Friends to the End

by Brianna Coleman

The lamp was busted on the floor; the only light was the moon shining in through the window. The sticky, red liquid seemed to be everywhere. Caked in the carpet, matted in my hair from my hands pressed against my head in bewilderment, splattered on my wide-eyed face, covering the knife by my side, streaked on the wall from when I backed up and slid down it, uncomprehending what I had just done. Blood… Oh, I did a good job.

Lost – that’s what they called me. In a few months, my small family became nonexistent. Sickness, accident, anything you could think of. My friends were graduating and moving away. Almost instantaneously, I went from being a strong, independent girl with family and friends by her side, to an orphan with so much grief building up, insanity was a given.

And the one person who could have made the difference – could have reached out and saved me from internally combusting – my best friend – turned from me, preferring the company of those who were “saner” than I was.

Not only did she publicly announce her detachment from me, she flaunted her newfound higher status. And I would dig my nails into my hands until they bled; grind my teeth to stop from screaming out – anything but have the breakdown that she wanted. Who was she to humiliate me? Not so long ago, she was in a similar position. She was an outcast. Her family history was shaky from the start. Her mom left when she was too young to remember, and her grandfather passed around her tenth birthday. Rumors were always swirling in the air about how she would follow in her drug-addict father’s footsteps. When her father died from an overdose, the rumors just multiplied. She was always the girl getting teased because her life was more complicated than those around her.

And I felt sorry for her. She knew no other life than ODs and abandonment. But I connected to her; I could sense she had a vibrant personality underneath the anguish. I brought her back from depression and started her life anew. Even let her live in my house. And this is how she repays me. Gone were the all-nighters where we'd gossip about who the cutest boy was; vanished were our mall trips with some other girls from school where we would try on clothes but not buy them; no more peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, our signature meal that reflected how well we went together. Destroyed was our closeness that made even the happiest person jealous of our friendship. In its place was a demon whose sole purpose was just to use me until it became inconvenient for her.

She arrived at my house, flinging the front door open into my hallway, flipping her brown hair into my face when I tried confronting her. The house was dark; only one lamp was lit in the living room. The air smelled of lavender soap from my shower. She came to grab her things – she had basically moved in a few months ago to get away from her dad. Now her plan was to move out; she knew she wasn’t welcome anymore. “You’re pathetic,” she told me. “I don’t know how you even helped me when you can barely help yourself.” Her presence there must not have been enough, because she couldn’t help but torture me more. “Oh, and that boy you liked? I know you had some sort of connection, but forget about it. He’s mine,” she said with a grin so wicked you expected a cackle to follow it. That might have been the moment I broke. I don’t remember. Somehow I made my way to the kitchen, where I stalked out with the knife in my hand, stared straight into her frightened eyes and told her, “I’ll see you in Hell.”

 

Last Updated: 4/8/13