A Memoir to my Best Friend
By faith cichon
I feel vomit rising in my throat again, but I swallow it down. “Look, I don’t mean to meddle, but what’s going on between you and your dad at the minute?” he asks, grabbing my hand. I flinch slightly. I hesitate. “N-Nothing…” I reply nervously, not wanting to tell him. He’d kill my dad if he knew what my dad had done to me.
He sighs. “You’re afraid of telling me, aren’t you?” he asks. He looks at me with sadness. ‘You upset him.’ a voice says. ‘I d-didn’t mean to…’ I think in response. ‘You always hurt those who you love or care about.’ another voice says. ‘I-I know…’ I answer. ‘You should die, like your sister.’ aa third says. “…I really should, shouldn’t I?” I say out loud.
“Nova?” Will asks. I realize what I said. I look away. ‘You’d be better off dead.’ the third voice repeats. I cover my ears. The voices repeat themselves over and over. They’re all I can hear. I feel someone grab my hands and take them off of my ears. I look to see Will. He says something, but I can’t hear him. He realizes this and signs ‘Can you hear me?’. He learnt sign language for our mute friend, Mark. ‘No.’ I sign back. ‘I know it’s hard, but try to focus on my voice.’ he signs.
He starts talking and I try to listen. The voices eventually quieten down to a mumble in my ear. “What happened, hummingbird?” my cousin asks. “I-I don’t k-k-know.” I reply, still shaken. Will hugs me. “What did you mean when you said..?” he asks, trailing off. I know what he means and I try to think of a reply.
“I really should stop hurting you, shouldn’t I?” I reply, tears burning my eyes. “You’ve never hurt me. I understand trust is hard for you, because of… him.”. On that last word, his expression changed into one of malice and spite, before softening again. “Just know that, if you ever need help, whether it be first thing in the morning or in the middle of night, me and Al are here for you. We’re here to help, okay?” he asks. I nod. “…thank you.” I mumble. Will nuzzles his chin into my hair and we snuggle together.
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