Amber's POV
Two weeks. That's how long I haven't seen my brother for. Because he's dead. God, it's hard to think, let alone say. But I'm Amber Greene and I must be calm, sophisticated and pretend that the swirling storm of emotions within me don't exist...at least until I get home, where it tears out of me in torrents of tears. How have my parents taken it? Well, I wouldn't know. They've been more illusive than ever before: Dad spends all of his time at the golf course or at the bar, drinking his emotions away, and Mum has thrown herself into her work, leaving home before it's even bright and returning long past midnight. Never once have they bothered to ask me how I was doing. No, 'Amber, how are you holding up?' or 'Amber, we know this is a hard time, how 'bout you take a day off school? ' Nope. Nothing.

Will's funeral was in a weeks and the family had prepared nothing. How could they when the only words exchanged were the occasional greetings? So, on one very rare evening when the three of us were sat around the dinner table and the only thing to be heard was the scraping of cutlery on our fine china plates, I decided to bite the bullet and ask them about it. First, I had to think of how to approach the question. So, father, mother, Will's funeral is in tw– No , too formal. Mum, dad? What are we doing for Will's fune– Way too casual and direct. I contemplated with so much concentration that I almost missed the sound of my parents leaving the incredibly awkward room.

"What are we doing for Will's funeral?" I cringe internally.

It wasn't meant to come out like that; I panicked and said the first thing that came to mind. The two of them froze and turned around. They obviously hadn't expected the question. Hell, they probably forgot it was in a week.

"Monica's taking care of all the preparations, darling," my mother has the audacity to say. Monica way her assistant. Was it such a hassle to plan her OWN SON'S funeral that her assistant had to do it?! I keep my anger to myself and instead say through clenched teeth: "Can I deliver the eulogy?" She doesn't notice my change in tone; she just nods and turns away, resuming her original path to the kitchen, to pour herself another glass of wine no doubt.

I stare at my plate of food, barely touched due to the lack of appetite I've experienced since the accident, and I can't help but notice that my father had said nothing during the whole exchange. As if he didn't even care about how Will was remembered.

At that moment, I remember something I've heard before: Funerals are not for the dead. They are for the living...
It was true. The dead couldn't care less because, well, they're dead. There's the blunt truth. They are dead and we can do nothing about it. So we throw a funeral to say goodbye, have closure, mourn. But it's for the living, not the dead, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves of it.

That night, like countless nights before, I cried myself to sleep. Tears drench my pillow and make my hair stick to my cheeks like tape. It's hours before I finally drift into the welcome arms of subconsciousness.

***

The circles under my eyes made me look like a raccoon, and not a cute one either, but a murderous, serial-killer-like raccoon. They were also puffy from all the tears I shed last night. I look into the mirror again and I see a sister who killed her little brother. If I had just payed attention to the road, then we would've been alive, both of us. Not just me. It should've been me, instead the Grim Reaper deemed it necessary to take the life of the innocent brother who was always supportive instead of the bitch of a sister who never cared about others. It simply wasn't fair. Survivor's Guilt, they called it. A month ago, I would laughed and said that the survivors should just feel lucky that they made it out alive, not get mopey and depressed about getting the second chance. Now, I get it, I understand the life-consuming guilt and grief.

I slather on foundation and concealer, followed by eyeshadow and eyeliner; each step of makeup bring me closer to the mask I put on every day: Amber Greene, Queen Bee of Liliwood High. Each step of makeup building the walls I construct every day so I don't get hurt again. Once I'm done and dressed, I leave. No breakfast. No 'goodbye, have a good day' from my parents. Just leaving behind the empty emotionless establishment to go to another, this time filled with fake sympathy and pitiful looks. But at least I had my very own Eden at the rooftop. I've been there almost every day since the first time and it was a place to escape the crushing scrutiny of everyone, everyone waiting for the queen to break and fall. What a sick and twisted world we live in, where we take pleasure in the failure of others.

I don't drive to school anymore, not since it happened; I tried to but the memories were too much, too strong, too fast. I've resorted to catching the bus, even though it takes me a little longer to get to school, because there, I don't have to deal with the flashes of violence and people don't know me. So I'm that-girl-who-sits-at-the-back-of-the-bus as opposed to that-girl-who's-brother-died-in-a-car-crash. However, as soon as I get to school, I must put on that mask again and pretend that I'm still the same girl that enjoys mindless gossip and talks down to everyone, even though I am no longer her; I don't even recognise her anymore.

My free period comes as a welcome relief as it is the only time when I get to be alone. No Sasha, no Aaron and definitely no ass-kissing leeches that usually clung to my every word and action (I don't enjoy it as much as people think). As soon as I can, I dart into the deserted hallway and make my way to the rooftop garden. Privacy at last. The emotions were already threatening to bubble over. I open to door to the haven and let out a squeak of surprise.

On the hanging chair, next to the fountain, there was a boy lying on his back with a book over his face. He appeared to be taking a nap, so I studied him for a bit. He had muscle but not an excessive like Aaron and other jocks. His hair was unruly and a weird mixture of blond and brown that made it look messily attractive? Does that make sense? Probably not. The stranger was wearing black, ripped jeans, a graphic tee and a brown leather jacket. Then out of nowhere–

"Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

The boy lifted the book off his face and turned to meet my gaze. I sucked in an involuntary breath. His eyes were the most beautiful mixture of swirling blues and greens, just like the colour of waves as they are breaking across rocks. Captivating and complex. I jolted back to reality as he spoke again,

"Are you really just gonna stand there and stare at me? I mean, I am super hot but still," he teases, a smirk gracing his face.

I regain my sense of confidence, letting it all go would have to wait, and muster up all of my mean-girl-ness.

"Sorry, but this was actually my place first so, would you kindly leave me to myself?" I say, looking down at him.

The stranger just chuckles, shakes his head and holds his hands up in mock surrender.
"Ok, Miss I-Get-What-I-Want, I'll obey this once," he responds, "My name's Cole Parker, by the way, in case you wanted to know." He winks and bows mockingly, then saunters out of the garden. I let out a breath that I hadn't even realised I was holding and make my way over to the chair, the conversation stuck in my mind. Who was that? A new kid? His eyes were plastered in my mind, remembering the swirling depths that had held me captive. Instead of spending my free period bawling my eyes out and writing Will's eulogy as I had planned prior to the 'intrusion' I started writing a poem,  I guess. Blue-Green Waves, I called it.

You told me that it was rude
To stare, sneer and snicker.
Little did you know
I drown my sorrows in liquor.

My face is of that you'd see
At a grand masquerade ball.
A simple mask to hide
The emotions under it all.

But those captive eyes
Of crashing blue-green waves
Finally make the walls
I've built around me cave.

Before I knew it, it was time to go to class. I reluctantly drag myself out of the garden and trudge to my next class: Chemistry. I actually love that class, it just so happens that there are certain people that I'd rather not come face-to-face with right now, or ever. Specifically Aaron. He was my boyfriend before the accident and I was so close to falling in love with him. He gave my the butterflies in my stomach and the sparks that they spoke of? Them too. Especially them. But not anymore, not after what he did. Before I can think back to that night, I realise that I'm right in front of the chemistry lab. I take a deep breath, plaster as genuine a smile as I can manage on my face and open the door...only to be met with those swirling blue-green depths again.

***