Thoughts

I push the front door to my house open slowly. 

"Alexander?" I hear my mom call.

        D****t, I thought she was working today. She already knows that I should still be at my therapist waiting for her to come pick me up. But how does she know it's me? I could be an ax murderer. Maybe I should pretend to be one. No, that's stupid; she's already hot on my trail. 

"Uh, yeah." I reply as if I'm unsure as to what my own name is. 

She walks into the front foyer as I slip off my second shoe. "What are you doing home so early?" She interrogates me immediately. "Shouldn't you still be at Dr. Marrow's office?" 

I sigh. "No, we um, finished early." 

Her eyes narrow. "Really?"

"Yes." 

"Why do I not believe you?" She taps her foot against the dusty wood floor. Tap, tap, tap. It sounds like the same sound I got on my door when Julianne's mom came to tell me what had happened to her.

"I don't know how to tell you this Alexander, but they found Julianne's body in the woods. They, they um, they ruled it as an apparent suicide." 

"Julianne?" 

"Yes. I-I'm very sorry."

"It's not her. It can't be her. Julianne, she's-"

"Alexander James Bay, what are you not telling me?" My mom interrupts my flashback. 

I snap back to reality. "What? Oh, nothing." 

        She eyes me for a while longer. That's what Julianne used to do to get me to tell the truth about something. Julianne, Julianne, is it always about Julianne? Maybe I do need help. Every second thought I have is about Julianne. See, I'm even thinking about her now. 

"Fine, if you don't want to tell me what happened then whatever, I have a steak to rub anyways." She huffs, leaving me standing alone in the hall as she goes back into the kitchen.

        I head upstairs. You're probably wondering where my dad is. I'm sad to say that he is no longer with us, well not literally, he just left my mom and I about ten years ago. I don't even know his name. My mom never really talks about him; she only tells me the bad parts. 

"I always hear people in my class talking about something called a daddy. Do I have a daddy, mommy?" 

"He left two years ago Alexander, that's all there is to it." 

"Oh. OK. So I don't have a daddy?" 

"You do. He's just not here right now. He's probably out hiding in a hole because he's he's a coward who can't face up to what matters in life." 

"Oh. OK..." 

I climb onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling. This is what I do every day after the therapy sessions, I just lie here and think. It's mostly always about the same questions. 

Why did she kill herself in the woods? What was going through her head as she tied the rope around her neck? Did it hurt? Did she want it to hurt? Did she like that it hurt? Does she wish that she never did it?

        I close my eyes. Before she died she told me she loved me. I still don't know if that was legit or not, but right now I'm kind of hoping it wasn't. Because if it was, that means I was probably one of the main reasons why she killed herself. I mean, if I confessed my love for a girl and she didn't give a s**t about it I would probably feel pretty s****y; but that wouldn't be enough for me to want to kill myself. 

So what else was it? 

        I sit up now. Where is my sweater? I once had a really comfortable maroon hoodie that I used to wear all the time. Julianne always teased me about it, but she still said it looked really nice on me. Oh yeah, I remember she asked me for it one day and I let her borrow it, but of course, Julianne being Julianne never gave it back to me. That means it must be in her room somewhere. 

        I really want that sweater back. If I go get it, it'll give me an excuse to go back into her room again. I haven't been in there in a while, but I still remember it so vividly. Julianne was really unorganized herself but for some reason her room was always so neat. Her bed sheet set was pink and orange, she said it reminded her of a tropical sunset. She had posters of Fiji and the Bahamas all over her wall too, said she was going to go to both of those places one day. She also had a journal. I remember how much she always read it out loud to me. It carried her thoughts and some of her feelings; she was pretty bad at expressing her feelings. 

I wonder why people lie. Do they feel good when they do it? I could never lie and not tell the truth immediately after. Does that make me weird? 

She was weird; but in a good way of course. 

        My feet brush against my dingy carpet as I hang them over the side of my bed. All I have to do is go into her room, find my sweater, and leave, simple as that. I never have to go back into her room again once I find it. 

I find myself heading down my stairs a few seconds later. If it's so simple-then why am I so scared at to what I will find?