Permanent Scars

Misery Business

October 30, Wednesday. 5:27 a.m.

My eyes blink open, but they are not met by crude autumn sunlight. Sitting up and squinting at the silver gossamer curtains drawn over the window, I see that it is gray and dreary outside. Luckily, I don't hear any rain, which gives me a bit of hope that it might clear up.

Sliding out of bed, I plod downstairs and recall sitting on the couch last night with Adam. I'm not sure if he left or not.

There's a basket of chocolate-raspberry muffins and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice on the table, with a little note beside them.

Had to get going, but I made you breakfast. I'll lock the door behind me and come to pick you up on my way to school. Hope you're feeling better. :)
- Adam

Guess he did leave. Since the incident on Friday, he's been hanging with me all day after school, and last night he stayed over. I wasn't feeling well, and Tris has asked him to keep an eye on me due to the poisoning episode.

I would've preferred to have him walk to school with me.

    Tucking the note in my pocket, I pour myself a glass and grab a muffin, bringing them upstairs with me so I can eat in my room and tackle the homework I've been putting off. There's still a bit of time to get it done before I head to school.

Suddenly, as I'm about to take a bite of muffin, my eyes glimpse the calendar pinned above my little desk. I choke, putting the food down and wringing my hands unhappily.

Today is—or would have been—my mother's forty-second birthday. I'd like to visit her grave; maybe bring her some flowers. It's been awhile since I've visited—things have been hard the past few years, and I just couldn't handle it. But today is special, and I feel like I owe it to her.

Blinking rapidly and rubbing my eyes profusely to keep from crying, I reach forward and tear the calendar from the wall, letting it fall behind my desk. Turning away, I decide to make my bed. Maybe it will take my mind off things.

Unfortunately, tucking blankets in and fluffing pillows does not help me, because everything I do reminds me of Mama—after all, she taught me to make my own bed, young as I was.

I almost feel angry as I pull open a dresser drawer and find a pair of jeans, socks, a T-shirt, and...a black hoodie that doesn't belong to me. Oh well. Scraping the clothes out of the drawer, I become resigned to them quite quickly. I'm not sure how or why the hoodie was in my drawer, but I'll put it on. It's black, and I feel like mourning today. My jeans are dark enough, and no one will see my black and turquoise striped long sleeved shirt underneath the hoodie anyway.

Tugging the hoodie over my head and noting that it faintly smells of Adam, I suddenly recall why it was in there. It's the one he borrowed to me that I keep forgetting to give back. I've worn it several times, so it's strange that I didn't immediately recognize it. That's been happening a lot to me lately, and I'm not liking it. I'm used to having sharp, spot-on memory. This sudden forgetfulness is not welcome simply because it's weird and unfamiliar. It's also uncharacteristic.

Returning to my desk, I try to force the juice down, but I feel so nauseous that I spit it right back into the cup. Backwashing is disgusting, and it makes me even queasier.

Maybe I should try to find someone—anyone. I need to talk to someone; open up; I need someone to go to when I'm feeling like this.