MORNING AFTER

The next morning was horrible. After she gave me the news, we hardly spoke. I had hoped that I’d wake up and that we’d go back to normal" well, our “normal” I suppose. Last night I fell asleep dreaming of how morning would go. I’d wake up, go to the bathroom, and weight myself. I’d give up on showering and put my hair in a messy bun. I’d scour through my weeks worth of clothing options and rack my brain to remember an outfit I hadn’t worn recently, and ultimately give up, throwing anything comfortable on. I’d leave my room and pack my backpack on the couch as Rane poured her cheap, dark roast coffee into her to go mug. She’d pressure me to eat breakfast, I’d refuse, and she’d run out the door knowing she’d be late and saying she loved me. I’d say love you too. We’d both question how much we meant it.

But alas, the morning was no better than last night. My stomach was tight, and when Rane offered me a granola bar for breakfast, I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t hungry. She looked at me with sad eyes and for a second I reciprocated, but we both quickly broke the stare. We were never vulnerable with each other, and it felt too weird to be around her right now, so I ran out the door sacrificing my physical comfort for mental comfort. I stood out in the crisp, cold autumn air waiting for the bus to come, wishing I’d never have to step inside the apartment again.

 

This awkward tension continued for the next few days. After the fourth day or so (still not having addressed the subject again), things were finally getting back to normal. I was packing up by books for school when I heard the familiar hiss of our rickety coffee maker, signifying it had done its job. I glanced up just in time to see something I couldn’t, yet desperately wished to, get out of my head for the rest of the day. As soon as Rane pulled out the pot of coffee, she started vomiting. Yeah… morning sickness is a stone cold b***h! Everywhere. I mean, I know I should be more mature about this, I know I should show a little sympathy for Rane, but god, I can’t lie. It was horribly hilarious. After some of the s**t she’s put me through, on top of recent events, it was gratifying to see her in such a belittled state (I know, I’ll show myself to hell). I tried to be understanding and helpful, but seeing as vomit majorly grosses me out, there wasn’t much I was truly willing to do. She ended up just pushing me out the door as she held back some tears, and I knew she was probably mortified about the whole thing.

As I trotted down the stairs of our complex, I just started laughing. Rane always tried to keep herself together, to keep herself dignified; even when she told her parents she was pregnant, even when my father refused to be a dad, even when she had to live out of a car for the first two years of my life, hell, even now when she lives with a teen daughter in a 4 room apartment. Rane was the perfect girl before I happened. She was smart, beautiful, funny, everything you could ever want from someone. However, having me seemed to outweigh these still existing traits, and yet she never seized at trying her best to show these above all else. I felt guilty after laughing. Rane deserves so much more credit than I give her sometimes. She has her flaws, god does she have her flaws, but she did her best, right? I like to think she did her best with me.

All day at school, I couldn’t focus, which was unfortunate for me because it was my “hard” day. I knew I needed to talk to Rane about everything, but I kept hoping that she would initiate it, I mean, it’s her problem anyways. I decided I would bring it up after dinner, and began daydreaming about how I wanted the conversation to go.

“Taylor, what next?” Mrs. Vons asked

“Hm?” I muttered, snapping my head up to see the board covered in derivatives.

“Number 6. What next?”

“Oh, uh, you divide both sides by negative one?” I answered hesitantly. I needed to focus more, but knew it wouldn’t happen. I went back to my daydreaming.

 

           

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I'm 16, I'm new to creative writing, and I would love constructive criticism!