The Day Hope was Murdered

7. Amanda's Rant

// Chapter 7: Amanda's Rant \\

"NO. You really don't." Amanda's voice is forceful. "When is the last time we actually talked talked since Hope's death? Just hung-out and talked?"

I think about it for a moment. "Um, well, I don't think we have."

"Exactly. All we've both done is sulk over Hope's death... Separately. While we should have been doing it together. What do they always say? Two is better than one. You don't know how many times I wished to just call you up and rant about what I was feeling Leila. But the thing is, the thing was.. I couldn't. Because we weren't okay, and we're still not okay, after all these months, you'd think we'd be, but we're not. Do you think Hope would be happy about that? Do you?"

I don't respond. Because deep down, I know she wouldn't be.

"And especially with this crap about you attempting suicide and being in a coma, Leila, the stress on me has just been insane."

I decide not to counter her accusations. I try to appease her temper, and reach out to give her a hug. "I'm sorry Amanda. I agree. We need to fix our relationship. How about you start by telling me all those things you wished to call me up and rant about. Better late than never, right?"

Amanda lets out a huge sigh. "Fine. But first, I'm hungry. I'm going to go get a taco from the cafeteria. You want something?"

"Nah, I'm good."

She leaves the room and I'm left alone for the first time since the I had heard the news about my antidepressant-overdosed system. Finally. I really wish I had my notebook with me right now so I could organize all the thoughts racing through my mind. I glance over the the table beside my bed, or rather, my cot, and notice a box of tissues. This'll have to do I think. I grab a tissue and the pen sitting down beside them and start writing.

It starts out messy and nearly indecipherable, like something from an illiterate, but as I write, I become used to writing lightly and the tissue eventually stops tearing.

I don't know what day it is, but I just woke up from my coma that was caused by my 'attempted suicide.' First off, thank you for keeping me here. While I can't deny the fact that I have wished to leave to be with Hope in the past, I realize I can't do that anymore.

Second off, I need you to help me decipher this puzzle. So, we currently know three things. 1. I did not mentally want to kill myself. 2. Somehow, a crap ton of antidepressants made their way into my bloodstream, perhaps by a person. 3. These antidepressants have been known to ironically, cause the very thing they're against--depression and that's why my mind got jacked up and I physically attempted suicide.

Maybe Oliver was right and I shouldn't delve into the background of Hope's murderer. My hypothesis is that her true murderer is, gave me the antidepressants to scare me off or something. But you know what? That makes me want to find him ever more than before. And even if it wasn't him who gave me the pills, I'm not giving up on finding him.

How to do so is the question . . .

I guess all I can do is go back to-

I suddenly hear the noise of a door and look up to see Amanda, a taco in her hand. Quickly, I tuck the tissue under the folds of my blanket.

Amanda speaks up. "Were you . . ." She seems wary of continuing. ". . . writing on a tissue?"

I scratch the side of my face abashedly. "Um, yeah. It's nothing."

Silence.

I then force a smile to my face and ask "how's that taco?"

She gets my memo and drops the subject. "Eh, I've had better. The shell is a bit soggy, and the lettuce a bit slimy, but that's hospital food for you."