Short (ish) story I wrote (it’s not done)

The flowers died on Monday. It’s Tuesday now. They were the only thing holding me together. Now, everything in my life just seems to fall apart like petals on a dead rose, drifting slowly to the dirt. I’m staring at the flowers. No. This can’t be happening. These were gifts. The last ones I got. They were from my brother. Five months ago, he got me these for my birthday. He was only three and it’s his birthday today. Or I guess it would be. I still am processing everything. Him being gone. Every time I see a white Tesla I flinch and have flashbacks where the white car was stained with blood. His blood. Right now, I’m sitting here, in the dirt. I grab a watering can and try to water them back to life. Like when he was in the ambulance. But to no avail. They’re dead. So is he. It’s not fair, it really isn’t. It could have been anyone else, anyone, but it was him. I see the school bus pull up and I wipe the tears pooling in my eyes. I wipe myself off from the dirt, and then I get onto the bus. I sit at a window seat and stare out of it. Once I get to school I see my friends and they wave. I walk over and try to start fresh. I go to my classes that day. Besides PE. I skip it. I see no point in it. I skip with my boyfriend, Noah. We talk. I think he knows something is happening to me, but he doesn’t mention it. His hand grazes my wrist. An accident, I know. I wince and pull my hand back. He looks at me, confused. He tells me to show him. I hesitate a few seconds before I do. He looks and then sighs. He knows what I did. I beg him not to tell anyone, and I even tell him that I’ll stop. I promise him that I will. He agrees but it feels weird that someone else knows. I feel awkward now. I make up an excuse. That I need to go. I go to the bathroom and sob in the stall. This day was too much for me. I’m not crying because of my brother, or because of my boyfriend, or my friends, or the cut on my wrist. What am I crying for? I don’t know. Nothing. The tears mean nothing to me. They just fall. I open my purse. I know I shouldn’t, but I grab my mini blade. My mom got it for me for protection. The only kind of protection I need is against myself. I cut, cut, cut. Until it drips into a pool on the white tiles. I cut deep, but not deep enough to kill me. I don’t think anyway. The sad thing is I don’t feel it anymore. I need to feel something. I should feel something. Not even a dull pain. It’s almost like my wrist is healed instead of a bloody cut. I grab a few paper towels to clean up. I end up needing a lot more. I pass out. On the floor of the bathroom. I guess I lost too much blood. I wake up. What time is it? I grab my phone. PE was my last class of the day. It’s 3:25. My mom’s probably worried. I come up with a silly excuse. I tell her I was doing a bit of extra credit work in math. I don’t need it, but I don’t tell her this. I can’t tell if she believes me, but she just drives. I get home and take a shower. I wrap my wrist in gauze and braid my hair. I do my homework and then wear a hoodie for the long sleeves. I go downstairs for dinner. It’s spaghetti and meatballs with some vegetables. I eat it without a word being spoken at the table, and then I excuse myself from the table.