Authors: Tara Sivec
Watch Over Me
Copyright © June 2013 Tara Sivec
ISBN-13: 978-1489539939
ISBN–10: 148953993X
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from
the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters
and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons,
living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold
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Disclaimer
This is a work of New Adult fiction. Please note this novel contains profanity, sexual
situations, and talk of death and suicide.
Death changes everyone.
It changes the way you think, the way you feel, and the way you live your life. Sometimes
it makes you thankful for what you have, but more often than not, it makes you regret
the things you've lost.
I'm eighteen years old and I've spent the better part of five months in a black hole
that I can't seem to claw my way out of. Every breath I take, every moment in time
I experience, is another reminder that the one person who should be here with me,
guiding me and supporting me, is gone.
It's Mother's Day, five months since I lost her, since I lost myself to the memories
and no longer recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I woke up this
morning knowing what I need to do but hating it so much I want to scream and rage
at the unfairness of it all. The fact that I'm still not one hundred percent sure
about my decision should be a sign that I'm not ready to do this. I have no other
choice, though. There is no other place I need to go, no other person I want to be
with.
The sky is overcast and there is a chill in the air. It's the perfect type of weather
for my mood and my plans. I roll out of bed and throw on a ratty pair of shorts and
one of her shirts that I kept. I slide my feet into flip-flops and drive to the Panera
Bread by my house. I order her favorite: a cinnamon crunch bagel, toasted with butter,
and a large hazelnut coffee with cream, no sugar, and tell the cashier it's to-go.
As she hands me my order, I hear the cashier next to her wish another customer "Happy
Mother's Day." It takes everything in me not to turn and tell her to fuck off. All
around me are mothers and daughters dressed for morning church services or casually
clothed for a day of shopping together. The smiles on their faces and the laughter
in their voices brings my mood down another few notches and forces me to swallow past
the lump in my throat. I want to hate all of them. Me, the person voted "Best Friend
to Everyone" and "Most Likely to Succeed in Making Everyone Laugh" in high school
wants to walk up to complete strangers in a bagel shop and throw my cloud of doom
over them by reminding them to cherish what they have because one day they might not
have it anymore. At some point, without any warning, it can be ripped right out of
their hands in the blink of an eye.
As more and more Mother's Day greetings fill the air around me, I fight the urge to
scream at everyone. I snatch the bag with the cinnamon bagel in it, grab the coffee
cup from the counter, and curse loudly when some of the scalding hot liquid splashes
out of the drinking hole in the lid and onto my hand.
With a glare at the happy, smiling patrons, I exit Panera Bread, get into my car,
and make the dreaded fifteen-minute drive to the cemetery so I can spend Mother's
Day with my mom, a cup of coffee, a bottle of pills, and a straightedge razor.
Ten months later.
"Have you thought about going to a support group, Addison? I really think speaking
to others who are dealing with the same hardships as yourself would benefit you tremendously."
I stare, unblinking, at my therapist as she continues with her spiel. She reminds
me so much of my mother
that it almost takes my breath away. The first time I walked into her office, the
smell of Venezia Perfume assaulted my senses, and I almost turned and ran out of the
room. I've never known of anyone else to wear that perfume, except for one person.
My doctor has the same hairstyle, the same sense of humor, and gives the same type
of no-nonsense advice. I've been going to see her ever since I got out of the hospital,
and at this point I think I'm a glutton for punishment. I don't want to be reminded
of my mom week after week, and yet I can't stay away. I can't stop myself from wanting
to be near someone who is so much like her.
"Here's a list of meetings in your area," she explains, handing me a sheet of paper
with locations, dates, and times typed on them. "They say that you should go to at
least six meetings before you make a decision on whether or not it's right for you.
Give it a try. Open yourself up to people who understand what you're going through.
I really think it will help. Don't make me start lecturing you because then you'll
roll your eyes at me and I'll have to nag you until you finally give in."
