Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
He’s determined to make me feel the pain he feels. Even though I already do. I live in the pits of hell inside my mind. Nothing he does can be worse than what I already do to myself.
The Bean. That’s the name of the place I just escaped into. It’s quiet and has a warm, comfy feeling. There are small lounging couches, chairs, and tables, on the far wall are some bookshelves. I decide to give the place a try and walk up to the ordering counter.
“Hey!” A young-looking guy–who is probably a student here–pops his head up from beneath the counter, damn near scaring the hell out of me.
This shit with Jackson has me freaking out over every little thing. With my heart beating out of my chest, I force the words past my lips, “Hi, can I get a vanilla latte iced.”
“Of course,” he says, smiling, and I can tell from the look on his face that he wants to say more, but I’m not about making conversation. The old me would’ve sat here all day and talked to him, but I’m not that girl anymore. Plucking a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, I hand it to him with a smile and start walking toward the other end of the counter, where it says pick up. I do my best not to look at him and instead pull my phone out and pretend like I’m talking to someone.
How pathetic is my life? I’d rather pretend to be talking to someone than talk to the person directly in front of me. As I scroll through my phone, I navigate over to my call list and realize that my mother had called me when I was in my last class.
“Iced vanilla latte,” the guy I tried to ignore calls. I step forward, claiming my drink while almost dropping my phone onto the counter.
“Thanks,” I reply. He gives me a tight-lipped smile and walks back over to the other side of the counter to help the people standing there. Once again, I’ve let the chance of a conversation, of reaching out, of being a typical college-aged girl, slip through my fingers.
It’s then that I’m reminded of something my therapist told me, “Jillian is dead, but you aren’t. You can’t change the outcome of what already happened. You can only go forward. You have to move on. Let go. The past is the past, but you aren’t going that way, are you?”
Would she want that? Would Jillian want me to let go of the pain? To move on? To forget what happened? She was such a kind person, always smiling, always helping someone. She was my best friend, and because of the domino effect of incidents, she isn’t here today. Knowing Jillian, she would expect better of me, expect me to be happy and smiling, to carry on remembering her, and loving her, but she has no idea how much her memory hurts me. How much it hurts, because I am the reason she isn’t here. Me. It’s all my fault.
“Excuse me,” someone mumbles as they pass by me, and it’s then that I realize I’m still standing in the coffee shop. I need to get out of here. With my coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the now quiet street. Everyone should be in or near their classes now.
Everyone but me. I choose to skip creative writing today, even though it’s one of my favorite classes. It’s too soon to see Jackson’s gorgeous but frightening face after what happened. Sipping the icy coffee through the straw, I’m met with a surge of joy. I don’t once look over my shoulder, knowing that Jackson is in class right now, waiting for me to show my face and not following behind me.
When I reach my apartment, I walk in and toss my stuff onto the small sofa in the living room. The place starts to look more and more like a home every day. I both loathe and enjoy it. Locking the door, I slip off my sneakers and walk over to the couch, settling against the cushions of the sofa.
I have to call my mother back because if I don’t, she’ll call my old therapist, probably the dean of the university, before sending out a swat team or worse, she’ll show up here. Entering the unlock code on my phone, I navigate to my call list and sigh as I hit the green call key.
The phone rings once, almost as if she’s sitting right on top of it, watching for my call to flash across the screen.
“Hi, sweetie! I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. It’s been a while since we talked.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s been three days, Mom, and I’m doing good. Going to classes and enjoying living the college life.” The lie comes easily since I’m used to telling people that I’m fine when I’m not. I think about the scabs on my legs I’ve been picking on and the new cuts right below. My mom can never know about any of those.