My alarm startles me awake on Monday morning, and I groggily search for my glasses. The blurry clock next to my bed is decipherable by squinting, and I think it says 5:37. I drag myself out of bed and crawl around blindly in search of my glasses. The quest comes to no avail. I groan, unwilling to wear contacts for over ten hours. A restless night of sleep has already set me up for a bad day.

Reluctantly, I put in contacts and finish getting ready. I walk into the downstairs kitchen to investigate what caused the deafening crash in the middle of the night. My cat guiltily paces behind me, and I shake my head at her. Two shot glasses were knocked into the sink from the window high above and had broken. Everything else, including a wooden miniature wagon and a couple of tiny American flags, was unharmed. I think, “Could this day get any worse?” when footsteps start to tromp down the stairs. The clock now says 6:48. Maya is going to be late for jazz band. When I see my mom descend the stairs, she seems less peppy than she usually is. I wonder if it has anything to do with the mysterious phone calls from the night before. I shake off the feeling, figuring it can’t be too bad otherwise she would have told me last night.

“Do you want to drive to school today?” she asks slowly after I explain the mystery of the missing glasses.

I shrug. “Sure. I don’t really care.” Leaning against the door frame of my room with my door half open, my gaze falls onto my mom’s eyes. The look of her face makes her seem like she is struggling with a choice. I can’t help but think what it is. My mind again goes to the phone calls from last night, which came in after 10:30. No one has ever called us that late, and a sense of foreboding comes over me.

“Lucy, I was going to tell you this in the car,” she starts hesitantly, almost struggling to get words out of her mouth. “But I should tell you now if you’re going to drive yourself.” I wait for her to continue. She takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes as she breathes haltingly. “Your cousin, Dominic, committed suicide last night.”

My heart lurches. I close my bedroom door on her, and hot tears prick my eyes. I open my mouth either to cry or to scream, but no sound comes out. I double over and lean my head against the wall. My chest is clenched so tightly I can hardly breathe. I keep pressing my fist on the wall just to do something, anything, to ease the pain. The salty taste of tears hits my gaping mouth. My heart and soul are wailing in the agony my voice cannot express. I barely hear my mother close the front door and drive away. Nineteen-years-old. He is—or was—just three years older than I am. When was the last time I saw him in person? I start hyperventilating and attempt to clamber up onto my loft bed. My knees give out before I can approach the ladder. The dull thud of my knees impacting the rug resonates in my ears. The ringing resembles that of feedback over speakers in desperate need of adjustment. My hands clutch at my hair and scalp. I roll onto my side and lay sobbing for what seems like hours.

My senses begin to leave me, starting with hearing. I’m still sobbing, but I can no longer her my cries. My eyelids refuse to open, leaving me in darkness. The ocean of tears I have shed leave my nose beyond the ability to function. The briny tears leaking into my mouth have lost all flavor. The ground seems to disappear, allowing me to float into oblivion. Eventually, my heart, mind, and soul feel nothing. The comforting weight that was beginning to settle onto my shoulders is suddenly stripped away, leaving me cold and vulnerable. The sadness and pain I just felt flees, taking with it any happiness or joy that may have been hiding in the depth of my mind. The hunger clawing at the pit of my stomach moments ago is replaced with a hollow shadow. Numbness washes over me like a tsunami. There are no emotions left in my frail, weakened body. Dominic is gone. One single death—a suicide—has left me trembling on the icy ground.