have saved her. i counted my steps as i paced the quiet corridor. i stepped quietly into the office where adults i had never really seen before were awaiting me with worried faces and sad eyes.

after that, many things happened at once. they told me that things happened. that things with my family happened. things with bianca had happened.

none of it made any sense to me. there was a stain on one of the ceiling tiles in the school office. i remember staring up at that. there was the distant sound of a printer.

"i saw my sister this morning." i remember telling them. "she's fine,"

"you're getting picked up by a relative," they tell me, obviously relieved that i'm getting off their hands. no one wants to be responsible for the news i'm about to hear.