I'm Not Okay

Everything was just a meaningless blur for the next few weeks. Sleep, eat, talk, cry. I was like a zombie. Home, face...do I know the face? Chris? No. Not Chris. Who? Sam. Why is he here? How long has he been here? He's talking. What is he saying?
"S. Scarlett? Hello? Answer me. It scares me when you're like this. Scarlett!"
I blink, staring at him.
"Come on S, please talk to me!"
He takes my hands. Why does that hurt?
I flinch.
"Ouch."
He looks at me.
"What? All I did was..."
He takes my hands again, and I jerk away as pain shoots up my arms. My sleeve slides up.
"Oh...S...."
He's looking at the cuts. How did they get there? Did I do that? I can't remember. No, wait, I can. I remember a blade, and blood, and then pain. Pain is good. Pain is better than feeling empty. Oh, wait. He's talking.
"Come on S, you can't do that to yourself. Chris wouldn't want you to do that. I don't want you to do that."
I just look at him blankly.
He shakes his head, then presses his lips to mine. When he pulls away, he looks at me.
"You aren't really comfortable with...us...being....together, are you?"
I shake my head.
"We don't have to be. If you want, we could just go back to being friends."
"Yes." I hear myself say. "Let's just be friends."
***
I remember the funeral. I remember crying. I remember a preist talking to me. I ignored him. And the doctor. He said I was depressed. I'm not. I'm...

E M P T Y

I can't feel anything. Things don't seem real. I go places and don't remember how I got there. School, home, outside, Sam's, home, cemetary...counseller. She hates me. I drive her insane. Her name is...Samantha? No. Amanda. That's it. Her office smells like aftershave. Why? She's not married. Is she a hermaphrodite? Has she got a boyfriend? WHY THE FUCK DOES HER OFFICE SMELL LIKE FREAKING AFTERSHAVE?!
...
What else? Sam. He doesn't come to see me as much anymore. Actually, that's a lie. He comes a lot. I just don't talk to him that much. He talks, but I think it's just to fill up the silence. He looks so much like Chris. I go to band practise. It helps me escape. We're trying to get a gig. Zac is sweet. He makes me smile. Rob is funny, and makes up extremely long and inventive lies for why he's late for practise, such as;

'My uncle's car died and we had to go to it's funeral, then my fridge ran away and I had to catch it and bring it home, but then the washing machine ate my sister so I had to walk, but I fell down a hole into Tellytubby land and nearly got eaten by the Noo-Noo, and then I had to kick the crap outta the baby that lives in the sun, then I ended up on a treadmill that turned into a bike, but then I ran over the Jonas Brothers, and I had to call the repo man to kill them, 'cos they were going to rape me, then I stepped on a magic...uh....rock, and it brought me to Ireland, where I killed half the population, and then Bono offered to bring me home, and now I'm here, so stop complaining.'

And Jeff, our bassist, always fell over something, quite often the air, then promptly forgot where he had left his bass. Typical, but at least they were cheering me up, rather than treating me like an invalid. Especially when they skipped down the main street yelling 'Jingle Bells' in August and holding hands. Yesterday, they turned up outside my house with a rubbish bin, which turned out to contain a rather pissed off Claire, who they had decided looked 'too clean'. They then left, after depositing Claire on the ground, with the bin, singing 'The Tide Is High', while Claire screamed at me. I just shrugged and told her to go take a shower.