A few Cold Months

A Few Cold Months
I had always brushed it off my shoulder when it happened to someone else, never thought it would happen to me. You never do, do you? It always happens to the person next door, or someone you pass in the street. Your whole world is invinsible in our eyes, like a bubble, that can protect us from the world that we are so desperate to escape from.
         I remember the day my mother told me, not the specific day, or date, or even month, but the year is as clear as glass in my mind. The year had not been the best; as an addition, I should have expected it, after the mountains I had to climb. This was the one that unless you’re desperate to make it back alive, you never attempt to tackle, because it’s just too painful. My mother was not addressing me personally, but I was conveniently in the same room as her when she told us, though I wish I never found out. Her words were blunt, emotionaless, like a computer typing the words in her head, and her voice was the printer that made them visible. Yet, the few words that did have some feeling, were sharp like a deadly blade stabbing me in the heart. My choking became uncontrollable, like someone had grabbed my throat and began squeezing it with such force. My mother said nothing after, the room fell quiet. I didn’t dare say anything, I couldn’t, my mind had lost all knowledge of speech or emotion. My numbness paralised me.
         I never though it would happen to someone who existed in my world; nievity is my biggest weakness, though stupid it may sound but my bubble is much bigger than everyone else’s. Where was everyone when you need them? My tears were false, I had no right to cry, after all, why would a fifteen year old girl cry over someone she hardly knew, but only through her parents? If I had the answer, I would say it, but I could fnd no answers to what was a terrible stabbing in my body. My blood ran thick and was an angry red, until I was so numb I no longer felt any existance of sorrow or need to grieve.
         His eyes told it all, a barrior held back his fear. I could see through the metal that held it back. What striked me, was the fact that such an innocent, young human being was struck down by a monster that was hated so much, that it decided to find the person most unworthy of this murderous, naueseating specimen of nature.
         I had no knowledge of how painful it was, to have someone inside your bubble, suddenly be struck down and taken away without any warning, but out of the blue. One minute he’s there, the next, his existence is snatched, and never given back. Now that I have felt it, I despise myself for not being supportive enough to others.
         I didn’t even go to his funeral, I felt I had no right to. I could have gone, although my mother said I had no need to and even if I did go, I probably would have cried infront of everyone, which I rarely do. Now, I wish I had. I didn’t really notice him before; funny thing, feelings, isn’t it? You never really pay any attention,until something terrible happens. The day of his funeral was not a wet day. It was dry, neither cold or boiling hot, neither sunny or dull. An average day I would describe it as. Where were they when I needed them?  My parents attended, and my brother had an offer, but not me. I mean would I go? I didn’t really know him, why should I go? Why should I cry? I shouldn’t feel anything, other than slight sadness. I tried to stop them, but my tears would not stop falling, the dagger that stung inside me kept on stinging, like an open wound, that never stops bleeding. I watched my friends laugh and be joyful, whilst there was me, with an image of the friend that I only knew as living, was now about to be laid alone, cold, deep, in darkness, alone, whilst we live on, without a second thought. Of course we all have never and never will forget him, but did they notice? Did they see my tears choking me so much so that I could not breathe? Did they notice my eyes turning red, roar and blood-shot with soarness? No, they did not, not even a small hug or even a big hug. Every second was an hour, an hour was a decade. Only one gave me comfort; a gentle hand on the shoulder was all I needed, and she, the only friend who I knew had felt this knife previously, shared it with me, to half the pain. Where were the rest, I ask? Smiling, laughing I said, enjoying their day, whereas mine was a test from hell.
         To this day, my mother has yet to discover, that it hurt me too, possibly much more than it hurt all three of them put together. Well they’re adults, they’re not supposed to cry, are they? My mother has yet to know how many times I shed tears that hurt so much.
         Well I’ve felt it now, are you satisfied? Whilst everyone else got it and I didn’t, I am now no different from them. Are you satisfied now? My bubble has not burst. I have yet to discover whether I can re-build it.