this chapter is dedicated to proseablility for the amazing cover she made for me which is on the right<3 and also for her amazing support!
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AFTER
"You've been a lot nicer to me recently," Daisy comments on our fourth session together. "Something in the water?"
"Funny." I flop down on the bean bag beside her table and grab a cookie from the jar that she passes to me. Binge-eating has become my thing apparently but I'm sure Daisy's going to notice sooner or later. At least she won't rat to my parents. As far as I know, whatever deep and meaningful conversations we've had together have stayed between us and I hope she keeps it that way because I've begun to trust her. 'Course I'm never telling her that. Guidance counsellors get big-headed that way.
"I've noticed you've started hanging around other people again," Daisy says and thank heavens she doesn't have that bloody notebook with her. She's stopped writing notes down all the time. It drives me crazy knowing someone's writing all this stuff about me – assuming things about me like they know me.
"Creep," I flash back and she laughs.
"Shows good progress," she replies and she leans back on her chair and smiles, like she's immensely proud of me or something. I sneer.
"I could be hanging around the wrong crowd," I say. "I could be doing drugs right now for all you know."
Daisy raises an eyebrow delicately. "Pippa Harlington and drugs?" She chuckles. "Now that would be something."
"She's one of my students," Daisy explains when she sees my shocked expression. "A lovely girl."
The rest of our session passes away in Daisy trying to coax me into being more serious with my replies and me not giving a single shit. Still, it's fun. She knows I'm just trying to rile her up, trying to make her give up on me but that seems to be making her even more determined to push me out of my shell. Not that I need any pushing. I've made it very clear that I don't need this Let's-Talk-About-Feelings-While-Making-Daisy-Chains nonsense. I just don't see the point. What the hell am I supposed to talk about that she doesn't already know? That I'm sad my best friend is dead? That I'm going through what has to be the worst year of my life? It's pointless and it only makes my head hurt more.
And I need to save my energy for what really counts.
For the investigation, because Pippa fancies herself a detective and we're not creative enough to come up with a less corny name for it.
When it's lunch time I see Pippa running up to me, her thick hair flying behind her like an unruly lion's mane, and for one insane moment I wonder if she's solved the case all on her own. She's always been brilliant like that.
"Ready to start?" she asks breathlessly and I hide my disappointment with a small nod.
We've been going at it for two days now and we've even swapped numbers so we can text each other anytime we aren't at school. So far, we've done nothing but trace through all the conversations I've had with Adam leading upto his suicide. We've looked through our texts – something which I'd wildly protested against at first, to no avail – but we've found nothing, no tell tale signs. Adam was good at hiding his tracks well.
For what feels like the fiftieth time today, I recount to Pippa everything I know under our apple tree.
"He was normal," I tell her. "He never gave me one-word replies. Joked about as usual. Nothing was really off. He was going to after school football all the time as well. The weirdest thing he'd said to me was on the texts I'd shown you. I—I couldn't have known," I add defensively, just because I don't want Pippa to think I'm thick for not knowing my best friend was going through depression.
Even as I tell her all of this I'm unsure of myself. How am I supposed to know everything was normal? What if Adam had acted off and I'd completely missed it – like the blithering idiot that I am? I hadn't even been able to tell how weird he'd sounded on text, so how was I even a reliable source? And now I'm thinking so hard, trying to sort through fuzzy images, echoes of distant laughter, memory upon memory, Adam, and I cry out as an unfamiliar stab of pain shoots through me.
"Matt!" Pippa grabs me by the shoulders and squeezes hard. "What the – are you okay?"
"I – Good," I manage to choke out finally. When she lets me go, I notice I have a thin patch of sweat on my forehead. And I'm shaking uncontrollably. There's a sick feeling in my stomach and it's making me feel nauseous. I think I might puke. Pippa seems to understand because she quickly steps away. I bend down and wait. After a moment, when nothing happens, Pippa grabs me again and I stand upright.
"What happened?" she whispers.
"No idea," I breathe and I'm telling her the truth. Something seemed to have taken over me when I thought of Adam. Maybe this is one of those severe side-effects of grief that only some people experience. Maybe it's a side-effect made especially for me. Either way I hated it. I felt something. Maybe it's some sort of human instinct. I don't know. I felt something and it made me feel repulsed, dirty.
"We can do this another time," Pippa tells me when we're both sitting down and I'm chugging down water like it's the last time I'll drink. My tongue feels dry and sand-papery. I shake my head furiously as I drink and some water spills out of my mouth.
"No!" I say when I've swallowed it all down. "We're not wasting any more time. Adam – he deserves this."
"Okay." She nods. Then, after a small pause, "Okay, let's go through this one more time. The weeks leading up to Adam's suicide, he was completely normal. Nothing off. Went about his life normally. As far as we know." She frowns and clasps her hands together. "Hang on," she says and she looks at me. "Tell me about after the suicide. What were people's reactions? Who was asking the most questions? Anyone acting particularly guilty, perhaps?"
Now that hits the jackpot.
I think of brown hair and a black eye.
"Oliver," I whisper and my eyes cloud over. "Oliver."
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I can't find him anywhere the whole day. It's like he knows I'm looking for him and he's gone into hiding. It's silly to think it but I wonder if he really has disappeared for good and I'm never, ever going to find him. And that fills me with a dread like no other. Because Oliver is my only hope. He's the one who knows about Adam and of that, I am so sure. But I hate having to feel so dependent on a person I've loathed since I was twelve years old.
It's the end of school and by then, I am resigned to the fact that I'll have to wait till tomorrow to find that bastard. I walk home with my headphones on and the music is blaring so loudly into my ears I can barely even think. But that's good. The less I think, the less harm will come to Oliver when I am done with him.
I'm by the creepy little kids' park – the one with the creaky swings – when I hear footsteps. Well, I can't be too sure, because the music's on so loud. But I keep on walking because I'm too angry to care what these sounds can mean. They could just all be in my head. If this was a movie, the footsteps would be Adam's. But he wouldn't be alive. He'd come as a ghost, and he'd tell me everything that happened to him. A sudden gust of wind pushes past me and I feel a cold chill sweep over my body. Okay. That's enough creepy thoughts for today.
"Matt!"
The voice is faint, but it's there. I stop walking. The music is at its peak now and I can't even hear the sound of my own strangled breathing.
"Matt! Matt!"
My breath hitches and all sense seems to leave me as I turn around and start yelling back.
"Adam!" I scream and I'm looking around wildly, my heart thumping so hard against my chest it almost hurts. "Adam! Adam!"
"Matt!" There's a figure running towards me and my eyes narrow. I already know it's not Adam because ghosts don't look like that. Not in my head, anyway. Besides, the boy that's running towards me is too skinny to be Adam and he has brown hair. There seems to be a small, dark patch on the left side of his face. I inhale sharply.
Then, I'm running towards him with the speed of a leopard that's chasing after prey.
Our bodies collide and he wheezes. We've both knocked the wind out of each other but I'm past caring. He's on the floor and I'm on top of him, my fist in the air, ready to strike. Oliver struggles against the grip I have around his neck. I'm holding on so tightly. I could kill him. I know I could. He lets out a strangled yelp as he claws at my hand desperately. I tilt my head and let out a sneer. I'll kill him. After I'm done with the questions.
When I let go, he gasps, like he's swallowing a bucketful of air. Something seems to snap inside of him – I can see it in his eyes, the way they darken – and he lets out a cry and pushes me off of him.
"Are you fucking mental?" he shrieks, getting up shakily. I get up too and I notice I'm bleeding from my knuckles.
"You're mental," I hiss back at him, "for coming after me. After what you did."
"I know." He nods. "I came after you to – to tell you that I'm – I'm –" Oliver sighs and his shoulders droop and he looks like an old man who's been through a world of trouble and grief. "I am sorry."
I laugh harshly. "Yeah, that should just about cover—"
"Look I get it." His hands shake as he speaks. "I'm a scumbag," Oliver says, "and I agree. I deserve to rot in hell for what I –" He wavers. "I didn't mean it. What I said about Adam. In fact, I came here to tell you that I—"
"You think this is about what you said?" I thunder and I step closer to him. He frowns, looking confused.
"I don't—"
"You killed him."
"What?" Oliver stumbles back in shock but I can see through the act. He stumbles again and then, he starts shaking his head, the pathetic coward. "No!" he yells. "No, you've got it wrong. I didn't—"
I'm about to give him the first blow but he presses his hands on my chest and roughly pushes me back. "Just listen to me, will you!" he cries and for some reason, I'm inclined to obey. I lower my hand and nod.
"I'm giving you a minute to explain this mess to me."
"I knew," he begins. "I knew you'd come after me sooner or later. I – I don't know how but I just knew you'd clock that I had something to do with...this. Which I don't. I mean." He groans. "I wasn't the reason he...well, at least I don't think so. I never called him... that to his face. Never. I would never—"
"You hated him," I answer gruffly. "Why should it matter what you said to him?"
"I didn't – I don't hate Adam." Oliver's breath begins to shake. "See, th—the thing is I...it's complicated. I—"
"Spit it the fuck out," I snap and he winces. I almost feel bad. Almost.
He licks his lips and I notice that they're cracked. Then, he speaks.
"I loved him."
And this is when I punch him again.
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