Dark Days

BAM!

There is blood everywhere.

BAM!

"You all are going to die", he says with smirk.

BAM!

Pain. Screams. Darkness. 

"NO!" I woke up with a scream.

"Samantha?" 

I snapped my head up, sighing softly as my best friend sauntered over, taking a seat on the stool beside me. I exhaled once more, rubbing a hand over my face. "Hey, Carla."

Carla settled herself into the stool, allowing her chin to rest under her propped hand. “I see therapy is really helping.”

It sure is.” I returned the sarcasm, perhaps a bit too much. “I’m certainly recovering well after seeing five of my classmates die right in front of my eyes. Maybe I deserve a gold star. What do you think?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sam.” Carla said, those fierce hazel eyes shooting me with exasperation. “It’s just… You’ve been in therapy for over a year now and Mrs. Pierre said you’d start to… you know, take the proper steps to heal."

I scoffed—this is why I loathed therapists, psychiatrists, or any other person who declared that their knowledge had superiority over my feelings. Damn Mrs. Pierre, with her hideous dresses and her sunny disposition. Who was she to determine the next steps of my life, let alone fill my parents and best friends with empty promises? Absolutely absurd, if you ask me.

“I’m trying.”

“Are you?” She looked at me, concern brimming underneath the frustration. “You’ve been so different since that day and-”

“I watched five people die right in front of me, Carla. One by one, shot. Stripped from this Earth. Blood everywhere. Screams and sobs, pleads for mercy,”

"I didn't mean it that way Sam."

"No, maybe you are denying it to yourself, but you like all others feel that I should be taken to the psych ward. Millions of people have already given me enough charity. I don’t need or want more, especially if it’s something that you feel obligated to do. You don’t need to stick around if you can’t handle my emotions."

Carla's eyes softened momentarily and her lips parted. “What are you saying, exactly?”

I closed my eyes.

(Easy, Samantha 

Easy,

Nice and easy)

"I’m saying that you don’t need to feel compelled to stay.”

Carla’s lips trembled. “Is that what you seriously think of me?" Her voice cracked softly. She crossed her arms, a look of betrayal painting her face. “Do you seriously think that I feel forced to stay in this, Samantha?”

I looked away, like a coward—the coward I am, perhaps. My eyes focused on a small stain that decorated the usually pristine white tiles. “Your ac

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tions would defend that.” I uttered.

She responded with a scoff. “You’re kidding, right?”

My forehead began to boil with perspiration, so I remained silent and began to count backwards—a small gesture to reduce anxiety, according to Mrs. Pierre. The one thing she said

that actually became useful in my wretched life.

(5, the sweat

4, the footsteps

3, the murmurs

2, the announcement

“YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

1, BOOM!)

“So, what does this mean?”

I didn’t want to look up, but I also didn’t want to look any more helpless than I already did.

Slowly, I brought my eyes to Carla again, sighing softly. “It means whatever you want it to mean.”

Carla’s jaw tightened and she huffed, exasperation once again radiating from her hazel eyes.

Then, she spoke.

“You’re breaking this friendship with me, aren’t you?”

I sighed, biting my lower lip. I didn’t know, truthfully—was this the breaking point of our 14-year-friendship? Possibly. I didn’t know, like how I don’t know most things anymore.

My delay in response irritated Carla and she got up, shaking her head. “I don’t want to deal with this anymore,” Her hand rose, gesturing to me in a hostile manner. I flinched, but she didn’t seem to regard these signals of distress. As a matter of fact, she continued, raising her voice now. “You seriously need help, Samantha.” She hissed, stomping over to the counter and retrieving her handbag. Then, she aggressively threw it over her shoulder, before shooting me one final look of raw betrayal. “Don’t bother calling me anymore, got it?”

I didn’t say anything, I just blinked—lost, as the door slammed and Carla went along with the cool wind and grey sky of Seattle.

Five years have passed since that day, and I never saw her again. Mrs. Pierre offered me a bunch of pity after I informed her about everything, but I didn’t have the mental capacity to entertain it. I seriously couldn’t bring myself to. Carla left, that was her choice. I’ve made mine now; it is time I move on too.

Move on from everything, I mean.

Move on from the day my innocence was tarnished.

Move on from the loss, the anguish.

Move on from the screams.

Move on from the little creatures who visit me in my dreams.

Move on from Carla, who was my sanity and talisman.

I don’t know where this path will take me, or what void I’ll fall into next. Clearly God has a peculiar journey intended for me, based on the experiences I’ve endured already.

Who knows,

who knows.

But, I suppose I’ll find out eventually.

Goodbye, Dark Days.

Samantha Monroe