A Christmas Story

Falon

The door slams behind her as she storms out of my apartment. Sometimes I wonder why she comes back. Sometimes I wonder why I keep letting her back in. I turn back to the kitchen. Shattered china plates litter the floor, and cabinets are opened wide. This isn't the first time we've had a fight and it certainly isn't the first time I've had to buy new dishes. The knife stuck in the kitchen table is new, though.

I sigh as I open the hall closet and grab the broom to sweep up the broken remnants of glasses and china left behind by my violent girlfriend's rage. The fragile pieces of debris slip through the bristles and shoot across the floor. After dozens of shards getting tangled in my socks, I decide that there will be time enough later to clean up the mess. I grab my keys and head to my car with no destination in mind.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only one person in my graduating class from Kansas who lives alone. Even when my girlfriend Kasidi is civilized and polite (which doesn't happen much), she doesn't live with me. She can't consistently put up with me for that long. She'll be back in a week, though.

As I'm pulling out of the driveway, a policeman stops behind me. I'm prepared to make a break for it, even though I have no reason to be worried; I'm not drunk. That is, always has been, and always will be, my girlfriend.

The police officer jumps out of his car and slowly approaches my window with a sympathetic frown. He motions for me to roll down my window. I comply for some reason instead of driving, probably because my current police record is absolutely spotless.

"Are you Falon Lerman?" I nod and he continues.

"Sir, I regret to inform you that your... girlfriend, Kasidi Clarkson, correct? was killed in a motor vehicle accident at 12:06 a.m., about twenty minutes ago. She was pronounced dead at the scene, suffering from a broken neck and ruptured lungs from debris. The investigation of the cause is currently underway, but it is, as of now, believed to be a combination of high alcohol intoxication," I knew she had been drinking, "and, in general, reckless driving. Her record isn't exactly... perfect. Now, I am sorry for your loss, but I'm also here on a mission. Do you know anything else that we don't?"

"Other than her not having any other family to contact, I think you know it all."

"No family?"

"Not even distant relations." A strange numb feeling creeps across my body as I realize that I'm not surprised at the news of my girlfriend's death. I suppose she never was one to be safe and careful. I actively tried to avoid drugs and alcohol in high school and I was always the one in the dorms studying for tests instead of going to frat parties and getting drunk. When my fellow football teammates came over and had a couple beers, I was always the one staying alcohol-free the whole time. I guess all of that flew out of the window when I met Kasidi; she stopped drinking for days at a time, but her clean spells never lasted longer than a week. Now I'm still living in Iowa and I haven't spoken to much anyone besides Kasidi and some neighbors in two years since college and of course I regret it.

The cop jolts me from thoughts when he clears his throat with an embarrassed smile. Clearly he took my silence as stunned grief.

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir, but I must get going. If you ever need anything-"

"I'll be alright. Thanks, officer." I think I almost ran over his toes as I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, reaching the speed limit in mere seconds. I need to find someone I can care about, that I used to know, someone I used to be friends with. There's one place I know I can find someone I know: back home in Kansas.