it's my first attempt at a short story

I shut down. A zombie-like existence was all that I could muster in this state.

Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. It wasn't that bad back then, but that's how I look back on it all. I think that's how it was, but really I felt some things, they were just dulled down. It was more like thoughts through a thick mist. I mean, all that I could think about was what kind of monster I had become, and of course the incident that caused it. In the end though, I couldn't change it, and I knew this, so I only rebelled against it in one way. My piece de resistance, my work of art, was the razorblade biting into my skin. It started as being able to control my pain for once, but it all evolved. The pain was nice in my empty apathy; it made me think that I could feel something, anything.

As I sat in fourth period the only thing I could think about was getting to lunch, getting to lunch to feed the monkey on my back. That and of course the one memory that I couldn't keep down even when I committed my sweetest sin. It was the memory of the beginning of the end. Like a broken talking doll, back and forth it went, never stopping.

It's the viewing. After pacing the parking lot back and forth, debating if I could do it, I went in. The wooden doors of the church closed with the loudest thud ever. Every head turned back to look at me. Every. Single. Head. Then the crowd around the casket parted, like the red sea, and through it I walked.

I finally arrived at the waxy corpse in a black empire dress, the waxy corpse of my beloved best friend, Sam. Even now she was utterly gorgeous, with death even unable to take the fire from her beautiful green eyes, with light brown flecks. Her loosely curling blonde tresses were perfectly framing her round face.

Gazing upon this sight fit for a God, knowing that it had really happened, I fell apart, right there in front of the coffin. I curled up in a ball and started crying uncontrollably. She had been my support, had made me feel like nothing could ever touch me, but what do you do when your legs are amputated, and no one even gives you crutches?

As Mrs. Pattison bent down to comfort me, it only made me feel worse. She looked too much like Sam, and it made me cry even harder. For the next twenty minutes I couldn't even get up it was so bad! Again I was being stared at. The thought passed my mind that I was the one being viewed in this scenario. Through my blurred vision I read pain and sympathy in their eyes, but those feelings weren't for Sam.

Upon that sight I got the strength to get up, and to be for one last time her defender.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you? Huh? I don't see tears in your eyes; all you can do is stare at me like some damned animal! None of you cared about Sam, none of you! She's gone you know? And I bet it was some kinda asshole like you that shot her!”

But all the shouting did was put more sympathy in their eyes. They probably thought grief had pushed me screamingly over the edge.

I decided they could shove it, I was here to say goodbye, so that's what I did. I got up, leaned down and kissed her on the lips. They felt so cold and stiff, but then again I'm guessing so did the rest of her body. I pressed on though, for about ten seconds I continued, as if this would bring her back, but it didn't. In the end I gave up, stood up, and shut her eyes.

The tears stopped. It was all over. My Sam was all over. Feeling was all over. So I left her and myself behind in that room. If she was to die, then I would to. So what if I was being melodramatic? I deserved it in a time like this; she was the only person to understand me.

That's where the memory ends and starts again.

The bell finally rang. I trudged down the hall, ducking my head but still feeling the eyes upon my back. I guess I had a knack for getting stared at. I quickly chucked my books in my locker and left for the bathroom.  I pulled from my pocket my new best friend, and slowly rolled up my sleeve. Oh the sweet anticipation!

I dug deep, hoping for the millionth time that this time I may just catch a vein. But no such luck on the first attempt. Next time, I split my skin wide open about half of an inch. I had the thought that I was dissecting a fetal pig when the big well opened up, dissecting myself, and I cringed. I couldn't even look.

This time cutting just wasn't the same. I was betrayed, my only friend left had decided to pack up and leave. All I got was more worries instead of relief. I needed stitches, what was I to do? The only people who could know about this were Myself and God. With this shallow depression upon my soul, I  continued on with the monotonous routine of my day.

     
As the final bell rang, upon a whim, I decided to walk home instead of taking the bus. It would only take about forty five minutes. I was in a nostalgic mood, so why not take the old route Sam and I used to? And I did.

With about fifteen minutes left, I came across the old park. It had brilliantly rusted set of eight swings, a big tall slide, and a jungle gym with washed out and chipped paint. The area around it was overgrown with weeds three feet high, and nobody ever came round anymore. No one cared to be a friend to glory past, but to Sam and I this only made it so much more glorious. It was our place.

I could almost hear Sam call to me. “Claire, over here! Come on, let's swing! Quick before I get yours!” I could hear her laughter as I laughed, that beautiful high-pitched tinkle that sounded like a child's.

I jogged over to the swing set with its deserted play things.. I happily went along with my delusion. I quickly mounted my swing before she could get to it, and started pumping.

I kicked forward and let my body lay back, brown locks flowing in my self-created wind. I yelled
out to the world in elated joy and started pouring out sweetly sorrowful tears. I stared up at the sky of a setting sun, seeing its beauty for the first time in months.

On the rest of my walk home I thought about what needed to be done. I went through all the options in my head about my situation, debating back and forth as to whether I should tell someone and get help, or to just let it all be.

My mental process went a bit like this, “I can't get medical care without mom finding out. If I were to go to a hospital, they would have to contact her, seeing as I am only sixteen. But on the other hand, I lose use of my left hand if I don't get help. But what if mom abandons me? Gosh I'm stupid”

I reached a decision.

 When I got home I called out to my mom.  She came running down the stairs to me. I guess something in my tone alerted her. With tears in my eyes for the second time that day, I rolled up my sleeve and showed her. I could hear a sharp intake of breath, and I watched as the tears reached her eyes. We let them fall together.

“M-m-mommy, I loved h-her. She's g-gone.”

“I know b-b-baby, but r-right now we have another p-p-problem to deal with. I should've t-talked to you Claire; I should have noticed that you were in this much p-p-p-pain. This isn't right, I'm so s-sorry darling.”

“b-b-but-”

“hush my darling, we n-need to get you to a hospital.”

After that short exchange and an infinitely long hug, we headed off to the E.R. That night was spent in the E.R., that night was spent in shrink's office after shrink's office. That night was spent feeling.