He wallows in self-pity.

It was really late when I got home that night. I was late for dinner, and my mom wasn't too happy about it, but one look at me and she went into full-on mom-mode. I brushed her off, saying I was fine, despite the fact that I was anything but. I simply said that I wasn't hungry; that I was feeling sick and wanted to take a shower and go to bed.

As I was heading up the stairs, she called after me. "By the way, your friend Amy was by earlier. She seemed pretty upset at the time, and she's called twice since then. Maybe you should call her back and let her know-"

"I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to talk to anyone." I said plainly before shutting the bathroom door.

I didn't have to look in the mirror to know that I looked like shit, but I did anyway. My eyes were all blood-shot, the skin around them puffy and pink. There was a small scrape on my cheek where a branch had whipped me, and one side of my face had little bits of dirt clinging to it.

"You look like a loser," I said to my reflection.

He was of the same opinion.

I took a long shower after that, spending more time crying silently to myself than anything else. Above everything, I felt like an idiot; like I'd been conned and duped, turned into the butt-end of a sick joke. My insides felt hollow, every sob echoing and reverberating in the cavity in my chest. I thought back on our time as friends, different snippets of conversation playing over in my head, spun in new way to seem as hollow as I felt.

It didn't get any better after I'd dried off and gone to bed. If anything it got worse, because now whenever I closed my eyes, I kept replaying all the time we'd spent together in my head. Every subtle look between them, every giggle, every smile took on a taunting quality that I just couldn't shake off.

I could hear the phone ring downstairs, my mom answering and telling the person on the other end that I wasn't feeling well and had gone to bed early. I hadn't realized that I'd started crying again until she'd hung up.