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.*･｡. EFF IT! .*･｡.
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053.
THE FIVE STAGES
OF GRIEF.
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   There were five stages of grief.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It's like a cycle, Cheryl had told her when she was a kid, a way for you to understand how you're feeling.

It had been weeks since John B and Sarah died, and still, Sonny didn't know which stage she was on.

Had she even started?

   Had she skipped right to the end?

   What stage was reverting into yourself? Succumbing to loneliness and solitude? Swallowing the pain and pushing everybody away from you?

   Because that's what Sonny had done. Welcomed in that grief and ventured into its abyss. She hadn't wept for him, hadn't cried his name. Sonny hadn't done any of that, not even at the vigil they'd held on their dock, candles and all, with no body for a proper funeral.

   Sonny had stood there emotionlessly, wax burning at her fingertips, as the sun ventured beneath the waterline and a small bird had settled onto the wooden beam beside them.

   What stage of grief was that?

   She wasn't really sure. The only thing Sonny was sure of was that missing John B wouldn't bring him back. At least, that's what she tried to tell herself when things got too real and the pain in her chest returned — like right now, as she waited there on the couch for Shoupe to finish his talk with her parents, her body slumped back as she stared up at the ceiling with sharp, angry eyes.

    "I'm sorry about this, Shoupe..." Nat's voice came from the kitchen. Sonny rolled her dark eyes.

   What did they have to be sorry for, here?

   Ward Cameron was the villain of this story. He was the person at fault, the only one to blame.

   He had lied. He had forced John B to flee. He had killed John B's father in cold blood, tried to kill him, then framed him for what Rafe had done.

   Nat and Ed knew that. So why were they sorry?

   Because Sonny had gone to the Cameron's Estate when they'd told her not to? Because someone had graffitied his wall? Because she'd thrown soda in his eyes when he tried silencing her? That hardly seemed to warrant an apology. They were still waiting for Ward's.

    "It's been hard for the kid," Ed spoke next.

    "I know. I know it's a tough time for your family, and I'm doing my best to help," Shoupe let a long sigh pass his lips. Sonny didn't even believe him at this point, it didn't feel like he was trying. "But Ward... he lost his kid out there, too."

    "Wasn't that his fault?" Ed asked.

Sonny's brows jumped.

    "Ed—"

    "You're a good friend, Shoupe. You really are. I've known you years, and I've always had a lot of respect for what you do." Ed ignored it when Nat tried to stop him from digging them into a deeper hole than Sonny already had. "But that man? I think that man's nothing but a liar and a cheat, and I think it's very telling that his own daughter would rather sail into a storm than spread any more lies," he paused for a moment, "Don't you?"

   There was a tense silence. Sonny waited.

    "Keep Sonny away from Ward Cameron," was all Shoupe said before leaving through the front door.

   Sonny tilted her head to the window and watched, eyeing him up as he climbed into his SUV and drove away. She got the feeling that this wasn't the last time she'd watch Shoupe leave after bringing her home to her parents. It wasn't even the first. She'd probably see him in a week.

    "Sondra Penbrook."

   Sonny sighed, shutting her eyes.

   She didn't need to see Nat's face to know she was livid. It was clear enough in her tone as she stomped into the room, Ed trailing behind her.

    "I don't even know what to say to you, right now." Nat's words hit her like stone. "To both of you!"

   Sonny's eyes fluttered back open as she turned her head, glancing at Ed, who was gawping at his wife.

    "What the hell did I do?"

    "Other than tear strips off him?" When he shot Sonny a look that screamed if you know what's best for you, you'll shut up, she conceded. "Fine. I'll be quiet."

    "No, actually." Nat placed her hands on her hips, a stern expression on her face. Sonny shrank back into the couch as though it would hide her. "No— I wanna hear whatever it is you have to say for yourself."

    "...I did it?"

   Nat groaned, "God, Sonny! Why?"

   Sonny shrugged.

    "I can't believe you!" The woman ranted on, "We told you not to go anywhere near Tannyhill! What were you thinking? Why can't you just listen this once—"

   But Sonny had already tuned out.

   She watched Nat parade around the room manically, her face red as she pointed fingers at Sonny and Ed. He would refute her comments every now and then, shaking his head and saying something in return, but Sonny couldn't hear it above the humming in her ears.

   If there were five stages of grief, Sonny wondered which stages Nat and Ed were on.

   Anger? Depression?

   It was hard to tell. They'd been brave for her, she knew they had, and that had meant trying to put their feelings aside as much as Sonny had her own— until now, anyway, where all those feelings seemed to be bubbling up to the surface. The frustration, the misery, the loss. It was all there, now. Visible. In their eyes, in their words— in all the places it hadn't been since the morning after John B died.

   Maybe their cycle was only just beginning.

    "And the spray-paint?"

   Sonny snapped back into the conversation, feeling small under Nat's scrutiny. "That wasn't even my handwriting."

    "Not even...?" Natasha sighed.

   She rubbed her face and took a seat on the chair directly opposite Sonny, leaving the girl no choice but to watch the tears slowly build in her mother's eyes. Her gut twisted, an awful ache brewing in her chest.

    "How did we end up here?" Nat whispered.

    "Nat..." Ed softened. He moved to kneel beside her and took her hand in his, "Honey..."

    "Why now? Why us?" She wept.

   Why us?

   Sonny hadn't asked herself that in weeks. It didn't seem productive. Didn't change anything.

   She could understand it, though. Why Nat was asking it, why it was killing her inside. Why us? None of it made any sense. Then again, death never did. It was never logical. It never answered your pleas, either. It simply took whatever your heart depended on and left you there, wondering why you? Why now? What for?

   But you would never know.

   Sonny Penbrook had realised that years ago, and she had come to terms with it at a young age. The world was cruel. That was all there really was to it.

    "I guess I'm grounded?"

   Nat and Ed watched her rise to her feet.

    "One week?" Sonny tried to ignore the way they stared. Like they were waiting for some sort of emotion, like she terrified them when she had none, like they feared she was going to keep it all in, cram it all down, until she exploded. Like she was a bomb. "Two?"

    "Does it matter?" Natasha sniffled. "You're just gonna do whatever you want, anyway."

   Okay, Sonny recoiled, that one hurt.

   Instead of showing how much the words stung, she span around and headed for the backdoor. Before she could get very far, Ed spoke up.

    "We're only trying to help you, kiddo."

   Sonny clenched her fists.

    "I don't need your help," she easily denied as she slid the door open and stepped outside, "I'm fine."

   What stage of grief was that?

————

   John B's vigil was small.

   Just Sonny, Nat and Ed, Blake and Jenny. You know, since almost everybody else believed Ward's lies. They thought he was a murderer, that he'd shot Peterkin and left her for dead out on the airstrip, and they couldn't really convince any of them otherwise. Ward was a liar, sure, but he was a good one. He was convincing. Believable.

   And, had they not known John B, Sonny had this terrible feeling that Nat and Ed might've believed him too. Worse? She wouldn't have even blamed them.

Kooks stuck together; money ran deeper than blood. He had nearly the whole of Figure 8 on his side.

It was only because of their own money that they hadn't been run out, yet. Their support of John B didn't sit well, it singled them out and labelled them traitors, and they knew that. It was obvious.

That's why nobody else came to the vigil, why they kept things small, why they didn't bother asking anyone. There wasn't anyone left to ask— nobody cared for John B, even when he was alive and innocent, and now, thanks to Ward Cameron, nobody ever would.

"Jesus," Sonny sighed.

She slumped down at the end of the dock, running her shaking hands over her tired face.

She'd been a total bitch in there, hadn't she?

There was no need for it, she knew that. Natasha and Ed were grieving, after all. Trying to understand how they had invited that boy into their lives, only to lose him weeks later. Not everybody was attuned to death in the way Sonny was; death scared most people, grief broke them, and they had to take their time picking up the pieces. That's what they were trying to do. And she was only making it harder than it was for them already.

And it was really hard.

Her shoulders slumped, fingers tracing the initials etched into the wooden beam next to her. JB WUZ HERE. It was scruffy, and it was slowly beginning to fade, but Sonny's lip quirked to the side nonetheless.

She wasn't sure when he'd had a chance to do that. He'd only lived with them a short time, and they never spent that time on the dock, but there it was.

JB. Sonny felt her eyes start to water.

"Sonny?"

They dried instantly.

"I, uh— I've been meaning to talk to you..." their voice quivered slightly, sounding unsure.

Sonny didn't do anything. Didn't move, didn't speak. She stayed perfectly still, staring at the water and hoping that it was a good enough sign for them to leave her alone. It had been a long day, and school started again tomorrow. Sonny just wanted to be on her own.

"I know it's been weeks," they told her. "I guess I just... I guess I didn't really know what to say."

Sonny grit her teeth.

"There's nothing to say, Topper." She replied.

He sighed.

"Yeah," he scratched his head, awkwardly. "I had a bad feeling you'd say that."

"Then why'd you come?"

"Because you're Sonny," Topper didn't hesitate. It made a part of her heart hurt. "Because you're my friend. Even after everything we said this summer," he shook his head. "You're always gonna be my friend."

Sonny slowly turned her head to look at him. He looked honest. Like he truly meant it. She wondered if she felt the same, if she still considered him a friend.

No, her head screamed, not after everything he'd done.

But they went so far back. Sonny and Topper had been a pair since she was fostered. He was her friend before Sonny even knew what one was.

He was Topper.

And while Topper was annoying and self-absorbed, and while he had almost killed John B and beaten Pope bloody and bruised, and while he'd let Rafe sink his teeth into his neck and infect him like a parasite, he was still Topper. The same dumb kid who had taken her in, who invited himself into her life when she hadn't asked, who had wanted to be Sonny's friend when no one else did.

Every time she pushed Topper away, he came back and fought. For her, for their friendship.

Topper had been the only exception.

Until that summer.

   After that, everything had changed.

   That summer had only reinforced that Sonny was better alone. No friends, no one she cared about. It was easier that way. She just destroyed everything, anyway. Why waste her time? Why waste anyone else's?

"We're not friends, Topper." She told him.

"Maybe not to you," he shrugged. They were quiet for a moment before he took a seat at the end of the dock— not quite beside her, but not so far that she could forget he was there, pretend he'd gone. "Remember when we would play tag out here? And that day I fell in?"

Sonny pursed her lips.

"I cried even though I knew how to swim," he let out an almost inaudible laugh, "You told me to shut up because it was annoying. Crying is for babies."

"I still stand by it," she said curtly.

"You helped me, though. Jumped in and got me out," it made her face soften, just a fraction. "You always did. But I still told you it was the other way around."

Sonny didn't say anything. Mostly because, even though he'd angered her that day when they hadn't found Tanny's gold in the Royal Merchant wreck, he was right. Topper had always babied Sonny in some sense. Looked out for her. Just like she'd done for him — it was as good a reason as any as to why that friendship didn't work. The whole thing was a mess from start to finish, really.

"Do you have a point, Topper?" She sounded tired. He wondered when she last slept soundly.

"I helped him. That night."

Sonny froze.

"John B," Topper continued, "I helped him."

"What?"

"We had him locked in Kelce's house," he told her. "But when he got free, I found him and Sarah in the old church. They got away because I helped him."

It was quiet as Sonny processed it.

Topper had actually helped him? John B? The one kid he despised more than anybody? Who picked fights with him? Who stole his girlfriend?

That John B?

She suddenly felt sick. Because somehow, even if only for Sarah, Topper put aside their differences and helped John B, meanwhile Sonny couldn't even tell him to turn around on that damn radio. Her face twisted.

"Why would you tell me that?" She asked when she was able to find her voice. Topper flinched away from her hard glare. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? What, am I supposed to thank you now?"

"No! I—" he blinked. "I just wanted to—"

"Help me?" Sonny filled in the gaps for him. She scoffed, "You wanna help, Topper? Then go away."

"Sonny—"

"Why do you care, anyways? You hated John B," Sonny raised her voice as she stood up. He mirrored her swiftly, a frown on his face. "You pushed him from the Hawk's Nest! You think he killed Peterkin!"

"Didn't he?!" Topper yelled.

Sonny stopped. Her bottom lip trembled.

"He is innocent," she whispered. "We know he is. And I'm pretty sure you do too," she said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have helped him, would you?"

Topper swallowed.

When the boy didn't say anything more, she turned her back on him and started to storm away, but then he spoke again. It made Sonny stand still.

"I saw JJ today."

Her face pinched. She willed herself to keep walking. To pretend she didn't care, but her feet wouldn't budge. It was like her shoes were glued there, like his name alone left her paralysed. JJ, her fists clenched tightly, she tried her best not to think about him much.

"He didn't look too hot," Topper said. "Started a fight at the hotel, threw water on Kelce."

"Did Kelce deserve it?"

"Does it matter?" He retorted easily. "JJ got his ass fired. He's got no job. He didn't look good—"

"Why would I care about JJ?" She cut in.

Topper blinked. Once, twice. Then he let out a laugh. A quiet, cackling laugh. One that didn't actually have much humour in it, at all.

"Holy shit. You did it," he breathed out. Sonny debated how good an idea it would be to spin around and clock him hard in the face. "You actually did it. You pushed Maybank away and he didn't stick around."

"I don't know what's funny," she said, "You were first."

He ignored her, "I told you, didn't I? Ya see, I know you better than you think I do. I always have."

Sonny felt her skin crawl.

"You don't know shit," she squeezed her fists.

"How does it feel, Sonny?" Topper boasted. "To finally be alone? Is it what you always wanted?"

Before she could stop herself, Sonny was turning around and storming back over there, hands hard on his chest and pushing him off the dock. He landed with a splash, quickly swimming back to the surface and spitting out the water he had in his mouth.

"What the fuck?!"

"Don't talk to me in school tomorrow," she hissed. "You wouldn't want everyone to find out you helped a murderer leave the island, would you?"

He gawped, "Sonny!"

"Fuck you!"

"Hey— come back! Sonny!"

But she didn't; she kept walking, leaving him with water soaking his clothes, and a middle finger for good measure.

What stage of grief was that?

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