A Short Story About A Girl Who's Best Friend Committed Suicide. Very Unconventional Take On Her Reaction. May Be Slightly Unsettling

1448 words - 6 pages

Yeah, I guess I'm sad. I mean, of course I am. She was my best friend, and I'd be crazy not to miss her. But despite all that, although I've cried myself to sleep, I'm angry.

There. I've said how I feel. Now I can leave this cold classroom with it's hard chairs and unforgiving florescent lights.

But no, the psychologist said we should explain how we feel. He sat there, in casual clothes, his voice persuasive and soothing. I didn't like him though. His eyes were a little too big, a little too calm and gentle. He seemed to want to just hoard our secrets and fears, like a dragon hoarding gold, or a well-fed cat, stuffing himself on emotions and sitting back and purring once we gave him enough. So I didn't talk to him very much. I answered his questions, but I didn't break down in the middle of the answer, sobbing, like most of the other girls. He wanted more from me, I could tell. More anguish, more sadness, more guilt. Those he could deal with, with carefully rehearsed speeches, pats on the back, and "there-there" s. My flat answers, saying only what he asked for and nothing more, seemed to throw him off. So I didn't talk much.

I suppose I wasn't entirely truthful with him. All the emotions he wanted, and more, had come, and gone. There was anguish and sadness: Ohmygod, my best friend's gone and I'll never see her again. Denial: No. She can't be gone; we had too much to do. Terror: How can I face life with out her, go on alone? Goddess knows there's been guilt, and plenty of it: She is - was - my best friend. How could I not have seen it coming? And after all that, how can I be angry with her?

Ok, ok, I have to get myself under control. I don't know why I agreed to write this. Well, actually I do. It's because they said that keeping it bottled up could hurt us, and that getting it out would help. I could never tell any of this to a real person, no matter how harmful it would be not to. They would hate me if they knew, look at me out of the corner of their eyes, all the while thinking "how could she?" So here I am, sitting in class, with all the other people that decided to write about it, about her. Around me people are tapping pens and thinking noisily. A chair scrapes as yet another crying girl gets up and runs to the "comfort room" for people that can't cope. No teardrop makes my ink run, and I know because of that they all think I'm closing myself off, that I can't deal. But I accept what happened, I show no emotion because I can't show how I really feel - angry.

I met Selina when I was 9. She was new to the little Ontario town that I had spent my whole life in, and my mom, good neighbor that she is, sent me over to greet them, cake in hand. I didn't want to go, convinced that this strange family from some far off place - they were from Alberta - would act like creatures...

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