eighteen

                                    

                                          
David was, in fact, waiting on his porch when I pulled into the driveway just a couple minutes later. I began to feel the mistake I made by coming here, pouring my heart out to David who probably didn't care, but he was already making his way to my car. It was too late. 
                          
I climbed out and halfway smiled at him through my tears, allowing him to wrap me in a tight and unwavering hug. That's when the tears really started flowing, and my sobs were loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. 
                          
"Shh, Mona, it's okay," he reassured me, one of his hands moving up and down my back in a comforting manner. "Let's go inside, okay? It's freezing out here." 
                          
"Is your dad in there?" my sentence was split into pieces by hiccups, deep, ragged breaths, and sobs, but David got the message.
                          
"No, he's out of town for the next two weeks. C'mon, it'll be okay," he kept one of his arms wrapped around me, and he lead me up the front steps and into the house. I half expected us to go up to his room, but he placed me on the couch, tossing me a big fuzzy blanket and running to the fridge to grab me a bottle of water and a can of Yoohoo. I didn't even move to take them, so he set them on the large, glass coffee table in front of us. "Can you tell me what happened?"
                          
"I—my friends—they, uh, they asked me what my parents do for a living, and I know they didn't know, but today is..." I took a deep breath, trying to calm my hyperventilation and hiccuping so I was more understandable. "It's been three months today, and all I can think about is him fucking being so miserable with me that he hung himself."
                          
"Sweetheart—"
                          
"No, it's true. He fucking couldn't stand looking at me, and he killed himself because of it. If I had never been born, none of this would've happened. It's all... everything's my fault. Everything's always my fault. Everyone hates me," it turned into full blown, uncontrollable sobs as I continued, "My grandparents can't stand me because they know I killed their only son. Everyone hates me. Everyone hates me. Everything's my fault. It's my fault. It's my—I can't breathe, holy fuck."
                          
"Mona, listen to me," David grabbed my hands in his and forced me to look at him. "None of it is your fault, okay? None of it. Your dad was mentally ill. He was sick, Mona, and you tried the best you could to help him, but not all sick people can be helped." 
                          
"I didn't even try," I interrupted with a sigh. "I didn't. I didn't every try. I didn't try." 
                          
"Shh, shh, shh, Mona," he wrapped his arm tightly around me. My head fell onto his chest, and he began to gently stroke my hair, rocking us slowly back and forth. "You did what you thought was right. You're not a trained professional, Mona. You couldn't save him. He was heartbroken and hurt and mentally ill. There was nothing you could've done, okay? You can't blame yourself for the actions of other people; that's not fair."
                          
I couldn't respond, so I just cried. I cried for almost an hour, David holding me the whole time and reassuring me that it would all be okay in the end. I believed him. I had to. 
                          
We stayed like that for a while, until I eventually fell asleep in his arms.
                          
I woke up pretty early the next morning, feeling mentally exhausted and very embarrassed. It wasn't like me to show my feelings like that; I was typically closed off and purposeful in who I showed my emotions too, but last night, I was so distraught and David was the only one who would somewhat understand me. It didn't matter though. I was still blushing as I carefully untangled our bodies and got off the couch. I was almost home free, but David snatched my wrist before I could even take my first step to the door.
                          
"Where are you going?" his voice was rumbly and deep, and I was sure he was still half asleep. 
                          
"Home," I answered, trying to shake my hand from his iron grip. It didn't work.