Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 142764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Think about something else… anything else.
There’s a never-ending pile of new clothes, all still with the tags on them, and a stack of paperbacks that sit near the bed on the floor. I look at them with rage. I’m not alone in my grief, but I feel like it. Sebastian thinks he can buy my happiness, and I know this because of his constant need to shower me with gifts—new books, new clothes, new everything.
Those things are nice, but they don’t fill the void. Maybe those things work for him, or perhaps that’s how he’s always coped, but that’s not how I cope. I can’t just buy something new and forget about my problems. Seb and I are not the same. Money can solve a lot of issues in a person’s life, but it cannot fill the void and loss of someone you love. You can’t replace people with objects.
Here and there, I have the desire to leave this room and venture to other parts of the house, but those times are few and far between. I try my best to keep to myself. I don’t belong here. I don’t need another reminder of exactly how much I don’t belong.
Everything in my world is so much darker without her… without him.
It’s like all the color has been drained from my life. I try not to think about Drew, but if it’s not him, then it’s my mother, and I’d rather think of the thing that hurts less. I press back against the pillows and stare up at the delicately patterned ceiling, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with my life now.
I think back to the conversations with Sebastian in the past two weeks when he expressed his desire for me to return to class. I wish I could, but I haven't gathered enough courage. Not when there is a risk of seeing Jackie, or Drew, or anyone who knows what happened that night. I don’t need their pity.
Like yesterday and the day before that, I roll over on the bed when I get tired of staring at the ceiling and stare at the doorway.
The room is painted a beige color. The bedding, curtains, and trimming—rich people call it trimming, right?—and furniture are all as it was when I moved in: mauves and grays, pretty and understated. I picture it as a hotel room rather than a bedroom.
My bedroom.
My mother would laugh at the frivolity of it all. The ridiculousness of having ten pillows for my bed when I only need a max of two. The insanity that someone comes in to clean my suite almost every day unless I keep them from entering. The preposterousness that someone will deliver food at every meal time without me even having to say a word. For example, someone knocks on the door right now—five o’clock on the dot.
The staff are always on time, and I’m grateful for the food they bring me, but it doesn’t change things. The only thing I want off that food tray is the bottle of wine they usually bring with dinner.
I roll off the edge of the bed, my legs protesting after lying in the same position for hours, and open the door. One of the kitchen staff sweeps in. I think it’s Heidi, but I'm trying not to get attached to any of them. I’m not staying.
This entire experience has taught me a valuable lesson—never get comfortable with things because you never know when someone will get tired of playing with you and toss you to the wolves. It’s only a matter of time till Sebastian does it. He says he won't, but in this new world, without her, I don't trust anyone or anything.
The woman, who can't be much older than me, wears black slacks and a button-down shirt. I barely blink at her as she leaves the tray on the end of the bed where I prefer it and scampers back out the door without a word.
Something hot scratches inside my chest—guilt maybe for not being nicer, kinder, or not at least saying thank you. My momma raised me better than that, but Drew and the loss of my mother killed off any remaining shred of kindness that I had left. Most days I’m numb to my surroundings, to my thoughts. Sometimes I allow myself to feel things, but it’s never good when I do.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the empty room.
I swipe the wine bottle off the tray, retreat to my spot nestled in the pillows, and bring the bottle to my lips.
I tip it back and take a long swallow of the bubbly wine.
Sometimes it helps, but most of the time, it doesn't. But what else can I do? There’s nothing worth holding on to anymore. Reality is far worse than my dreams. My phone pings, and I snatch it off the covers and stare down at the screen with a frown.