re·gret (r-grt)

v. re·gret·ted, re·gret·ting, re·grets

.

1. To feel sorry, disappointed, or distressed about.

2. To remember with a feeling of loss or sorrow; mourn.

1. You

I shift uncomfortably in the darkness; every breath is like an explosion of air.

"Why?" I whisper to you.

"Forgive me." The shot was the loudest thing I had ever heard, leading only to a completely dead silence.

I wake up suddenly; my scream is caught roughly in my throat. I choke on the silence that fills the room like water, like it is ripping the oxygen from the room. I glance over at the nightstand to the electric clock. Its red numbers are mocking me, 3:44 is whispers with the glow. I've only been asleep for slightly under an hour. It's hard, sleeping I mean, when you know that tomorrow, or today however you look at it, will mean everything is over. It will mean that you are over. I stare to the door, half expecting you to open it and jump onto my bed.

"It was only a dream silly," you would say to me, "it's time to wake up."

But the truth is that you won't be coming into my room, or jumping on the bed. Not now, not ever. It's because you finally got what you wanted; because you finally got to die.

In the end, I can't fall asleep again. And that isn't a surprise because I can't tell which is worse, dreaming of you, or staying awake to the nightmare that is the present. Finally I can't stand the silence of my bedroom and leave it. I pass your door; it looks the same as it always did. I feel like something should be different, like the wood should have started to rot or it had suddenly turned black like charcoal overnight. That isn't the case though; it is still the same rich color of sienna as it always has been. It is the same rich color of you. I reach my fingers out and lightly touch the door knob, but I can't open the door. At least not yet, it still feels like too soon. So I go downstairs to the kitchen and pray that today of all days I can hold down my food. Because since you died a couple days ago, I've thrown up every single meal.

I see Mom in the kitchen, but she doesn't notice me. She's staring out the window, probably still trying to pretend that today isn't that day; that today isn't your funeral. I've tried my hand at denial, but I've already skipped that part in the grieving process, in fact I've gone straight to depression. Which sucks because I was already there before you bit the bullet, it's just worse now that you're gone.

"Hey," I say it quietly in order to not surprise her, but Mom still jumps when she hears my voice.

"Hey." Her eyes are red from crying and lack of sleep, but she still tries to smile for me. She is still trying to somehow bring some normalcy to today. Like smiling will make me forget that we're burying you six feet under today, and I can't do a thing about it.

Mom still manages to make me eggs without burning them, which is a miracle considering the state she's in. I eat everything on my plate and thank her for breakfast. Mom just gives me a smile that won't reach her eyes, and I wonder if it ever will again.

By the time I reach our shared bathroom I've already begun to gag. Resting my head on the toilet, I proceed to lose the contents of my breakfast quite quickly. I sit back and lean against the tub; today will be a very long day.

I sit in front of my closet staring at my clothes. What exactly are you supposed to wear to your older sister's funeral? After some time I put on a black sweater that used to belong to cousin Kayla during her "dark faze." I normally don't wear skirts but I take out the black skirt that I had to wear for the debate team. I never knew that blacks could contrast so heavily, but this outfit obviously doesn't match very well. The thing is, I can't seem to bring myself to care. Contrasting blacks seems like too insignificant a problem on a day like today. I look in the mirror, and hold my breath. I look like you; same eyes, same hair, I even have the same nose as you. I'm not an exact copy; I'm smaller, skinnier, bonier, and paler than I remember you being. I pull my hair out of the braid I had put it in earlier; you never had your hair in your face. You said that you liked the freedom to see the world around you without an unobstructed view. But I can't care about that now, because with it in my face, it's harder to see all the features that remind me of you. And that's what I want right now.

Walking down the stairs again I can hear Grandma Kay in the living room. I stand in the door way and watch her. She's holding Dad's shoulders with small but strong grasp as he whispers something I can't make out. If anyone can get us through this, she can. A squeak in the floor boards alerts her to my presence. Grandma Kay looks back at me and stands; suddenly I'm wrapped into the warm embrace that I've known for as long as I can remember.

"Oh Amethyst, this must be so hard for you," she croons. I just nod against her shoulder. I don't cry. I can't afford to cry now, because if I do, then I know I won't be able to stop. Grandma Kay leads me to the couch and I sit next to Dad who just continues to look forward. I probably wouldn't have known that he even realized I was there if he didn't reach over and grab my hand. He doesn't even look at me. The tears are running down his cheeks, and I know that I really can't cry now, because I need to be strong for him. He deserves at least that.

The funeral proceeds whether we're ready or not. Through the whole event, I never once let go of Dad's hand. Or maybe it's the other way around and he isn't letting go of mine. The casket is at the front of the funeral home, why we aren't in our church is a mystery to me. You always liked that church. It was like a second home to you, which in strange considering that you still did what you did. The service is hard to sit through, the pastor isn't Pastor Rand, and obviously never knew you. He says some things about how missed you will be. Mom tells a teary story, but I can tell that the people present want to get out as much as I do. It's hard to sit through a teenager's funeral, and harder to sit through one when that teen committed suicide. It's uncomfortable to say the least. When the service ends we go back home to serve food to the guests of the funeral. It's like we're paying them for being part of our grief. I continue to sit on the couch with Dad, and our hands have not detached since this morning.

I look around the room. In the corner of the room Julie is sitting crying like a baby. There is a box of tissues in her lap and a pile of used ones at her feet. Did you think of your best friend when you did it or did you only think of yourself. The answer I think is neither. Pete walks over to her and rubs her shoulder. He looks like he's going to collapse into tears any minute now. I would expect no less of your boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend as it is. I can't stand looking at them much longer, or I'll probably start wailing myself. For the first time in hours I let go of Dad's hand; he barely even reacts.

"I'm getting drink, do you want one?" Dad nods and I leave the room hoping to gain some air in the kitchen.

"I head she found the body," a woman's voice whispers across the kitchen to my ears.

"Who?" Another woman asks also in a hushed voice.

"The younger sister, poor dear, can you imagine." I hide behind the entry to the kitchen, I don't want to listen but I can't stop myself.

"She's nothing more than a child," the second woman gasps. I may be only fourteen, but I am no longer a child. I walk across the room and the women abruptly stop talking. I open the fridge and take out two sprites, one for me and one for Dad. I don't look at them, but I can feel their eyes on my back. I can feel their pity like a poison that disguises itself as medicine. For the rest of the day I don't leave Dad's side. I look forward just like him and try to lose myself to the soft mumble of the guests.

People finally begin to leave. We have seven casseroles, two pans of brownies, a lidded pot of spaghetti, three bowls of fresh fruit, and a bunt cake. Apparently, the only to comfort a mourning family is to feed them. I walk to the stairs ready to enter my room and take off my ridiculous clothes when I'm stopped by a stranger. He's tall with floppy brown hair and it is obvious that he hasn't shaved recently because of the stubble that shadows his pale face. His eyes are brown like chocolate, and seem to go on forever. The suit he's wearing has no tie and his white shirt isn't fully buttoned up. He doesn't look any older than twenty, and I have to admit he's attractive. Any other time, I might have blushed as being stopped by such a, for lack of a better word, hot guy. But today I just look at him waiting for him to do or say whatever he stopped me for. He shifts uncomfortably and then reaches out his hand.

"I'm Wesley Mardons," Wesley shifts again when I don't take his hand, in fact I don't even acknowledge it. "So um, I'm a friend of Sienna's, or I was a friend," he mumbles awkwardly. I'm surprised that you had such an old friend and I wonder if he was something more than just a friend to you.

"So?" Even to me my voice sounds hollow.

"Well I was just thinking that if you ever needed to talk to someone, um," he scratches his neck and sighs. "If you ever need someone I can be there for you whenever you need me." He smiles slightly but it's a sad smile.

"Thanks, but I think I'm fine." I'm not fine, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Well if you change your mind," Wesley digs around in his pockets, pulling out a business card, and gives it to me. The card says Wanda's Diner in sparkly red letters and cursive writing. I raise an eyebrow. "I work there on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays from 4 P.M. to 10P.M. and on Saturdays from 10 A.M. to 5 P.M." He grabs the card from my hand and takes out a pen and writes down a phone number. "That's my cell if you ever just want to call, or if you need something." He gives me back the card. I run my fingers over the number. He's a perfect stranger and yet he actually seems sincere about wanting to help me out. What was he to you and why would he do this for me?

"I'll think about it," Wesley nods and gives me a small hug, surprising me. As he walks out the door he turns around.

"Remember, if you ever need me," he puts his up to his ear and makes a pretend phone signifying that I should call him. And who knows, maybe I will.

Finally I make it to my room. I flick the card onto my dresser and lay down on my bed. Four hours later I get up and walk outside my room. I touch your door lightly with my finger tips and then lean heavily against the frame. The whole thing about you not ever coming back is hitting me harder than ever and I miss you so much. I know that I'll never be able to sleep, because insomnia sucks and I've become worked up over my tears. No time like the present, so I grab the door knob and turn it, holding my breath as I walk inside your room.