return to a normal routine. I spent almost an hour in the library, trying to get myself to stop crying and calm down after the incident with Jackson. Then I dragged myself out of the building and went straight home, where I showered, scrubbing my body of the filth I felt before crawling into bed. Jackson couldn’t have known what he’d done. That he recreated my worst nightmare.
I never told him, or anyone, for that matter. I never got the chance. After Jillian’s death, my life became a blur of darkness. My own fears and the things that happened to me, no longer mattered.
It took months for me to stop wishing it was me who had died that day, and even now, I still think about how it never should’ve been her. Today is only the second day I’ve left the apartment since what happened in the library. I haven’t seen Jackson, and my emotions feel as if they’re balancing on a tightrope with shark-infested waters a few feet below.
Looking over my shoulder like a paranoid freak, I rush into one of the local coffee shops on campus, one because coffee is my weakness, and two because I needed to get off the street for a second before I had a mental breakdown.
I know it’s only a matter of time before Jackson pounces on me again. Yes, I had a breakdown in front of him, and he saw me shatter, but I doubt that’s going to hinder him from attacking again. I think my behavior surprised him more than anything, next time, he’ll be prepared.
He’s determined to make me feel the pain he feels. Even though I already do. I live in the pits of hell inside my mind. Nothing he does can be worse than what I already do to myself.
The Bean. That’s the name of the place I just escaped into. It’s quiet and has a warm, comfy feeling. There are small lounging couches, chairs, and tables, on the far wall are some bookshelves. I decide to give the place a try and walk up to the ordering counter.
“Hey!” A young-looking guy–who is probably a student here–pops his head up from beneath the counter, damn near scaring the hell out of me.
This shit with Jackson has me freaking out over every little thing. With my heart beating out of my chest, I force the words past my lips, “Hi, can I get a vanilla latte iced.”
“Of course,” he says, smiling, and I can tell from the look on his face that he wants to say more, but I’m not about making conversation. The old me would’ve sat here all day and talked to him, but I’m not that girl anymore. Plucking a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, I hand it to him with a smile and start walking toward the other end of the counter, where it says pick up. I do my best not to look at him and instead pull my phone out and pretend like I’m talking to someone.
How pathetic is my life? I’d rather pretend to be talking to someone than talk to the person directly in front of me. As I scroll through my phone, I navigate over to my call list and realize that my mother had called me when I was in my last class.
“Iced vanilla latte,” the guy I tried to ignore calls. I step forward, claiming my drink while almost dropping my phone onto the counter.
“Thanks,” I reply. He gives me a tight-lipped smile and walks back over to the other side of the counter to help the people standing there. Once again, I’ve let the chance of a conversation, of reaching out, of being a typical college-aged girl, slip through my fingers.
It’s then that I’m reminded of something my therapist told me, “Jillian is dead, but you aren’t. You can’t change the outcome of what already happened. You can only go forward. You have to move on. Let go. The past is the past, but you aren’t going that way, are you?”
Would she want that? Would Jillian want me to let go of the pain? To move on? To forget what happened? She was such a kind person, always smiling, always helping someone. She was my best friend, and because of the domino effect of incidents, she isn’t here today. Knowing Jillian, she would expect better of me, expect me to be happy and smiling, to carry on remembering her, and loving her, but she has no