Poetry and All Things Alike

Here

The ambulance passed the skate park hopelessly. At a speed that spoke urgency, but with lack of faith.

Curiously, I follow.

The hospital is only a short distance from the park, so I arrive at the urgent care entrance just as the father and daughter are pulled from the ambulance. At least I assume they are a man and a child.

In critical condition, the father's eyes are shut loosely, blood drooling from his lower lip, face bashed in and shards of glass decorating his bruised and bloody skin. The daughter, 6 years old, lays still. Eyes wide open. Nearly naked, the child's bare body reflects that of a battle field. Abdomen torn from her breast to navel, her insides threaten to burst from the small skinny body in which they are concealed. She stares at something distant- eyes dead, but knowing.

I follow her gaze to the end of the parking lot, and see a young boy. Despite how far away he stood, my memory of him is clear.

Small and skinny, the bald boy's face is emotionless, and his plain gray eyes wander meaninglessly past me to look at the girl. I stare at his pale saggy skin and twig- like arms and examine the two freckles below his lower lip curiously.

Slowly, his eyes shift from the girl, and look at me.

In that second that felt like hours, the world around me changed. My ears began to ring and my vision went foggy, but the boy remained clear in my sight. Then slowly, he raised his hand, and held up two fingers. Even in my confused state, I know exactly what this meant.

I quickly break my gaze from the boy and turned to look at the little girl. Could her dead eyes possibly be staring at this boy?

But she is gone.

And when I turn to look at the boy again, he is gone. My insides turn to ice.

Years later, I still can't sleep. No matter the hoards of anti-depressants or Nyquil, my eyes do not get a moment of rest.

Newspaper articles on Monday morning, March 9th 2004 remind me that today is the 11th year anniversary of the day that young girl's father died. March 9th 2004 is my 17th birthday.

The girl is still alive, living in town today.

The news paper tries to balance out the tragedy of her father's death by happily claiming that today the girl celebrates her 17th birthday.

Why can't the locals just forget about it already? It's been 11 God damn years, get over it people.

Because of that father and daughter, this day is forever ruined for me.

I grab a beer and some vodka from the fridge, finding it to be a suiting birthday present to myself. Also it's a bit of a boost to help me get through the school day.

I hadn't exactly planned on attending school today, but seeing as I only have 2 more absences before I'm expelled, I decided to suck it up and make it through today.

Checking the time, I realize if I don't get a move on now, I'm going to be late. That won't be good for my attendance record either. So I grab my bags and rush out to my car in the steamy California weather. Clouds hang high in the sky, threatening to rain.

The gift of traffic graces me not too far into my journey for school. Now I'm definitely going to be late.

On top of that, it began to downpour right as I for stuck in the traffic. Yep, my 17th birthday is going absolutely terrific!

Trying not to loose my temper, I turn up the radio, and try to relax the best I can, allowing myself to go into a pattern as I drive.

But my foot on the gas.. Break.. Gas.. Break.. Gas... break ..

In this pattern for about 30 minutes.

It's not until the jerk behind me honks his horn that I finally lose it.

He honks once. Twice. Three times. And my blood begins to boil.

Enraged, I hop out of my car, and out into the downpour. Immediately I am soaked by the sheets of rain, but in this moment I couldn't care at all.

"Are you serious?" I begin screaming at the driver who sits soundly in his Mercedes, unable to hear the earful I'm about to give him. I gear myself up to begin screaming profanities at the man, fueled by my rage- but I am stopped.

Inches away from me, the ground is touched with a kiss from the sky, and my body fills with electricity.

In what feels like slow motion, my body flies backward and my bones turn to Jello. I can see sound.

Through the lightening bolt, crackling with billions of channels of blue static stands the boy.

I can see him clearly through my eyes, which view the world as if it is made of white noise.

His plain gray eyes stare back at me, sagging cancerous skin pale, just as I remember it.

With his face stoic as always, he slowly raises his hand and holds up one finger. Just like before, I know exactly what this means.

Like when he visited me at the hospital, I am dead now, just as I was 11 years ago.

Only now I no longer have two more chances.

My body hits the ground and my dead eyes stare up into the sheets of rain. Around me car doors slam shut and mothers begin to scream to call an ambulance.

But I know that I am secure. I will not remain dead forever.

I still have one last chance.