Free The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller by L. B. Simmons

fall with her tears. No words are spoken between us until she’s ready.
    “I’m just so… tired, Raven . So, so tired. Tired of Sabrina picking at everything I do. Tired of letting her do it. But most of all, I’m tired of thinking.”
    Her eyes fill with unshed tears as she speaks. “My mind runs nonstop, all day long. I shouldn’t have eaten that. If I eat this, then I can’t eat this. These jeans are tighter than they used to be. I’m getting a pouch on my stomach. I can definitely pinch more than I could yesterday. I just can’t take it anymore!” she finally shouts, bolting off the bed.
    Her feet on a mission, she walks over to our shared table, fists the pile of change in the palm of her hand and then screws open the lid of the retired swear jar, throwing every last bit of our money inside. Well, with the exception of the dime that just hit the floor. I listen to it roll while thinking that I’m not really sure why she’s dumping change into the jar, because we don’t use it anymore.
    Maybe it’s a metaphorical statement she feels she needs to make.
    She slams the jar back down onto the table and turns back to me, her eyes blazing with anger and frustration. “I AM SO FUCKING EXHAUSTED!” Her head falls into her hands, and her shoulders tremble with her sobs.
    Tears pool on my lower lashes and my chin begins to quiver, her torment slicing my heart wide open as I watch her break right in front of my eyes. Rising from the bed, I step toward her, knowing the sight of her own walls being shattered right in front of me has temporarily obliterated my need for self-preservation. I feel every ounce of her hopelessness as I travel the short distance between us, not stopping until I’m standing right in front of her. Awkwardly my arms rise, the hesitation in my movements causing them to jerkily bob up and down before I take in a deep breath, calming the anxiety building in my chest, and finally circle them around her tiny upper body. Uncertainty still pounds within my ears as I tighten my grip on her, hoping like hell this is what I’m supposed to do when comforting a friend.
    Quinn stills immediately, her cries ceasing for the briefest of moments before she wraps her arms around my waist and buries her head into my shoulder, letting her pain flow. The moisture from her tears drains onto the collar of my favorite Pink Floyd T-shirt as I hold onto my friend, trying to absorb her despair into my already polluted existence. She’s too good, too pure, to have to hold this much anguish in her heart. I already have plenty; what’s a little more on top of it if it helps her?
    My arms continue to envelop her until her sobs soften into light whimpers. Once I feel she’s finally found the release she’s been looking for, I lessen my hold, careful not to let go until she’s ready. Slowly she unwraps her arms and takes a step back, self-consciously tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear before clearing the moisture from her face with both hands. Sucking in a breath, she finally brings her eyes to mine.
    “I’m sorry,” she says on a ragged breath. “It’s just…I’ve been holding in a lot. I didn’t mean to explode like that in front of you.”
    I give her a small, but genuine smile. “It’s fine, Quinn. Really.”
    An unfamiliar ache spreads throughout my chest, because as I speak those words of comfort to my friend, I’m forced to acknowledge the longing buried somewhere deep within my soul that wants to yell and scream and tear the room apart for all the loss I’ve had to endure.
    That I’ve caused.
    Quinn praises my strength, the ability to look and act like a freak without the fear of judgment rendered, but in all actuality, she’s the only one in this room with true courage. Mine is a mere façade.
    My throat narrows, making it increasingly difficult to swallow, so I break eye contact from her, directing my glance at a flash of silver that catches my eye. Bending at the waist, I pinch