Understudy Read Online Free Page B

knew because I was counting. That day, I woke up with a phantom hole in my chest and the tears wouldn’t stop flowing.
    He was gone. I would never see his smile, hear his voice and feel the warmth of his skin against mine. He was gone and everything we shared would turn into memories that would eventually disappear like it never happened. He was gone and it was all because of me.
    Mom and Dad rushed to my room, asking me what happened. They asked me if I was in pain and I nodded. They asked me where it hurt.
    Everything hurt, I wanted to say. But it wasn't enough. There were no words or numbers that could accurately describe or measure the amount of pain I felt.
    Mom wrapped her arms around me, holing me as I broke into pieces, thinking about the list of things I shouldn't and should've done to prevent the accident from happening.
    I shouldn't have let him reach out for his phone, I should've told him to fasten his seatbelt when I fastened mine, and I shouldn't have told him to answer his phone.
    I felt an awful lot of guilt and anger for the last one. Thinking about it, it was Eric's fault too. He shouldn't have called. None of this would've happened if he didn't call Adam.
    Did he go to the funeral? Was he even aware that he was also responsible for his brother's death?
    I had never hated anyone so much in my life before, though the hatred I felt towards Eric wasn't enough to overshadow the pain of losing Adam.
    Weeks went by and I spent my time either sketching abstract objects in paper, or staring blankly at the paper. Nothing made sense at that moment. I felt detached from everything, like my body was there but my mind wasn't.
    "The world won't stop spinning just because Adam died. You need to live," Dad said one night during dinner, exactly forty two days after Adam's funeral. “He’d want you to.”
    "She needs time," Mom said, coming to my defense. She always did.
    "She needs a reality check."
    "She's in pain right now. You have to consider that she's still young and the concept of death is still quite new to her."
    No it wasn’t. I knew how death works. You die and you’re gone. It’s that simple.
    Dad’s grip around his fork tightened. "Nonsense. Maybe she needs to visit a shrink."
    "Maybe you should stop talking about me like I don't exist," I interjected. It was probably the longest sentence I’d spoken since the accident.
    "Maybe you don't exist anymore,” Dad countered.
    Mom placed a hand over his shoulder.  "Thomas, not now. I don’t think she’s ready."
    "You know what I think?” Dad asked, completely ignoring her. “The real Katharine died with Adam in that accident."
    "Maybe she did," I muttered under my breath.
    Mom's head snapped up in my direction, and I thought I saw tears in her eyes. I instantly regretted having said that.
    "I'm sorry," I said, glancing down to my untouched plate.
    Dad sighed and pushed himself up from the dinner table. "That's it," he said, tossing his napkin over his now empty seat. "Call Doctor Lewis tomorrow and set her up for an appointment."
    "That's not necessary," I said. The last thing I needed was to spill my guts out to a stranger when I couldn't even spend time around my parents.
    "Then tell us what's necessary. You've been locked up in your bedroom for so long and we're worried."
    "Then stop worrying."
    Dad shook his head. "It's not as if we can help it."
    "I can go out if that's what you want," I said, though it was evident in my tone that it was half-assed.
    "You don't have to force yourself," Mom said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.
    It was the first time I ever saw my mom cry, and my own tears threatened to flow.
    "No, I..." I scrambled for words. I needed to get out of there. I pushed myself up from my chair, all the while avoiding their gaze. "I'm going for a walk. I think I could use some air."
    "That's not what we meant," Mom said, also rising from her seat.
    "No, I'm fine, really." My vision began to blur as tears welled up. Luckily,