Featured Writing - Nothing.
My fingers are curled in his shirt, crumpling the thin fabric, and I can see my knuckles whitening around the edges. There are things in my throat, growing from the muscles and crawling up into my mouth. I think of suffocating, I think of a hand curled around my throat, and I can’t breathe.
Help me, I’m saying. Help me. I’m falling. I’m dying. Crumbling. I can’t do it. I can’t.
I can’t see his face, but it’s easy to imagine his eyes sliding shut as if in pain, eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly parted. A hand rests on my shoulder, and it’s slightly curled, unsure if it can squeeze harder, if I can’t bear the slightest pressure.
You’ll be fine, the words come whispering from his mouth. It’s not your fault. It’s just not your fault.
His shirt is wet against my trembling face.
I shake my head, and numbly, I clench the words rising from my heart. I put them in a fist and shove it against his chest. I’m not going to be fine.
His hand wraps around mine, and it’s like a long sigh. In the long moment of silence, I close my eyes and feel the droplets of tears rolling down my face, soon dropping away.
My hand falls down limply to rest by my side, and all I can do is to hang my head and weep.
You’ll be fine.
A smile twists my lips.
Betty L., age 14
January 10, 2016