I had no idea what to do at first. My mind was complete and total chaos.

What did you do after someone dies?

I had a basic idea, but I didn't have anything besides Google to help me figure it out. My mom wasn't any help. She was still in bed when I left for school. I'd tried to get her up, but she only asked for the phone. I listened as she tearfully told her boss that her husband had died and she needed the day off to take care of his affairs. It was all I could do to not laugh at her. Take care of his affairs? Right. I knew just by looking at her it would be falling on me.

By the time I had reached school, I almost felt guilty for leaving her alone, but, at the same time, I felt she deserved it.

It only took a couple of minutes for both of my friends to realize there was something wrong. I told them what had happened and they both asked if I was sure I wanted to go to school. I was sure I didn't, but all I told them was that it would be okay. I went through the whole day, unsure of whether I should be there or if I should speak to the principal, explain how my father had died and I needed to be there for my mother.

Eventually, school ended and I raced home. It felt like the day was dragging. All I could think about was whether or not my mom had actually left the bed or not. Hungover or not, she knew she needed to get up. She had things to do!

When I pulled into the driveway and saw that all the curtains were closed and it was dark inside, I knew. I knew she hadn't done anything.

I got out of the car, knowing that my online life was going to suffer. Whatever I did today, it was going to be everything other than filming. My story update was going to be late.

Inside, nothing had been moved. I sighed as I sat my backpack down and made my way to the bedroom. Mom was exactly where I had left her - staring at the ceiling with a blank expression and crust in her eyes that used to be tears. "Mom?" She looked over at me. "Have you made any calls to anyone today?" She shook her head and went back to staring at the ceiling.

Of course not. I grabbed the phone from her bedside table and went into the kitchen. Where did I even start? I pulled out my phone and Googled what needed to be done. There was a helpful website that gave me a step-by-step guide.

Two hours and several calls to family, friends, and my father's job later, I sat back. Despite everything that had happened, I hadn't cried. Not once. Nothing felt real. It was like he was on his way home - except the fact his boss was livid he hadn't shown up before I told him what had happened - and any moment now he was going to walk in the door. What was getting to me right then, though, was the silence.

My parents argued regularly, and I hated when it happened. I was used to taking cover in my room and doing something else to help me ignore it. The one thing I never thought I would ever feel, though, was loneliness. There was something in the silence that made me miss the noise it provided.

The worst part for me about the utter silence was that I had time to think. Why? Because the thoughts that kept coming weren't exactly good. Why hadn't I cried yet? Was I a bad person because of that? Or did thinking about the silence instead of my loss mean I didn't care as much as I should? Was it bad that I felt numb?

During the time it had taken to make the calls, my friends had texted to invite me over to one of their places. In truth, I didn't want to leave my mother alone. I had a bad feeling that something would happen to her if I did.

I checked the clock. Not quite five. I called a funeral home, something I never imagined I would ever have to do. The process took longer than I thought it would since I had no idea what I was doing. Still, I managed to get things settled. The only thing I hadn't done was tell my school. I knew I couldn't tell them myself. My mother would have to do it.

With a heavy sigh, I stood, knowing I would have to eat so I could do my homework later that night. I opened the fridge and just stared. I didn't really know how to cook, if I was honest. I never really had to. I was either always gone, or I was eating out. They never really taught us anything about it in school past chicken was cooked at 165 degrees and how to dice an onion. I could make toast and cereal. That was it.

I resigned myself to that, and was taking some bread out of the bag when I heard a knock. A tad bit startled, I sat what I was holding on the counter and went to answer the door.

That was when all the food began coming. At first, it was a cousin that was bringing us a lasagna she'd thrown together, and the next thing I knew, I was adding three and then four more things from friends to it. After an hour has passed, I was both mad at myself and shocked. Shocked we were getting food from people, and mad that I was eating nearly everything. There had to be a lot of fat and calories in my body by this point.

It was probably wrong of me to think about gaining weight after what had happened, which was making me madder. Which, in turn, drove me to forcing down even more stuff.

The next day passed in another blur of food, except I managed to convince my mom to call my school and explain to them what was going on. I couldn't tell if she was proud of me for making the funeral arrangements or not. Her face stayed blank and she still didn't leave her bed.

As I had the entire week off from school, I stayed home and tried to figure out what to do about my videos and story. Every time I felt like something was about to come to me, the doorbell would ring and I would have to go take food or cards from whoever had shown up this time. By  the time the third day had passed, I couldn't physically fit any more food in our fridge and I found myself pigging out and grazing all day.

I felt so bad about enjoying the food, but I couldn't help it.

My friends kept calling and texting me, asking if they could come over or if I would come over to their places. I kept telling them no. I didn't want them to see how bad I was at keeping house, or how Mom hadn't left her bed. I didn't want to go there and have them pity me.

I didn't want them to see me act like the robot I was.

The only time I saw anyone was the one time a day Riley would drop off my homework from the day, but I never opened the door. She dropped it in the mailbox while I played the girl who was mourning her father.

Day four was the funeral. I barely managed to drag Mom out of bed and get her dressed to go. We ended up being early despite that, which felt like a miracle.

When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was that this was going to be an open casket affair. The only thing I had requested was for it to be closed, because I didn't want to see my dad like that, but no one listened to me. I supposed it was fair since I wasn't quite 18 yet, I wasn't an adult yet, but every time I complained I got told that I had to grow up and deal with it.

If the way my mom went down when she saw the lid propped open was any indication, growing up had nothing to do with wanting it closed.

All I really remember about the funeral after that is walking up to the casket to pay my respects and then waking up to my cousins fanning me and handing me a bottle of water before helping me back to my seat. As I sat there, I half-listened to Dad's life story I'd coaxed my mother into dictating to me the night before. I felt the weight coming down on me as the pallbearers were called up.

For the first time since the accident, I felt something. Something.

Something.

We rode with one of my aunts to the graveyard afterwards. I refused to get out and sat in the car, waiting for them to come back.

It was fall, and the place was lined with trees beginning to get their autumn colors. It was beautiful, so brilliant. The breeze was crisp and cool, reminding us all that soon we would need to break out our sweaters and jackets. The sun was beaming and making rays through the trees. Birds were singing as squirrels played.

Why did it have to look so cheerful? Why couldn't it have been gloomier? Why couldn't it have been raining? Every movie scene where they were burying someone had rain and gray clouds.

I leaned my head against the cool window and listened to the song playing on the radio. People were standing around the grave. That wooden box? Not my father. It couldn't be.

Yet I couldn't deny it was.

My mind began to wander. I found myself thinking about the silence I would be going home to, my mother laying in bed with that blank look.

Dad had left Mom. He was driving around. Either he was crying or tired and didn't see the car. I could almost hear the crunch of metal and squeal of tires.

I gasped a breath. It felt like I was suffocating in that car. I couldn't breath. My tears were running down my face.

I couldn't take this anymore.

I grabbed my heels that I'd worn like an idiot and got out of the car. I started running towards my house. There wasn't a reason for me to stay in this place with these people, or in that car with the unknown song that was hitting far too close to home.

Soon, the running turned into walking. I was fine with that. I wasn't in a rush to get home. After a few minutes I texted my mom, telling her I was walking home so don't come looking for me.

Truth be told, I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay away for as long as I could. The numbness was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the weight of everything on my shoulders and the deep sadness. I didn't want to go where I would have it pounded even deeper.

I would be fine. I was fine. Taking a deep breath, I chanted those words over and over in my head. I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine.

That's how I didn't hear the truck following me at first. I don't know how long it took, but when I noticed it, I hoped it wasn't my mother. I really didn't want to face her right then. But, just in case it was a creep, I turned to check.

When I locked eyes with the driver, I was shocked.