Sleep Tight Tonight.

Rejection.

The night seems to drag on, slugishly slow. Each tick of the second hand on my clock rewards me with an aching wound to the chest, as I toss and turn under my duvet. Eventually the black night gets lighter and lighter, until I can see the peak of the sun ooze up the sky.

I do not feel it’s warmth. In fact, I’m freezing, I realize. I’ve spent the night shivvering and my teeth are still chattering now, uncontrollably so. My eyes keep straying to the TV sat in front of the bed, my hands inching towards the remote to press play, but I can’t. Not yet. I can’t take anymore. Not now.

My alarm goes off and I do not move. My eyelids feel like sticking together, but my mind is wide awake, my body still quaking. After a while, I see my Mother’s face hovering above me. There is a crease between her eyebows – like the one Miles used to get when she daydreamed or got worried – and her eyes are concerned. I feel her cool hand press against my forhead, checking my temperature, and then she sits on my bed beside me.

“Lucas?” She always calls me by my full name. Never Luke. “Darling, are you ok?”

I want to answer her, but I can’t just yet. So I nodd, my throat feeling too dry to talk – scrathy, like sandpaper. If I tried to answer, nothing would come out. Only sobs and hot tears – only pain...

The look she gives me tells me she knows. Not about the tape, or the guilt I’m feeling, or the fact that I can close my eyes without thinking of her. She understands some of it though, the grief, and even though I know she doesn’t want me to be sad, there is relief on her face. She’s been worried – I’ve been acting too normal, I realize, she’s been waiting for this. This... breakdown?

“I understand, sweetie,” she says, “you spend the day in bed. I’ll bring you up some food.”

I shake my head and push the covers away from me. I can’t spend the day here when that DVD is sitting there. Waiting for me. I take a drink of the stale water sat at my bedside table from God knows how many nights ago. It takes bitter and old, but it soothes my throat enough for me to tell her that I’m going to school.

At first she insists that I do not, trying to keep me under the duvet and tucked up in bed. I can see her getting flustered and feel bad for upsetting her, but I can’t think about that at the moment. So I persist with telling her I can do this, I’ll be fine, it’s just like any other day – making up any excuses that come to me. Thankfully, in the end she calms and agrees to let me go on the conditions that I eat breakfast and call her if I ever need her. She tells me she’ll be straight there, I just have to say the words.

Though I feel sick, I eat two slices of buttered toast after getting changed. As I chew my on breakfast, I feel my parents eyes on me, trying and failing to discretely stare. I ignore them and carry on eating, trying to finish as quickly as possible so I can get out of the house. But my throat is still dry and choked and the toasted slides down with difficulty.

By the time I finally finished, I’d missed first period at school – something I’d never actually done before. It wasn’t often that I had a day off ill, or wasn’t able to make it to lessons. I was nothing if not determined to be at school all the time. Some people friendlily tease me about being a ‘Teacher’s Pet’ but the teachers liked me no more than any of the other students. My grades are only average, my mind just as bored as everyone else’s. I had just always been so eager to get there so I could see my best friend – so I could see Miley and smile.

Today though, after one last attempt from my Mother to keep me home, I walked into the school grounds with a lump in my throat. I passed through the gates without looking at the big oak tree – our tree – and carried on walking through the deserted grounds to my next lesson.