Hey There Delilah, Chapter 4

The rest of the summer was a complete blurr to me. I don't remember a single thing except the long nights alone in my room. I'd lie awake for hours replaying the car crash over and over again in my head, trying to find the split second where I could have done something to reverse the situation. My parents were very worried about me. "Honey, we need to talk," my mom was constantly saying to me. I'd just shake my head and walk away. My dad tried bribing me into talking by buying me snowcones at the mall. "So, how's that chunk of ice?" he'd start out. I'd look at him with a stare that seemed to say nothing but everything at the same time, so he decided to leave me alone.
Everyday I would go for a walk around my block and sit staring at the pond for hours on end, not moving a muscle. On my way home I'd check the mailbox, always finding the occasional sympathy card from a friend at school or a smelly casserole. People knew Delilah's death was as much a tradegy to me as it was to her own family.
Around the beginning of August my mother was completely fed up with me and my constant zombie walk. She was tired of giving out love and getting nothing back. Time for her revenge: a therapist.
"I'm not going." I stood in the kitchen staring at my parents with a frown on my face. It was the only way I could keep from crying.
"Sweetie, we've given you the chance to talk to us, but you won't. So you can talk to a therapist instead," my mother said. She stood facing me with her arms crossed, a determined look on her perfectly make-uped face. My father on the other hand was the kind of guy that didn't like to intervine with mother-daughter face-offs. He slouched in a corner flipping through his lastest issue of Car and Driver mindlessly. "Your father and I both agree that this is the best thing for you at the moment, right Harold?" She shot a look at my father that plainly stated, "Agree with me or you're sleeping in the doghouse."
"Yes dear." He sounded like a young schoolboy that was terrified to give the teacher the wrong asnwer. "I agree."
"Well, it's settled then. I'll drive you over to the therapist's office after lunch tomorrow," my mother said very matter-of-factly. I tried to give her the death stare, but her years of practice penitrated through my force field.
"Fine!" I shouted in her face. I stomped out of the room, a single tear sliding down my cheek. I must admit, I was scared.