Mena

“I never thought this day would come,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Neither did I.” My tone is somber, my speech slow. It sounds like my voice is coming out of someone else’s mouth.

The knot in my stomach is thick and tied tight. If I could, I would reach around Mrs. Houston’s head to the wall behind her, grab her chef’s knife, slice myself right down the center of my abdomen, and untangle my innards. Maybe then I would actually be able to take a deep breath.

My eyes focus from the knife to her eyes. She has hardly looked at me since I got here. Hell, she’s hardly looked anywhere at all. Her eyes move across things and in my general direction, but she never really sees me. Even if she locked her sight in on me, I don’t think she’d be able to see anything through the pool of tears that have remained in her eyes all evening. The tip of her porcelain nose is red.

Will she ever stop crying? Have I put her in a state of perpetual tears and grief? What will she do once I leave?

I’ve been staring at her for far too long now, not that she would notice. I feel awkward anyway, so I attempt to break the silence with condolences.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Her brown eyes flit in my general direction. “Sorry? You needn’t be sorry, dear.” She continues to look nowhere. Her shoulders give a half attempt at a shrugging motion. “How could we have known she would do this?”

By the time she gets to we, the pool in her eyes has yet again spilled over. I hand her a tissue from the box on the table. She accepts it as she chokes down sobs, which I know would be louder were she to be alone.

“Do you want me… do you want me to leave? Would you… like to be alone? I know it’s getting late…” Hopefully my eagerness for her acceptance of this offer doesn’t read too obviously in my tone.

For a moment she is silent, as though deep in thought. And then for the first time in the three hours since I got here, she really looks at me.

“It would mean a lot to me if you would stay.” Internally- at least I hope- I wince. “Stay the night, I mean.” Her lip quivers, there are somehow more tears. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.” Her hand motions toward the windows, where I can see that outside, the first snowfall of the season has begun.

The news of the incoming storm has been dominating headlines around here for days. It’s the kind of storm that causes certain schools to announce their closings long before the snow has even fallen. I wish I’d thought about this sooner. Although, when would have been a better time to inform my best friend’s mother that her daughter is dead?

“Do you still drive that Honda Fit?” The corners of her eyes wrinkle a tad, as though she’s finding amusement in this idea. I feel as if I could vomit. Those damn knots.

“Yes,” I say with an attempt at a feigned chuckle.

“Well, then, I think I would like it if you would stay. If not for the entire night, then until the storm stops and the plows get started.”

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. My best option would be to stay here in her home.

“Alright,” I say, tucking my lips into a small half-smile. “I’ll stay.”

“Fuck, Mena…” I whisper under my breath as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. “Why did you have to be so damned skinny?” Frustratedly, I rip her size-small shirt off of my extra-large-sized midsection.

The snow outside has shown no signs of stopping since I said I would stay. Much to my dismay, I am now going to have to stay the night. Mrs. Houston offered for me to sleep in Mena’s room before she headed to bed, but the idea alone made my vision go white. I told her the couch would be fine, and she seemed understanding.

I have been in desperate need of a shower for the past two days. I wouldn’t dare go to into Mena’s room for clothes, so Mrs. Houston grabbed them for me instead. By the looks of me- I have very clearly put on weight since the last time she saw me- I would have assumed she’d look for something of Mena’s that would have been too big for her. Alas, here I am with nothing to sleep in.

Mrs. Houston is undoubtedly asleep by now, so there’s no way for me to ask her to brave Mena’s room for me again. The Ambien had to have kicked in already, and I haven’t heard a single floorboard creek since getting out of the shower. Which means I will have to go and search for a different shirt of Mena’s myself. Despite the thick warmth of the bathroom air, I shiver at the thought.

With the thick towel wrapped as tightly around my rotund frame as I can get it, I poke my head out into the hallway. After waiting a few seconds, I hear the distant sound of Mrs. Houston’s snoring. Trying to convince myself I can handle this, I slowly head down the short hall to Mena’s room.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I try to keep myself calm, but I can feel that my heart rate is increasing.

“It’s okay, you’ve got this,” I say to myself softly. I reach a shaky hand out and turn the doorknob.

Inside, the room is a time capsule of the 2010’s. Mena was 16 when she left home, so this room would have last been touched in 2012. Sprawled along the wall where her headboard is are cutouts and posters of book heroines, beautiful celebrities, and other women Mena worshipped in high school. Beneath her window are novels and book series any kid in the late 2000’s and early 2010’s would have killed for. Everything is girly, but not too girly. It is exactly how I remember it.

This room screams Mena.

And it is deafening to me.

I feel as though someone has a grip around my neck that is loose enough, but mighty uncomfortable- And slowly but surely, that grip is tightening. I do not want to be in here right now. I do not want this.

I try to remember why I came in here in the first place.

Ah, yes. A shirt. A shirt.

Across from the foot of the bed is a wide dresser with a vanity mirror on top. The edges of the mirror are sprinkled with notes- perhaps reminders, or notes from girls or friends in classes- along with photos that I do not take in. I try to keep my head down and focus, drowning out the Mena all around me. Shirt, shirt, shirt.

As I reach the front of the dresser and go to open the top right drawer, a photo on the mirror catches my eye and, despite my better judgement, I look.

Staring at me, with those wide brown eyes and thick dark hair, and that classic contagious smile, is Mena. And right next to her, seemingly just as happy, with almond eyes, a fresh buzzcut, and a bright smile, stands me. It is a photo of Mena and I from our first day of high school together.

I swear I can feel my heart stop beating for a moment.

And then another moment more.

Suddenly, there is no oxygen inside of my lungs.

They are burning.

I feel something soft beneath my hand- it is the carpet.

Somehow, in my other hand is the photo of Mena and I.

I am crumpling it.

I am sobbing over it.

I think I feel a hand on my back.

I am now curled over my legs and in a fetal position.

There is a sound that is almost like screaming.

Is that Mrs. Houston?

Is it me?

Am I screaming?

I am screaming.

And sobbing.

And I cannot stop.

I knew I should not have come here. But I knew no one else would know how to contact Mena’s mother. I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying.

And now here I am: On the floor of the bedroom of my dead childhood best friend, while her mother attempts to comfort me through whatever I am experiencing right now.

But if she knew that the person who she is now attempting to embrace is the person who, not even 72 hours ago, had their hands around the neck of her daughter, what would happen then? Would she embrace me anyway? Maybe she would go downstairs for that chef knife and slice me in half, like I had imagined earlier. Maybe she would be the one curled into the fetal position on her daughter’s bedroom floor, while deafening screams escape her body.