The light flickered along the walls in the dim room. Her lean, muscular body was delicately laid out on the oversized bed of fluff and pillows, papers messily strewn around her in a circle. The papers were everywhere--along the floor, the satin sheets, anywhere that was close enough for her to reach them. Occasionally, she would tear her eyes and hands from the tiny black laptop to swiftly shove the bridge of her silver glasses back up to the top of her nose before digging around the mess of papers again for some hidden, minute detail. Such was the life of a college student--procrastination was definitely her forte.

She slowly slid her glasses off of her face to rub her strained eyes as she heard the familiar ding of the infamous AOL Instant Messenger. A silent groan tried to pass her lips, but relented into a soft burst of air, almost a sigh. Her finger moved to the touch pad of the laptop to click on the incessantly blinking orange icon so that she could read the screen name. It was one thing to get interrupted, but she would only comply with the break if the person IMing her was worth it. As soon as her eyes scanned the name, her face brightened, and all thoughts about completing her upcoming paper were a thing of the past.

superfly11: hey kaleigh

‘Wow,’ she thought. She couldn’t believe that it was Trace. She hadn’t heard from him in so long, at least a few years, she was sure. She wondered what he was doing, and most of all, why he was IMing her out of the blue.

Kaybean1221: Hey Trace. Long time, no talk. How are you?

She sat and waited with baited breath, her mind reeling with what was going on as she started to think about the last time that she saw him and the drama that had surrounded their parting. She missed him. Why the hell did he have to go and IM her? She had finally started to get over the void that he had left in her heart, to live a normal life without all of the difficulties he wrought onto her world.

superfly11: not so good. i need to talk to you. can i call you?

Her heart dropped when she read the words. She audibly groaned as she shook her head. Why was he doing this? Her heart got the best of her, though, as slowly put her fingers to the keys.

Kaybean1221: umm...yeah, you can call me. 555-2392.

She bit her bottom lip as she hit the enter key and sighed, waiting slowly for his response. She had no idea what was going on right now, why she was doing this, or what was wrong with him. Seeing that she wasn’t going to get a response over the computer, she slowly got up so that she could grab her cell phone. Her heart thrashed prominently in her chest as she stared down at the small, colored device, waiting impatiently for it to ring. When it actually did, she jumped slightly, almost shocked that he had actually called her when she saw the familiar area code. She took in a shaky breath as she slowly flipped the smooth metal object open and put it to her ear.

“Hey,” she said softly, almost a whisper. She wasn’t sure what else to say, but she hoped that the pent up hurt from the past few years wasn’t evident in her shaky voice.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice equally quaking. “I...um, I...”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she interrupted. Even though there was a surfeit of history between the two, she still missed him and cared about him, and she was probably the one person who knew him better than anyone. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

She could hear him sigh on the other end. “Kay, it’s my mom,” he paused, the sniffles evident through the line. His mom was always really important to him, and she knew that.

The thumping in her heart quickened when his words started to sink in. “I...Trace?” she sighed. “What’s wrong with her? Talk to me...tell me what’s going on...” Her voice was full of concern. No matter what had happened between them, she never wanted to see him in pain.

“She’s dying,” he said simply, his voice distant and full of emotion. “I...I don’t know what to do, Kayleigh. She’s my everything,” he whimpered.

What was she supposed to say to that? Sure, she understood how it felt to lose someone that meant everything to you. She had lost him, right? But this was different; this was his mother, the only woman that had really been there for him his whole life. The one who raised him, who changed his diaper, who was there for him when his father would raise his voice or his hand. How was she supposed to help him deal with this, especially after two years of not even conversing?

“I...I’m sorry, Trace,” she uttered. “What can I do for you?” she continued softly.

“Come out here,” he said. “I...I know that we didn’t really leave on good terms, but I miss my best friend, and I need you. I can’t go through this without you. Please? For me?” he begged, but only heard silence on the other end. “Listen, I know that it’s been a long time, and there’s...a lot of circumstance in why we haven’t talked, but you’re the only person that understands. If you don’t come out here, I don’t know what I’m liable to do.”

She finally tried to compose an answer. “Trace...come out where? I don’t know where the hell you are,” she started, her voice raising a few decibels. She then remembered the news that he had just dropped onto her and took a calming breath to stifle her pent up anger.

“Trace, I have school. I just...I can’t just pick up and leave, especially for my supposed best friend that failed to contact me for the past few years. How convenient our re-acquaintance is,” she mumbled bitterly.

There was nothing but silence. It was a silence so thick that you could cut it with a paring knife, and for the first time, she didn’t know how to fix it. He hadn’t made an effort to contact her for years, and now he calls her and begs her to give up her life to come out and see him for an indefinite time period? Was he on drugs?

She knew the thought that she was unwilling to drop everything for him was painful, but she had a life now. She couldn’t submit to his every request or command like she used to, but the silence was starting to get the best of her.  She hated uncomfortable silence.

“For how long?” she asked, her voice full of submission. He always had this crazy magnetic effect on her that she was unable to control, creating the inane ability for him to convince her to do things that she really didn’t want to do.

“Really?” his voice seemed to audibly brighten, like she could magically take away all of his pain. Even though it wasn’t a definite confirmation, it was a sign that he was getting to her. “Out here, in Los Angeles. I don’t know for how long, maybe a few days, and perhaps a trip to Memphis for a few weeks, you know, for funeral preparations, to visit and all. I mean, it’s all indefinite. I really don’t know how long it will take, but I can’t go through this if you don’t come. I need my best friend...I need you,” his voice trailed off. You could hear the desperation clinging through the phone line.

She sighed--audibly.

“Trace, this is crazy. I have the rest of the semester to finish out, I can’t just leave,” she sighed. Who was she kidding? Finals were almost over, and she just had two more papers to write and a test to take the next afternoon. This was her friend, and he needed her. It was time for her to swallow her pride and the voice inside her head that was telling her that this was wrong.

“Okay...I’ll try and get a flight out tomorrow evening. I have to finish some finals, but as soon as I’m done, I’m out there, okay?” she mumbled in defeat.

She could hear his smile, even though she could tell he was crying. “Thank you, Kayleigh. I’ll never forget this. Call me when you’re done with your finals,” he finished. She could tell that he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just ended the phone call with a few sentimental words.

She groaned out loud before screaming, her arms slapping the sides of her thighs as her head fell back against her shoulders. Her mind started its mental battle over her obliging to his daunting request. She felt weak, stupid, and used. But she was always the person that had people abandon her when she needed them the most, and she always vowed that she would never be that person to anyone she cared for. That was a promise--one she was not going to break today.

The tightness in Kayleigh’s ears made her quiver, hoping silently that her gum chewing would ease the pain of the high altitude. She hated flying. The annoying ding floated through the pressurized cabin as the shrewd, yet porcelain-looking flight attendant voiced the standard procedure for landing.

She stopped her portable discman and reluctantly shoved it into the pocket of her carry-on resting beneath the seat in front of her, along with the rest of her CDs. She slowly returned her tray table to it’s stowed position, like instructed, and moved her seat back into its normal position. She sighed as she looked to her right at the old lady who was slightly asleep against her shoulder; thank God this flight was over.

Her stomach audibly groaned from hunger, at least that’s what she thought it was. She was ruling out the possibility that the lining of her stomach was eating itself out of nervousness. Once she felt the bumpy landing, she breathed in a long sigh of relief before panic sunk in again. With the sight of the palm trees out of the adjacent window, the reality of her presence in the dreaded wasteland of California was suddenly fully realized.

She was here now, and there was no turning back.

After the plane was secured at the gate, she got up to compete in the rat race for her carry-on luggage, even though she already had it in her hands. Her small frame, dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt that said, “I poke badgers with spoons,” in white lettering, slowly made its way off the plane and through the airport to the baggage claim she was instructed to meet him at.

Her trademark beige Birkenstocks scuffed slightly against the dirty floor of the airport, her fists gripping the bottom of the shoulder straps of her pale blue backpack as she followed the massive exodus to the baggage claim. She proceeded with caution, unsure of her surroundings and the new people in it.

She didn’t trust a damn one of these fake ‘n bake, botox, cockmongers with their fake breasts and taught, perfect skin. Nor did she trust the perfectly shaped boys, with their hair all perfectly spiked and their muscle shirts so tight that she thought they would rip if they moved too much. Did she mention she hated Los Angeles? Why did she agree to this?

She finally made it to the baggage claim and pushed through the rungs of obnoxious people talking with their fake Valley accents to pull her bag from the belt. She silently rolled her eyes as she had to push back a young blonde with a teacup poodle in her purse to even get the bag off the  belt.  Thankfully, she got it off okay and pulled the handle to wheel it off.

“Where am I supposed to meet him,” she mumbled, looking at the back of her right hand for the black ink she had scribbled the baggage claim number where he was to meet her. She cursed silently to herself when she realized that it had worn off, probably while she was sleeping on the plane. Her aggravated groan escaped her taught, light pink lips before she sighed, closing her eyes as she mentally tried to picture what she had written on her hand that morning.

“Hey, what the fuck are you...” she heard a man’s voice spit out angrily, right after she had smacked into him. She looked up sharply, an apologetic look all over her face, until she saw who it was. It was him. Her eyes narrowed and her once apologetic look turned to a fiery glaze.

“Justin fucking Timberlake. Wow, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she visibly rolled her eyes superfluously for dramatic effect. Her eyes traveled up to the baggage claim number and immediately realized this was the area she was supposed to meet Trace. Then her eyes drifted to the bodyguards, one overly large man holding a sign that said “Kayleigh Baker.”

Oh, this wasn’t happening. Was it?

“Yeah, well, trust me. I didn’t really want to fucking come here to pick up your sorry ass, but Trace couldn’t make it. Are you ready to go, or are we going to sit here and pussy-fuck around?” he retorted in an angry quip.

All that she could do was roll her eyes. She hated him even more this second than she thought she had in the past. Trace knew better than to send this sorry-ass of a man to come pick her up, especially when he had to beg her to come out here in the first place. He sure as hell was going to get it the moment that she saw him.

She rarely swore, and the only time that she did, it always involved this punk-ass musician who thought he was black. First thing she was going to do when she got settled was to buy him a mirror. “Fine, dillhole. Let’s go. The less of you I have to see while I’m here, the happier I’ll be.”

“Likewise,” he retorted. Everything about her pissed him off, and she knew it. Maybe that’s why she was always extra sassy when she did see him. He needed to be repaid for every mean thing that he had done to her in their lifetime, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let up now. Besides, he pissed her off equally as much. He was the only person that she didn’t feel bad about being mean to. He deserved it.  Every ounce.

They made their way out of the airport, but she felt extremely claustrophobic with all of the bodyguards surrounding her. She couldn’t see a damn thing. Justin was 6’2, and all of his bodyguards were much taller than him, leaving her 5’7 frame in a permanent shadow. She let one of them grab her bags and shove them into the back of one of the SUV’s carelessly. Her long legs climbed effortlessly into the backseat before buckling her seatbelt. She watched as Justin got situated in the driver’s seat before turning the ignition to the immaculately perfect Mercedes Benz. She turned her head to look out the window quietly, refusing to talk to him for the entire trip to wherever they were going.

As they were driving, the black Mercedes would swerve swiftly around corners, run through yellow traffic lights like they meant nothing, and barely stop at stop signs. She knew that he was doing it to piss her off, and she hated every minute of it. She felt as if she would puke any second. He knew that she hated it when he drove like this, which was exactly why he was doing it. Finally, he barely missed getting hit by another car due to his extremely reckless driving, and she felt the tires screech before he pulled the car calmly into the entranceway to the gate of his multi-million dollar bachelor pad.

“What the fuck, Justin!” she yelled from the back. She had been holding her breath the entire time, and she was ready to kill him. She hit the back of his seat roughly and shook her head. “You want Trace to have to bury two of his friends while his mother is dying, you ass? God, you’re such a prick!” she continued, getting out of the car the moment that it stopped, bending down to the ground to kiss the pavement. She never thought she would be so happy to be safe on the ground again. “Thank you God, for getting me here safely,” she mumbled as she sighed. She looked up and stared at the huge mansion and realized that this would be where she was staying. She just shook her head, knowing that this was going to be a long trip.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around the handle of the suitcase as she rolled it along the pavement to the door. Impatiently, her foot tapped while his body guards dispersed and she waited for him to punch in the code to let her into the house.

“Turn around,” he demanded.

“Why? Don’t want me to know the code so I can pass it on to all the girls you’ve fucked over in your life? Yeah, that would be a shame,” she stated sarcastically as she rolled her eyes. She was already sick of fighting.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled bitterly. He stared her down with his deep cerulean eyes, obviously waiting for her to turn her body around or cover her eyes. He smirked when she finally complied. He could always make her do anything that he wanted. “You can take any of the guest rooms, except the one with safari theme. That’s not suitable for the likes of you.”

“You know, Justin. Every time I have another encounter with you, I hate you more and more,” she growled. “We’re not friends right now.” She grabbed her suitcase and huffed as she went to find a room that was “suitable,” finally settling on the pale yellow room that she stayed in when he first built the house, back when they were on speaking terms. She just curled up in bed and prayed that Trace would get their soon. If she saw any more of Justin today, she was going to puke.

Her eyelids closed over her pale blue eyes as she curled up on the queen sized bed, her body contorting into a near fetal position, unwilling to change out of her clothes. She just wanted to forget the day, and that--that was what she was going to do.

Kayleigh’s eyes danced across the enormous dining room, sitting across from him at the oak table that must have been at least fifty feet long. Relentlessly, she watched him as he moved his fork oh so slowly through the thick substance of yellowish cream corn.

Scrape.  Scrape.  Gulp.  Scrape.

She wanted to puke at the sight, but she knew that she couldn’t. Instead, she just sat across from him, one leg carefully situated under her small frame, while the edge of her other heel rested on the edge of the chair. Her chin was resting on the top of her raised knee, and she sat patiently, silently while he ate.

Finally, she got sick of the silence. “You didn’t tell me I was going to have to stay here, Trace. And more so, you didn’t tell me that he was going to pick me up,” she stated cautiously. She had to say something, the silence was killing her.

Minutes passed. Nothing. He just sat there still, his head staring down at the bowl as he continued to stir.

Scrape. Scrape. Silence. Scrape, Scrape.

His face was unmoving, tilted downward as he stared at his hand. This was killing her. He wasn’t eating, and he definitely wasn’t talking. She was about to remove that spoon from his hand and feed it to him like he was a little kid, airplane noises and all.

Her sigh was audible as she continued to watch the moving spoon, transfixed by the movements and the sound that they would make, especially since there was nothing else to focus on. What to say,..what to say?

“Trace...?” she trailed off again, hoping he would take the bait and answer her. He grunted in response.

“Trace, sweetheart,” she continued. “I didn’t travel 2,000 miles to watch you play with your food. A webcam would’ve been cheaper,” she stated. She was trying to bring humor to the situation, but it obviously wasn’t working as he just made a disgruntled noise.

She watched nervously, painfully, as he got up. He looked angry. She turned her head away and closed her eyes as she heard him throw the bowl into the sink, the spoon and cream corn flying throughout the area where the sink was. She took in a shaky breath. Was it really this bad?

Her feet seemed to slowly untangle themselves from her position as she moved to get up. Her eyes took in his form, seeing his elbows lean over the corn covered edge of the sink, his hands moving to cover his face. She thought she saw his body quiver, perhaps from crying, but she wasn’t sure.

Her feet moved her to his body more quickly than she had imagined, and in no time, she was standing next to him. Her arms wrapped slowly around his waist, her lips moving to his trucker hat covered head, shifting it slightly so that she could kiss his temple. She felt him quake in her arms, and soon, she heard the sobs come.

This was not going to be easy.

“Shhh,” she comforted. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Unaware of their silent watcher, she slowly helped him stand up straight, reaching over to grab a washcloth to rid his forearms of the icky cream corn. She then slowly reached up to pull his cap off, resting it slowly on the counter, staring up at his face. His eyes were bloodshot already, probably from nights of restless sleep, and they were starting to get puffy from his crying. She hadn’t seen him cry in years.

“Ohh....Trace, sweetie,” she uttered. “C’mere,” her voice whispered silently. She felt his strong arms wrap around her tiny waist, his nose slowly nuzzling against the soft skin of her neck as his body continued to shudder with tiny sobs. Standing there, her hand slowly caressed his back as she silently swayed with him, trying her best to comfort him. “It’ll be okay, Trace. It’ll be okay,” she finished.

Her eyes traveled up his frame as she saw his body slowly pull away. He must’ve grown a few inches, as he was much taller than her now. Slowly, her hand moved to take his as she led him out to the living room, away from the owner of the house that had been watching them silently from the doorway without any of their knowledge. Her frame slowly sank into the cushions of the leather as she helped him move to lay his head in her lap.

Inching slowly, her fingertips traced little lines through his hair as she stared down at him. Her free hand moved to caress his arm and his back as she watched his features silently as he continued to sob. “Are you ready to talk about this...about your mom?” she asked slowly.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be melodramatic,” he uttered. His body would go in and out of sobs as he stared off into space while basking in the feeling of her hands on him, the comfort enveloping him. “I just don’t know how to deal with this. For the first time, I feel lost, confused, and alone.”

She nodded. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked curiously. It was a simple question. She didn’t want to jump in too quickly and make him a wreck again, but she knew that she needed to get him to talk about his mother. She was totally in the dark.  She wanted to know what was going on, but not if it risked making him feel better.  That’s what really mattered.

He seemed to struggle with his words before finally starting to talk. “I don’t know. The doctor’s don’t know. She’s been losing weight like crazy. She’s lost 40 pounds so far, and she looks like death. She went to the doctor for it, but it was just a treatment of the problem instead of solving it. She’s getting worse. All she does is lay in bed all day and cry. She can’t get up, she can’t do anything,” he continued, tears again coming to his eyes with every word. He tried not to let the sobs get to him, but his words would be broken up every once in a while by a sob.

She continued to caress his body as she listened. “Oh, Trace...” she trailed off. She didn’t know what to say. How was she going to make him feel better? No matter what, she wasn’t a superhero, and she couldn’t fix his ailing mother. All she could do was sit there with him and caress his sobbing body. She was glad when he started to talk again without her having to provoke a response from him.

“This is just difficult,” he sighed. “I’m so alone and depressed right now, mostly because I can’t talk about it with very many people. I’ve tried to talk about it with Justin and with Gabriella. And I want to keep talking about it with them, but I’ve been so angry and so depressed and so scared. Every time I mention it, I lash out, and I take everything out on them. It’s not like I mean to, I just...I can’t help it Kayleigh. Now they’re both avoiding me--they don’t want to talk to me at all. It’s like they’re skittish little kittens stuck out in a thunderstorm. I’ve lost my best friends in the whole world and I’m losing my mother,” he finished softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wow. She was breathless. What he laid on her was heavy, and she knew that his words were sincere. She could understand the lashing out part, as she saw him throwing his bowl of dinner at the sink, but how was this going to be any different with her? At least she got him to talk to her, right? Maybe that was more than what he had done with the other two, or maybe they were so busy or uncaring that they forced him to lash out. Whatever the circumstance, she was unaware of the situation between the other three. All she was concerned with was him, her, and what was happening right now.

“Of course it’s difficult,” she continued. “She’s your mother. She’s been there for you all of your life, through your mistakes, your troubles, and through all of the good times and the memories. I know it’s hard, Trace. I know that. I can see it written all over your face and from everything I know about you. But I also know this. You should be thankful that you’ve at least gotten to know your mother. She’s lived a fairly long life. Sure, she’s not 80 or anything, but she won’t have to suffer with the pain of getting old, her joints and bones aching, or even losing her memory,” she stated gently. She was always one to look on the bright side.

He sighed, her words sinking in, but instead of taking them to heart, he started to get angry. “What do you know?” he started. “You’ve never lost anyone in your life. You don’t know how it is to lose someone that you care about, to have the whole world crumble around you. You have no idea how...how it feels to have your heart shatter, to have to watch the one person who’s ever cared about you whither away to a tiny piece of matter,” he continued, his voice raising as he sat up, the hot tears burning down his face in steady streams of tears. “You don’t know anything,” he finished, throwing the blanket on the floor as he started to get up. She had never seen him like this, but his statements made her angry.

“Trace Alaya. Stop, for one fucking minute, turn your white ass around, and you listen to me. And I want you to listen to me good.” She slowly stood up, glad when he stopped, but noticed he didn’t turn around. She continued her advancement to where he was standing, grabbing his forearm near his elbow as she turned him around. Her eyes were narrow, and her breathing was calm and even. She was angry, but she wasn’t going to yell.

“If you think for one fucking minute that you’re the only person in the world that has ever felt the pain of losing someone, then I’m sorry to report that you’re sadly mistaken. People die everyday Trace, and I’m sad to know that your mother is dying. I love your mother, and you know that. Unfortunately, it’s a fact of life, and it’s her time. You need to come to grips with that. We’ve all seen our share of people withering away. I’ve seen too much of it, to be honest. I hate sitting here, watching you sob and cry while your mother is withering away somewhere, and all that you’re doing is sitting here and complaining about her dying. You should be there, with her, instead of sitting here crying to me. Spend the time you’ve got with her before you don’t have it,” she finished. She slowly turned, preparing to leave to go back up to her room.

Before she got to the stairs, though, she realized she needed to say one more thing.  She turned, paused halfway up the stairway.

“Oh, and before I go, remember this. You haven’t talked to me or heard from me in over two years, Trace. Don’t even give me that shit about I don’t know how it feels, because you know nothing about my life or what I’ve gone through. So rethink it before you tell me what I’ve done or what I haven’t done, okay?” She sighed, staring at him for a few minutes before heading to the stairs. “I’ll be in my room if you decide you’re ready to really talk.” Soon, her lean frame had disappeared up the hallway.

The days had passed since Kayleigh’s arrival in sunny Los Angeles, although her days were far from sunny. Instead, they were filled with anger, expletives, tears, and a whole lot of alcohol.

Things with Trace hadn’t improved since the episode in the kitchen, and things weren’t much better with Justin or his attitude. She was beginning to doubt her choice to come here, and she had even contemplated packing her bags. Unfortunately, that nagging feeling in her gut seemed to always keep her in place to deal with the chaos that was seeping through every crevice of the oversized mansion that she had come to despise.

Her long blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, her curls cascading neatly down the middle of her back. Her shoulder and upper arm were supporting her weight against the frame of the large archway connecting the living room and the kitchen. Sighing, her eyes slowly watched the troubled man laying dormant on the couch in the living room.  She crossed her arms over her chest, analyzing his every feature and form of body language.

Her eyes were glued to Trace’s lips as he brought the longneck bottle of Bud Light to them to sip the bland urine-colored liquid. He had been nursing the bottle since she got there, and it worried her. Sure, he was a partier, but the only party he was throwing lately was a pity party and he was the only one invited. Frankly, she was sick of it.

She was trying her best to be there for him, but not only would he not let her help, but he made it difficult to even talk to him. She was getting tired. She shook her head with a sad sigh before quietly pushing herself from the support of the frame. Her thoughts consumed her mind as she slowly ascended the winding stairs to the second floor.

Without thinking, her feet led her to the entranceway of the bedroom Trace was staying in. Since he had been nursing the bottle and being downright grumpy to everyone that came in contact with him, she had decided to try and take a different approach to dealing with him, since talking obviously didn’t work. Her first order of business was to do his laundry, since he wore the same skanky shirt and jeans everyday; her second was to cook him his favorite meal; her third was to get rid of all of the alcohol. She was a woman on a mission, and she wasn’t going to stop until she got through to him.

Her small hand slowly reached for the door knob before turning it quietly. She let it creek as she pushed it open slightly, shocked to see the massive piles of dirty clothes everywhere. It looked like his room was utterly trashed, and it should probably be declared a national disaster site. Her bare feet slowly stepped over the land mines as she searched for a laundry basket, deciding to try the closet for the hidden object.

Upon peaking into the open closet, she saw a clear plastic basket on the top shelf of the massively large space. Her hand went to her hip as she let out a sigh, blowing a small piece of loose hair out of her face. She finally moved to reach up, her short stature finally getting the basket into her grasp, pulling it slowly down from the top shelf of the closet. As she did so, a small black and white marbled composition notebook fell from its position on the shelf with a muted thud against the white carpet.

She slowly shifted the clear plastic basket behind her into the bulk of the room. Bending down slowly, she took the small notebook into her hands with intentions of placing it back on the shelf; curiosity, however, got the best of her. She slowly opened it, curious about it’s contents. Quickly, she realized it was his journal. She shook her head and moved to close it. She wasn’t about to read his journal. That, to her, was a crime that no one should commit. No, she wasn’t going to read it. She stood back up and placed it back on the shelf with care before turning to go put his clothes in the basket.

One by one, she placed his dirty laundry into the laundry basket, emptying out pockets in the process so that she didn’t accidentally wash something important. As she was doing so, the thought of reading his journal was eating away at her inside.

Why would it be so bad? She just wanted to know what was going on with him, and he obviously wasn’t going to tell her himself. Maybe just reading the last few entries wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It wasn’t like she was going to read his entire journal or life story, right? No, she just wanted to know what he was feeling so that she could try and relate to him, to get through his thick, stubborn skull. Her body halted its motions and turned towards the closet, still battling with her morals inside her head. Ultimately, she decided she needed to do it. She needed to understand his emotions if she was really going to be able to help him through this.

Her body shifted unsurely, pausing to look back at the entrance to his room, before finally making the initial steps towards the closet. She made sure that the door was closed, spying the knob nervously, before turning back to the task at hand. Her arm stretched slowly, grabbing the notebook and sliding it down. She slowly sat down on the carpet inside the closet, and she slowly opened the notebook.

She flipped through the pages carefully, yet quickly, wanting to find the last few entries and read them as quickly as possible. Finally, she found the last one that was dated for the day before.



Dear What does it all mean? Self,

The Sunday ritual of eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the paper together has been chopped to pieces this morning. My mother was up all night throwing up in the hospital bathroom. So, I'm sitting here, in the quiet, in the gloom of the house because the lights are off and the sun isn't shining; not a soul is up besides me, and I'm waiting. I’m drinking. That’s all I seem to be doing lately. It’s a lonely life to lead, but it’s better than sitting at the hospital, watching her slowly wilt away to nothing.

At the hospital, I just sit. I watch her. I watch her eyes, sunken in the back of her head, the way their pale blue orbs used to look so vibrant, and now? Now they just look deathly, vacant, and pained. Sometimes she talks to me, but most of the time she’s too weak to. Every once in awhile, though, she’ll open her mouth, and her hoarse voice will peep out of her taught, chapped lips. That’s what I wait for. For her to speak, to say something to me, to call to me, to even know that I’m there. It scares the shit out of me when she does. I move towards her bed, wide-eyed, uncertain, she utters a few words. Then I nod, waiting for her to go back to her little world, and I mentally run. I run away from this place where there’s pain and sorrow, so that I don’t have to see the look on her sad face. It makes me sick.

Last Thursday, she laid her head in my lap while we were watching television, and she started to cry. Not big crying; it was difficult to tell that she was crying. It was more of a whimper. She was crying again this morning. I've only seen her cry a handful of times: 1) she had an abscessed tooth and she didn't know I was watching her, 2) when she took pictures of me for graduation, 3) when her cat died, 4) and now that she's sick.

I wish she weren't so stubborn and that I could know how sick she is. At the same time, I wish that she weren't sick at all. She's gaunt and yellowed, much too thin. She doesn't sleep; she doesn't eat. When she talks, which is rare, it's sharp and bitter--she's angry all the time. She's losing her mind. If you ask her a direct question, seldom does she even answer, and if she does, the train of thought is skewed.

Kayleigh arrived a few days ago. She has not yet seen her in the state that she's in. I’m afraid for her to. She knows how much my mother means to me. But one can express little in haphazard brushings in the hallway. She doesn’t understand anyway, mostly because I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to feel the pain I’m in. I don’t know why I asked her to come. She can’t help me, and she can’t help my mother; no one can. She’ll see her, the way my mother acts in her dying sickness, and she’ll become sad and angry and bitter and confused just like the rest of us. Then, she’ll leave for Memphis, just as planned, and think little about it. I should have left her out of this, but I need her. She’s always been my strength, my rock. I thought she would be able to help me get through this, but I end up just pushing her away and wallowing in my own self-pity. I hate the person that I’ve become. I’m losing my sanity. Maybe I’m the one dying...

But through it all, I remember something Kayleigh had written to me when I had left a few years ago, a simple note for me to read on the plane. It kept me going when I left her behind, and as I read the words, it keeps me going now.

“Patience is a virtue; tolerance is key. Solitude and quietude are ever important. Independence and strength may be all we have. We are in jeopardy, but we must still live. Depression, anxiety, bitterness, sadness; they pit against us, and we fight as hard as we can and we fall. We get back up again, briefly nursing our hands and knees and begin once more to fight. Right now, our struggle is indefinite, but there is nothing but life at the end of it. And I hope that that is something for us to look forward to, and more than look forward to, something for us to strive toward.”




The tears slowly slid down her face, slowly hitting the page, leaving their salty remains. She took in a sharp breath as she sighed, physically forcing herself to close her eyes. Her mind tried to picture Trace in this situation, seeing him watch his mother die before him. It pained her to think about it, to envision the vibrant woman that baked her cookies when she was little being thin, deathly, and restrained. At the same time, though, it made her a little relieved that Trace still cared for her and thought about her, even though he hadn’t seen her in years. A soft smile had pushed its way onto her face when she was reading the little ditty she had written for him years ago when he was leaving to stay in LA with Justin. It had hurt her, losing her best friend to her nemesis, but she wanted to assure him somehow that they would endure the separation and remain best friends. Even if they didn’t, he would live a long and fruitful life, filling it with people that meant the world to him, and he would be happy. That’s all that she wanted, for him to be happy.

She finally closed the book, realizing that she now, more than ever, had to prove her friendship and love for him. Her arms pushed her body up after closing the book, and she delicately tucked it back into its resting place. In a flash, she was on a roll, pushing clothes into the basket. When she had a full load, she went to the laundry room, shoving the items into the several washers that Justin had. How did he live with all of this shit? Sometimes, the pompous ass amazed her with his materialistic ways. She wasn’t here to bicker with Justin, though, she was here for Trace.

After she finished placing the clothes in the laundry, she went into the kitchen to start searching for some food. Luckily, she had everything she needed since the part-time wait staff that Justin employed always stocked the industrial sized refrigerator with random food to fulfill his every waking whim. Humming a quiet little song, she started fixing Trace’s favorite, baked homemade macaroni and cheese with peach cobbler for dessert. In no time, the kitchen was filled with delicious smells, and for the first time since she arrived, she had a smile on her face. Today, she decided, was going to be a good day.