A Little Bit Of Joy | ✔

Chapter Thirty Three : The Boy With Ocean Coloured Eyes

It had been three days since Logan had gone missing. He was already eighteen now, an adult. I was genuinely clueless about his disappearance and maybe that was evident on my face because the police believed me during the interrogation.

I tried to not let my thoughts wander towards Logan. Logan missing . . . Logan alone . . . Logan by the bridge . . . I shook my head vigorously. The Logan I knew would never do that, but I couldn't stop myself. I imagined his pale face devoid of any emotion as he plummeted down the bridge and into the fast flowing river. His thin body lifeless and washed away by water. And the horrifying part was that I could imagine it vividly like I witnessed it. Like I was there with him, watching him helplessly. Perhaps it was because of how we met. We met in the oddest of circumstances with his feet dangling by the railing, his mind prepared to plunge in the river.

No, no, no, Logan had come a long way and although he hadn't recovered completely, I was sure that he wouldn't take such a reckless decision. I was sure that he wouldn't throw his life away just like that, I believed in him, of course he wouldn't do that. I was sure that he would think about all the people rooting for him- Marilyn, Rosemary, Shaun, my grandpa, my parents and me. I was sure he would have thought of me and how much he meant to me. He would have, right?

I shook my head again and concentrated on the book placed on my lap. It was one of the British, historical romance fictions set during the World War Two. I had randomly picked it up at the bookstore and somehow felt myself drawn towards it. Sappy novel with mopey dialogues and dragged out bits, it still provided me with much needed solace.

Time was running out for me and a book lover like me wouldn't- scratch that- shouldn't waste their time on books like these. But I preferred to not explore the masterpieces of literature, out of the fear that once I got engrossed in it, it would be physically impossible for me to read all the books in the world. And I would want to read all the books in the world. It would lure me to become a recluse, lost in fiction world forever. I couldn't afford that right now. I turned to fiction in distressing moments like these, it was my own sort of therapy like people who found music their escape. A dying person like me couldn't make fiction their world. I somehow didn't have the liberty or the time to make it mine. My own story made me and broke me.

The front door of my house unlocked and my mum entered, balancing bags of groceries in her arms.

I shut my book and got up. "Wait maa, I'll help you."

She waved her hand dismissively, but didn't protest when I took some bags from her. Massaging her shoulders, she sighed. "How are you feeling today Joy?"

"What do you mean? I'm fine," I lied smoothly and placed the vegetables on the island. I could feel her staring at my back so I shrugged. "I'm alright really."

"I'm your mother, I know when you're bothered by something."

"Then why did you ask?" I snapped and immediately bit my tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

My mum didn't say anything and started to prepare for dinner. I felt guilty and when I apologised again, she laughed. I couldn't bear to upset her or my family, they already had too much to look after than my mood swings and outbursts.

I took a potato and repeated, "I'll help."

My mum laughed again, the corners of her eyes crinkling. I loved her more (if that was possible) whenever she laughed. It was a stark contrast to her normally stony face. She had a beautiful laugh and perfect white teeth. Her happiness was contagious, we all generally laughed along with her. Even Gemma would smile subconsciously.

"You go out for a ride or a walk or meet your friends. Your friends from school . . . Ashley, Cath and that Johnson's daughter . . . They asked about you today at the store. You should meet them, they miss you," my mum said and started chopping the cabbage robustly like she was on a war with it.