• I had been crying. That was all I seemed to do these past few weeks. I couldn’t help it. The pain was just too much. Dad was mad at me for it, though. He told me that I shouldn’t cry – no matter what. That strong people don’t cry. But I can’t help it. Everyday, since her death, when I wake up and realize that she’s gone, I want to die too.

    It had been two weeks since her death. One week since the funeral. I shuddered, remembering the way my mother’s deathly white face looked: unhappy, her usually smiling mouth set in a permanent frown.

    That was what bothered me the most; the fact that she wasn’t happy, even in death. Her face would eternally be showing pain. I hated it more than anything. I also hated how she had to die so painfully. And I hated my dad for pulling the plug.

    It seemed like I hated many things in my life lately.

    There came a knock on the door, and I took a moment to calm myself down before answering. “What is it?” The door opened slightly, and my dad poked his head in. When he saw how I looked, he visibly became angry. “Violet, have you been crying?” He asked, sounding stern. “No,” I lied, but it wasn’t very good; my voice was thick from crying, my eyes and nose were red. He sighed but didn’t reprimand me. Instead, he said, “There’s someone here for you.” I was shocked; I hadn’t talked to anyone to all this whole time. Not my friends, not my family, not anyone, except for my dad. Seeing the confused look on my face, he said, “It’s Gerard.”

    Gerard. He was my most trusted friend. We had known each other nearly our entire lives, having become friends in the first grade. He knew me better than anyone. When all my other friends couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get over my mom’s death quickly, he was there to tell me that he understood what I felt, and that I could be as sad as I wanted.

    Which was true. Gerard’s mother died when he was three in a car crash, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t wish he got to know her better. If anything, Gerard was the only one who would let my cry, and feel with me.

    “Let him in,” I said.

    Dad nodded, and left, closing the door behind him. A few moments later, Gerard came in. When he walked in, I immediately felt guilty for shutting him out for so long. Why did I stay away from him? He’s the only one who understands. He’s the only one who let’s me cry.

    He stayed standing in front of the door, just staring at me. Looking me up and down. His green eyes stopped at my face, and he instantly looked worried. Well, more worried than he usually did. He swallowed audibly, then said, “Hello, Violet.” I cleared my throat. “Hello Gerard.” I hesitated a moment, then patted the spot next to me. “Come, sit with me.” He stared at me, uncomprehending for a minute, then he shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Um, ok.” Slowly he walked to where I sat on my bed and sat down next to me.

    We just sat there, staring at each other for the longest time. And then, after what seemed like forever, Gerard spoke up, disturbing the silence. “Has it gotten any better?” I looked at him skeptically, but didn’t manage to keep up the façade, as I burst out crying not moments later. “No!” I yelled through my tears. “I miss her! It feels like part of me died with her.” Gerard didn’t say anything; instead he took me into a hug, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Dad won’t even act like he’s sad! He too macho to cry! Gerard, he told me that I wasn’t allowed to cry!” Gerard hugged my closer. “It’s going to get better,” he whispered. “I promise. It may not feel like it now, but it will get better.”

    And with him sitting with me, holding me as I cried, it felt like it just might.