it had been so long. so long since he and martha had spoken, or even been friends. it had all ended that day he'd lost his temper one too many times, and he'd gotten sick of hurting others. on that day, he pushed her away, and never came back. until now. no one knew the kid in the hoodie at her funeral. he got glances- little, terrified glances- every now and then, but he was used to it. he was used to being the freak. (1)
he was quiet for most of the funeral. there were no tears-- connor murphy didn't cry in public-- but there were clenched fists and bitten lips, bruises on his thighs from where he continues to hit himself, albeit subtly. when everyone else finally leaves, and it's just him, sitting in front of her grave, he finally takes something out of her pocket. a single daisy, he sets it down, then leans back as he takes out a bottle of sparkling cider. "i'm glad to have met someone as kind as you."
martha has died. how do you feel? | accepting!
