Andy

I skipped down the chapel's front steps just as the first rain drops began to slip free from the clouds above. I smiled, grateful for the rain. I loved the gloomy feeling that came with the drops, like fire, it felt like balance returning to earth for a little while. There was nothing that compared to sitting in the burned out house on Apture road, watching the rain trickle off the roof, dripping off the vines that consumed the remainder of the building. Just watching that rain, and thinking about life, was one of the single greatest things in my life.

Of course, I had other things. I'm not jumping straight in, saying I cherish rain, fire and death themes. If it makes you feel any better, most all of the clothes I own are white, because I don't like black. For that reason, I dyed my hair emerald green the year I turned thirteen, because my parents finally consented.

I'm quite normal, by 'normal' standards. I just liked a few different things.

I went to church on Sundays with my family, had responsibilities, never really spoke out against my parents authority, for two reasons. (1.) Their arguments were fair (2.) They kind of scare me.

So... If you were expecting some angst filled, black loving emo bitch to be telling this story, sorry to disappoint. You should probably just stop reading now.

Ha! You didn't stop. I like you.

Anyways, to be fair, I'm just going to tell you now, I'm kind of everywhere... I'll bounce from one topic to the next with reckless abandon, because I'm creative and have trouble organizing my thoughts like that.

Anyways! Back to the story...

I looked up at the clouds, slightly illuminated by the hidden sun, which made them lighter in some places, much darker in others, but still, a welcome sight.

My parents murmured a conversation behind me while they stood on the sidewalk, speaking about what errands we had to run afterwards. I had already spaced out, and pulled my MP3 player from my pocket, and was already scrolling through my massive collection of tunes from a variety of genres, trying to find something that fit my mood, primarily because I had a writing project that I needed to work on for school, and I'd procrastinated so much, most of my time was gone, so I'd start a draft on my phone and begin actual work when I get home later.

I finally settled on some My Chemical Romance, and looked back at my parents, realizing they were already heading up the left running sidewalk, towards the car, while I stood here, getting drenched on the sidewalk like an idiot.

With a huff, I hurried to catch up with them, nearly wiping out on a slick patch of cement on the way. I've always been a generally uncoordinated person, and to be fair, and honest, a complete klutz. On level ground, in perfect weather, tripping was still a fear for me.

Alright, a bit about my parents during this slow, walking time. My Dad is part Italian, and he loves to show it, by using a forced accent at times. Most of the time, he acts American, like he should. But at random times, he just likes to embrace his weird, Italian side, and act out by saying some phrase or something.

Aside from that, my Dad is a construction worker, a contractor. He spends a good bit of time analyizing blue prints for faults before giving them his seal of approval for building. It always interested me how he'd do his job. I liked to watch him in the mornings before I went to school, tapping or chewing on the end of his pencil while he looked over the papers, sometimes sketching minor changes into the plan, or writing notes on the margins of the blueprints, then calling up the company he was working for, and discussing the possible changes and errors with an advisor.

Dad could be a straight-up hard ass sometimes. He had a natural authority to him, and sometimes he abused his power. Annoyed as I might be at the time, I eventually grew to understand his decisions.

As for Mom, she was kinda the same, with the authority thing. Only she often had a softer approach to the situation. And since I was an only child, it required optimal patience. I tried to be a cooperative kid, but sometimes there's just things you have to argue, because you truly disagree with it, and it can wear a parents' patience thin pretty quick.

Mom is originally from New Jersey, but after she married my Dad, they both moved to Utah together, so Dad could take his contracting job, and Mom could begin her work as a steamstress for a fashion company that was starting up.

As for I, I am sixteen year-old Ash, going to school, adventuring, reading, and day dreaming too much about the wrong things. I rarly think about what my future might consist of, because to be honest, most of my time, I'm thinking of different band related scenarios.

I climbed in the backseat of my parents' old Toyota, and immediately began typing up a rough draft on my phone.

But after a few different tries and angles, I still hadn't come up with any good story ideas. It all felt repetitive, and not something I felt like comitting myself to writing. If I didn't feel the idea was good, I had a hard time making myself work.

"Oh my..." My Mom whispered, and I looked up at her. Her eyes weren't on me, nor my Dad, they looked out the windshield, fear and stillness in her eyes. She watched some distant scene with the greatest level of remorse in her eyes.

Curious, I pushed myself up in my seat and looked out the windows. The first thing I noticed was the flames. The flames being tamed by a cluster of firefighters, backed by a pack of EMT's, gathered around someone on the ground.

Dad pulled over, but I was barely aware of the movement. I looked out the window, unable to tear my eyes from the scene.

An overturned pickup truck, going up in a wave of twisting, amber flames lying in the middle of the rain slick asphalt. There was a body sized hole through the windshield, and a large ammount of blood staining the paintjob of the hood.

It wasn't until I hear my Mom frantically shouting my name over the chaos that I realized I'd climbed out, and was hesitantly approaching the EMT's. Did I truly even want to know? Why did I want to know? Couldn't I just leave well enough alone and accept what happens?

I saw the EMT's try paddles on the victim for the second time in the past minute. I counted silently in my head, I crossed my fingers and plead. My lips vibrating in a silent plea. I prayed quietly that they could save him, that they could get him to draw a sharp breath and come back to life.

Minutes drug out, and hope was dwindling. It was becoming sadenningly clear, he was gone.

My Dad's hand settled on my shoulder in reassurance, but I just wanted to know if the boy had made it, if he would...

The EMT's signalled to the growing crowd, a disheartening wave of their hands, which meant for everyone to clear out, nothing to see... He was dead.

They brought a stretcher over to the body, covered by a blanket on the ground. I watched them, finding it impossible to tear my eyes away from the body, away from the EMT's lifting it onto the stretcher to load it up. And even more impossible, was when a harsh wind blew the blanket back from his face. His smooth, white face. Cold as marble, eyes closed, still as stone.

The unrecognizable boy was dead... And there was nothing to see here.

I sighed and turned away, heading back for the car. My parents hurried to catch and keep up with me, but I didn't really notice. There was something far heavier on my mind, a memory burned into my head in sharp detail...

I just had to tell someone.

Notes