08 April 2009

green means go. | pt. 3

I think I am dying. I want to go to heaven with my best friend. My mother is on the phone in the kitchen. When she brought me in, she put me on the couch. Then the phone rang. My heart is stomping around in me like it's trying to run away. I want to run away. My hand rises and falls on my chest. I'm not even crying. I feel like such a bad friend for not even crying. My mother hangs up and sits on the couch, sliding under me so my head is in her lap. She strokes my hair and speaks softly, but I don't hear a single word. My eyes are fixed on the wood paneling on the opposite wall. Near the baseboard, my name is written in blue crayon. My best friend's is in red. You can't see it well because the chair halfway hides it. My mother never found out. I remember the day we wrote on the wall, like a pact that we would be best friends forever. When her mom called and said one of our classmates was waiting at her house, she left me. Just like that. I told her that day that I hated her. Our names blur and my heart hurts. Now my tears are sliding down my hot, quiet cheeks.


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