Miss Me Not

I walked home completely numb, not thinking, not feeling. I reached my house and pulled out my key, realizing that I had left my backpack in Ms. Jones's class. Closing the door behind me, I walked up to my room and pulled out my bottle of Jack.

With each sip I took, I reminded myself that this was my fault. I had abandoned James when he needed me the most. I had left him alone with our pact. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I was too numb. I just wanted Jack to make me forget, to rewind time.

Fogginess filled my head as I drained the last of the bottle. I vaguely heard pounding on our front door, but ignored it as I dropped the empty bottle on the floor and curled up in a ball on my bed. I fell into an alcohol-induced sleep and the pain momentarily slipped away.

My sleep was interrupted by the insistent ringing of the phone. I dragged the pillows over my head, blocking it out. The day passed in a sleepy haze as I drifted in and out. Each time I woke, I was acutely aware that I was to blame.

Darkness fell and I never moved from my bed. Having slept the day away, I was now unable to rest. Even after I heard Donna come in for the night, I remained awake. I wished I had another bottle of Jack so I could escape my demons, but instead, I lay there, playing every conversation James and I had ever had through my head over and over again. It was an endless loop that I couldn’t turn off. By the time morning rolled around, I felt like the walking dead.

At least Christmas break had started and I wouldn’t have to face anyone. I spent the day moving my room completely around. Once all my furniture was situated in new spots, I decided I didn’t like it and moved it all back to where it originally sat.

Dean tried to get a hold of me throughout the day, but I stayed closed up in my room, ignoring his countless calls and knocks on my front door. The passing hours felt meaningless from moving furniture and my unsuccessful attempt at sleep the night before. I forced myself to stay awake long enough to shower and Google the time for James's memorial service the following day.

The bright shining sun woke me the next morning, which somehow seemed fitting. James had lived in darkness for so long, he deserved the light. I was dressed hours before the service, anxious that I would be seeing Dean soon. I wasn't prepared with what I would say. What could I say, that I was a murderer? I may not have actually done the deed, but I sure as hell didn’t do anything to stop it. I was the one who had come up with the pact in the first place. I was the one who had discussed it for hours and then abandoned it in the blink of an eye. This was all on me.

I waited until Donna had left for work before I made my way down the hall and opened the front door. The air was brisk as I stepped outside and saw the vehicle in my driveway. I wasn’t surprised. I knew he would be here, just like he knew I would leave the house today.

He didn’t say a word as he opened my door and helped me into the jeep. I was relieved at his silence. Silence meant I could pretend nothing had changed. Of course, the hole in my chest contradicted my fantasy. Everything had changed.

The cemetery that James's family had picked for the service was on the other side of town from where they had held Mitch's, and the attendance was only half as much.

The proceedings were also different than Mitch's in many aspects. The minister was longwinded and didn’t ask if anyone had anything to say. He talked about sins and damnation, and used the passing of my friend for his own agenda. I sat in my seat stoically, trying not to glare at James's dad, who I was seeing for the first time in all the years I had known James. He was bigger than I had pictured him, and I hated him even more, knowing how he had used his girth and size against his son. As the minister continued on about the selfishness of James's act, I wanted to stand up and scream at him in frustration. I wanted to punch his dad. I wanted to yell that none of this was James's fault. I did none of this though, because deep down, I knew that as guilty as his dad probably was, I was equally guilty. I had failed.

Dean held my hand throughout the service, never speaking. I was thankful for his presence no matter how short lived it was going to be.

We left as they were lowering my friend down in the ground. I couldn't watch as dirt was thrown on his casket. It hurt too much. Everything I had ever believed about death was wrong. There was no closure, no ending, just endless pain.

Dean didn’t drive me home. Instead, he drove to a park not far from my house. We sat in his jeep in silence for hours. He held my hand the entire time, stroking small comforting circles around the tattoo on my wrist. I knew I needed to tell him. I needed to make a clean break, but I remained silent, soaking in his comfort and wishing I could cry.

Finally, as the sun was setting, Dean broke the silence. "I'm driving to Flagler tomorrow to join my parents for the weekend. Do you want to go with me?" he asked quietly.

"I can't," I answered as a small piece of my heart broke off.

"Why?"

"Because I don’t think we should see each other anymore."

"Madison, I know you feel guilty, believe me, I know how you feel, but it's not your fault. You didn’t do this."

His words pierced me like a knife. He was so very wrong. It was all my fault.

"I need to go home," I said, wanting to get it over with before my heart shattered completely into a million pieces.

Looking at me intently, he looked like he had more to say, but thought better of it. Five minutes later, we were back at my house.

Dean cut the engine off and unbuckled his seatbelt before turning to me. "I'm not going to lose you over this," he said, reaching a hand up to stroke my face.

"You already have," I whispered in a broken voice.

Anguish filled his face before he crushed his lips to mine. "No, I haven’t," he said raggedly against my lips like he was convincing me to change my mind.

It took all my willpower to pull away, which was ironic. Eight weeks ago, I cringed from his touch, and now I wanted to burrow in it. Irony was a bitch.

I opened my door and climbed out, grabbing my backpack he had the foresight to bring me.

Dean jumped down from his side of the vehicle and followed me to my front door.

Taking a deep breath, I finally turned to him. "James's death was my fault," I said, holding my hand up as he started to argue. "Let me finish," I said, silencing him. "It was my fault because it was my idea. We made a pact. We were going to do it together," I said, opening my front door and stepping inside. I closed the door behind me, but not before I saw the horrified look on his face.