It's mid-august, I have the window rolled down and am not talking. My father hurridly parks the car and we walk in through the sliding doors, I walk ahead of him because he lets me. When we get to the room, I am surprised. It is full of people and everyone is solemn. My mother moves over and I sit down next to her on the couch. Someone keeps telling me to eat, I ignore them. The tension is unbearable, I am wishing this would be over so I can go back to sleep. I look around at the room, photographing the green couches and the coffee table and the books with my mind. Someone makes a feeble joke, a nervous laugh. We remain seated, unmoving until the door opens and a group of people in light blue clothing enter the room. Why are they crying? "He's gone," the doctor says. There is a collective gasp in the room and my stomach drops out of my body. I'm waiting for the doctor to admit his joke, but it never comes.
At this point I realise I should feel sad too, but all I can think about is how terrible I look when I cry.