The deep, stygian pit of loss was almost too much to bear. Walls of despair loomed all around me, taunting me, casting dark shadows of coldness that swirled around my head, clouding my vision. Maybe I could have climbed out - if only I had a purpose and a heart to serve it with. But, no. Instead, there was a black hole in my chest gasping for air, every day- every hour- every minute of the damned day. How could I ever return to the life I had before? All I wanted was for everything to be normal again. But I couldn’t. It was simple. There was no way, and I had no reason to live. Nobody would tear up, even the slightest, if I died. No one cared. This is what I solemnly believed for the past year and a half.

Now, my depression didn’t just drop from the clear-as-day blue sky, in a little bottle with a label that said, "Drink Me." If life were a fairytale, I wouldn’t – shouldn’t be feeling like hell right now. No, there was a reason my fragile heart was bound with unbreakable chains of pain and suffering. What it was or where it came from I’m not completely sure of. But I did know I couldn’t handle it.

You see, the heart is delicate. But it is also vital. It is the artery that works day and night to keep you alive. So much pressure, so much dependence that the heart needs to uphold. And yet it is so delicate – breakable with only a few whispered words. Even if your heart breaks, it needs to soldier on and keep pumping blood. But how long could it do that? How long can you continue to fight, even when you are broken?

Early on, it felt as though the pain was somewhere far off, past a murky glass window. I knew it was there, yet I couldn’t see it clear enough to feel its entire wrath. I would fight against that plummeting feeling in my stomach by stuffing myself with junk food. But it didn’t help. If anything, it made my situation worse. My alcoholic parents would scream at me to “Get off your good-for-nothing butt and get a damn job.” For all they cared, I was just a wastrel that took up too much space, food, and more importantly money, for their liking. Yet, amazingly enough, they weren’t the main building block of my “Tower of Tribulation”. There was something else. Something terrible. Though, I’m not sure if I can tell the story, without wringing my little hands raw, or staining my shirt in tears. I must tell the story, I told myself over and over in my somewhat delusional head, If I don’t, I will never be able to accept the fact that she is gone. So this is how my story unfolds.

Everybody has a best friend right? The one that you can trust with your secrets. The one who won’t judge you because of your eccentricities. For me, that person was Morgan. I called her Morgue for short and often teased her about her inexplicable fascination with the darker things in life. Morgan had been my friend since I was a toddler, and I loved her with all my heart. She was my go-to-gal if I ever had an issue to deal with. Essentially, she was the sister that I never had. I knew, even at my adolescent age, that I would do anything for her, risk my life even. No force in the world could tear apart our friendship. We were as close as my mom and I, and the chilled Corona on the bedside mahogany table. (SHE WASN'T CLOSE TO HER MOM-RIGHT?)
Or so I thought.

It was a cloudy day – gray with just that tint of orange that hinted at an oncoming storm. I trudged to the bus stop, shrinking inside myself to try and escape the cold. Morgue was already there, her hair bouncing to the rhythm of the wind. I smiled.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I began. It wasn’t so much a conversation starter as my genuine interest in her well-being.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Cold as hell but nothing to do about that I guess.” She replied. “My brother didn’t come home until one in the morning. You should have seen the fit my parents were having. It was hilarious.”

I nodded my head gently. Her family was so much different than mine. I would never understand what it was like to have parents who cared.

Hands in our pockets, we huddled to the bench and sat down on our backpacks to avoid the cold sting of metal in the winter time. Then began our usual routine. Morgan and I started to swap secrets even though we both knew each other’s heart, from the inside out. I confessed to her that I no longer had a crush on Mikey Hudson and she dutifully denied my statement. At times, she knew me better than I knew myself. She shoved me playfully and received a slap on the back in return. Things couldn’t get better. I was too right. I noticed then, that Morgan’s hands were shaking – and it wasn’t because of the cold.

“Something wrong Jenskey?” I inquired in a playful yet considerate tone. “You’re shaking like a blender set on PUREE. And we’ve been in much harsher weather than this before. You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah fine. Just cold, that’s all.” I knew it was weird at the time but I decided to let it go. If only I had inquired deeper. Maybe I could have helped her. Maybe I could have saved myself.

She changed the subject quickly to sports and I went along with it. We were discussing the probability on the Giants winning the next game when there was a high-pitched shriek. It was only a few houses away and Morgan and I quickly looked to each other, fear overwhelming our once-giddy expressions. She resembled what I imagined to be the face of the screaming victim. Her eyes were blank, her skin chalky white, and for once, her rosy red cheeks, weren’t so rosy.

I knew then that I would need to be the strong one, just this once. But I couldn’t. A qualm crept into my body, and for a moment I felt as if we weren’t going to make it. I’m going to die I thought with almost a definitive tone. It will be a short painless death, but nonetheless, I will die.

Then there was a man clothed in all black, dashing down the street like a Teflon-coated bullet. He knocked down several garbage cans that were in his way. Almost simultaneously, the comforting bright yellow of our school bus appeared in my peripheral vision. The bus driver must have heard the shout and known we were in trouble. Run! I shouted at myself. What are you doing just run! But my feet were rooted to the spot.

Eventually I broke out of my stupor and started towards the bus. However, when I looked back over my shoulder, Morgan was frozen to the spot. She must have been facing the same petrifaction that I felt just a few moments ago. Without a second thought I did a 180 pirouette to drag my best friend out of harm’s way. But luck was not with me that day. I clumsily slipped on a mixture of dew, mud, and grass and my head plunged towards the concrete. Shock and adrenaline protected me from any initial pain. I struggled to stay conscious to ensure that Morgan was safe, but it felt as if the whole world was yelling at me to let go and give in to the trouble-free state of unconsciousness. I was able to stay awake long enough to see Morgan getting pushed into the street just as the bus came to see what happened. Morgan and the yellow district school bus collided creating an audible thud. I was conscious enough to catch the sound of her bones cracking, and the unforgettable resonance of her spinal cord disconnecting. The reverberation still haunts me in my sleep. She let out a startled cry, and choked “Oh!”, then closed her eyes and allowed the world capture her. She’s gone, I realized with inevitable dread. Blackness overtook me before I could weep for her.

When I awoke, a man wearing white that was too bright for my eyes loomed over me. His eyes were gentle but still I did not feel safe. A constant, rhythmic throb of pain inhabited the back of my head. I scrutinized the room some more, never looking directly at the man who I assumed was my nurse. A tall, steel, machine monitor was to the right, measuring my heartbeat and glucose level, with a gentle hum. I noticed a saline drip attached to my right arm on the inner elbow crease. Slowly, yet audibly, I heard the drip drip of the fluid, and the thud thud of upcoming footsteps.

I picked up a spoon from the food tray, and examined myself on the backside of it. My hair was matted with blood and dirt. My skin was pale and blue veins were faintly visible. My eyes were light gray – almost white. That was odd. I always had dark chocolate-brown eyes. I dropped the spoon, startled, as another doctor entered the room.
“A bit jumpy today, aren’t we?” he began. The doctor consulted the brown clipboard in his right arm, and glanced at me briefly. I tried to salvage a smile, but it may have turned out to be a grimace. “In any case, you’re awake. Good. How do you feel? Your head will hurt for a couple of more weeks I’m afraid. That fall you suffered was quite nasty. Your heartbeat and EEG are normal, and you should be alright except for the slight case of emotional trauma. We’ll call down psych for that.”

He rambled on and on and all I could do was nod. The doctor’s eyes drifted down towards the spoon on my lap and it must’ve clicked in his head.

“Ah… well your eyes have changed color because of the shock you have experienced. That should be temporary. Your parents are coming in a few moments, so sit tight, and try to keep yourself hydrated. If you need anything, just ring this bell. Ok?”

“nnngh.” I mumbled through numb lips. I chuckled slightly then just nodded my head. He looked at me with genuine concern in his features. His eyes were sympathetic. It was a refreshing change from my parents blaming eyes.

As the doctor left I sifted through all the information I had just been given and caught onto one particular part. ‘Your parents are coming in a few moments’. The statement repeated in my mind a few times like I was unable to accept the reality of it. My parents would beat every smile that I had worn in the past, slick off my face. In their eyes, the lousy excuse for a daughter of theirs just cost them perhaps thousands of dollars in medical bills.

Unexpected tears started streaming down my face. I couldn’t go back to the life I had at Tennessee’s Woodtown Junior High. I wouldn’t be able to see Morgan at school anymore. Morgan. She was dead. The word sounded harsh and unforgiving in my mind. Burning tears ran from my face once more, sliding off my face and onto the fleece blanket, creating puddles of salty water. I mourned my friend, blubbering nonsense words, and bawling my eyes out until they were extremely puffy and the skin was rubbed raw. “MORGAN!!!!” I vociferated, unaware of my surroundings for a fleeting moment. Hastily, I shut my mouth, and reverted to sobbing agonizingly. Every large intake of breath, sent a pang of nausea to my stomach, and I knew I had to stop before my parents arrived. Father didn’t tolerate the slightest bit of crying, and slapped me upside the head every time so much as a tear leaked out from under my eyelids. Impetuously, I mopped up the tears from my eyelids. The movement irritated the already-sore skin of my eyes. I rejuvenated my eyes with a dash of water from the plastic cup on the food tray, so I was more able to see. I then shut my eyes and forced myself to speak normally, so that my voice would not sound choked when the time came to speak with my parents. I can’t let Mother and Father see me like this I reminded myself, as I felt the tears threaten to well up again. Pull yourself together. Just put on an apologetic façade for Mom. That way I can avoid the worst of their wrath.

Not a second too late, my parents thrust the automatic door open, impatient to get the visit over and done with. “Hi.” I greeted them softly.

“I don’t know what type of prank you’re trying to pull, but I will not let you bankrupt me. Do you have any idea how much this little stunt of yours cost? I’m stripping you of all your savings, and you better find a job within the week or else you’re out. Got that? Your mother and I care for you and provide you with shelter every day, and this is how you pay us back? You spoiled and filthy child. Just watch yourself missy. One more “incident” like this and you’ll be shipped off to St. Bernard’s School for Juvenile Girls.”

I could smell the tequila and cigars in his breath, and instantly, my vision grew hazy. Spittle lay splattered across my face, but I paid no attention to it. My drunken parents actually thought that the injury was my fault. I was speechless. My insides began to boil, as the fuming hatred for my parents resurfaced. All these years I have been able to keep out of my parents hair and “lay low”. Now one little accident, that wasn’t even my fault, was suddenly enough to kick me out of the house? However large my revulsion for the two people standing before me was, the remorse I felt for Morgan, overcame all feelings.

I took a few deep breaths, the calm the pounding in my ears. I looked over at the spiked line that showed my heartbeat. How could it look so healthy and normal when inside a war was raging?

I grabbed my phone from the side table and checked my messages and social media. For some reason, connecting with the real world seemed like the right thing to do. Tapping the Facebook app, I wanted to write some sort of poetic tribute to Morgan, and post it on her wall. But something else caught my eye. 387 notifications and 45 messages. That was practically the entire 9th grade. Cautiously, I checked my notifications first, as they would take a longer time. Most of them led to my wall. As I read, and reread some of the posts, my eyes started to sting.

“Mikey Hudson will never love u lol u cray” one wrote.

“tbh i’m not even surprised that your parents are alcoholics. figures.”

“LOL JORDAN EXCALI WOULD NEVER LIKE YOU”

“pls just go away no one needs you here”

The list went on and on. There was so much hate in these comments. But I didn’t do anything. Why did all these people loathe me? Gradually, the vexation I pushed aside earlier rose to the surface again. This was all of my personal information they were exploiting. How did they even find out? I tapped back to my newsfeed and saw the answer staring me boldly in the face, jeering at me.

It was all Morgan. She told everyone… everything; my crush on Mikey Hudson, my hunch that Jordan Excali liked me, my parents alcoholic problem – everything.

For the umpteenth time, tears overfilled my eyes, as I thought of Morgan. But this time, I wasn’t completely sure whether the tears I cried, were of anger, or of sorrow. My inner feelings were battling each other for the rightful place in my heart and mind. And now it was a test of what was stronger. Could grief cloud the anger? Or would rage triumph and completely wipe out any sorrow I had over her death? I couldn’t believe that Morgan, Morgan my best friend, betrayed me.

I felt so alone. The majority of my grade hated me. My best friend was not only dead, but the last thing she did for me was betray me. My parents didn’t care for me. What else was left? Nothing.

I fell into a light slumber then, plagued with sharp spikes of angry reds and dark blues. When I awoke, I was significantly calmer. I thought about what my life was going to be like now. What if that was all I felt for Morgan for the rest of my life was fury? No, she deserved more than that.
On the other hand, I couldn’t just ignore the fact that she had forsaken my everlasting trust. My brain and heart throbbed in unison as they conferred with each other, to decide which emotion they would possess. It was too much of a hardship. I felt as though my heart was ready to burst from all the stress and complications put on it. For the second time in as many as minutes, my heart sensed that the weight of the world and all its troubles were bearing down on it. But this time, the weight was too much. My delicate little frame could hold no longer. Every breath I took was a wave of agony, more than eager to knock me over. Every thought that trespassed my mind was burned into my brain forever and repeated in my mind until the very statement itself was invalidated. Every tear I cried, was a reminder of the confusion and chaos that settled itself in the new home it overtook – my heart. I had lost all sense of time and place. My body didn’t feel the rough cotton of the light green bed sheets below me or sense the presence of a microwave heat pack on top of me. I felt disconnected from the world, and therefore on my own little planet. This planet was a little like Pluto – cold, with bitter winds forever biting at my face. How I yearned for sunshine and peace of mind. How I desired freedom from this world of never-ending bewilderment and lasting anguish.

But, as long as I waited, that freedom never came. To this day, the incident still haunts me, in my dreams, as well as my daily visions. Though I am frightened to realize this, there was nothing I could have done to save my friend. If I had even tried to save her, we would both have died. But perhaps that was the better choice. That way I wouldn’t have to go through the torture I feel right now. I am afraid to take the bus. I get palpitations if I even walk past the place where the incident occurred. Whether I feel angry at Morgan now, I can’t tell. My heart is one grand jig-saw puzzle, but no one has the strength to put it back together – especially not me.

I slowly picked myself up off the ground where I lay, reminiscing in my story. My t-shirt was soaked with tears, and my hair was messy as a bird’s nest. Crawling to my room, I changed without even thinking about what I was putting on and ran a wire brush through my hair a few times. Retelling the story in my head, gave me renewed strength – not much – but enough to ignite a little spark of hope. With a smile on my face – the first one in 13 months – I went to the bathroom and fixed my hair, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and even applied a tad bit of makeup. With the meager piece of hope swirling around inside me, warming my body, I prepared my bag, and rode briskly to school on my bicycle. The fresh air only kindled the spark of hope rather than blowing it out.

I marched straight into first period and began my day, impressively better than the past 278. I participated in all the questions, spoke lively during hallway time to anyone that would listen, and even smiled at a teacher. That was my second smile today. What a record.

The minutes of the day seemed to zoom right on by as I partook in classes. Finally, when I reached the final period of the day I remembered that Mikey Hudson was in this class. Mikey Hudson who, without knowing it, stole the heart of every girl in the 9th grade. I walked past him gingerly, attempting not to draw attention to myself. Instantly, anxieties of not looking “good enough” overpowered my enterprising spirit. I probably look like a shipwreck, I told myself harshly, Just don’t make eye contact. Focus on the lesson. Naturally, I did none of those things. My eyes kept glancing sideways at Mikey to check on how he was doing. Once, he almost caught my gaze, but I expertly crafted my gaze downward just in time.

Around twenty minutes into the class, a poorly folded piece of notebook paper was thrown in my direction. My heart sunk. Could this possibly be another hate comment? Would people go as far as too insult me during school? Unusually eager, I unfurled the piece of paper with bated breath, and rapidly scanned the sheet. Again and again, I analyzed the page, hopelessly groping for an answer to the many questions that erupted in my mind. Finally, in the bottom right hand corner, a small inscription was made. “MH” it said. The full note read:
“you’re not alone. don’t ever think that you’re alone in this world. you have me.”

I looked up at him and saw his crooked half-smile. I smiled back. Maybe there was a way, and I had a reason to live. Maybe someone out there would tear up if I died. Maybe, just maybe, someone cared.