Just for a Night

Chapter 1

Isn't it crazy how each moment in your life matters? Every single thing you do, every single choice you make, will change the path of your life story.

Do you wear a red shirt or a blue shirt? You pick the red? Maybe your lifelong crush notices. Maybe you only wear red for the rest of your life, and you may have found your soulmate. You wear blue? That's your favorite color. Maybe it gives you the confidence for that speech in that one class you're failing, turns your grades around, and jumpstarts that career you always wanted.

Do you go with your parents to the store that night, or stay at home to avoid the screaming, yelling and arguing that would surely happen? You go with them? A gray truck swerves into their lane, causing them to crash into a streetlamp. You all die. You stay at home? They still die, leaving you to stay in an apartment by yourself while your older brother spends his days working two different jobs, and his nights choking down cheap vodka with three different sorority girls.

Alright, the shirt choice was hypothetical. The car crash wasn't. Maybe I should have went that night, and saved myself from the pointless shit show I call life. Or maybe I got lucky, and should hold on tight to that little lifeline of hope that whispers in my ear, telling me I have to keep fighting.

Ironically, for the first time in about six years, my parents weren't fighting. The officer with a low voice and persisting stare told me that they were holding hands in their final moments. That they felt no pain. Not that they could know. I'm pretty sure most people that died on impact couldn't tell us if it hurt. I didn't question it, though. Questioning means dwelling on it, and honestly, that hurts.

So, that's how I ended up here. An orphaned kid with no one to come home to. I don't like to get stuck in the never ending loop of self pity, though. In this small town, where nothing ever happens, news spreads quickly. Especially tragic news. Enough people already pity me, and I'm getting pretty sick of it.

Take this girl, for example. I walk by her in the hall, and she gives me a small smile, her lips pressing together tightly and her eyebrows drawing together in a polite, meaningless expression. I don't even know who she is. I force the corners of my mouth up in a courtesy smile, my crappy version of an insincere thanks, but quickly let them fall once I pass her. I used to smile, and say a quick "thank you" with a teary nod, but after a couple hundred times, it reduced to a nod and a smile, then a smile, then to a small twitch of acknowledgment. It wasn't for me, though, it never was. These small acts of pity didn't make me feel any better, but it let the person give themselves a nice pat on the back while they tell themselves how kind they are.

I turn into the classroom and take a seat close to the door. Not so close that I'm the first thing a person sees when they enter the room, but close enough that I can sit down as fast as possible and blend in with the other students.

"Good morning, Ms. Ashfeld," the teacher says, leaning against his desk.

"Morning," I say with another courtesy smile. Every single day, every single class. They only greet their favorite students, or the brightest students, or the "dead parents" students. I wanted to yell at them all. Just pretend nothing happened. Let me move on. These talks mean nothing to me. Stop opening wounds I'm trying so hard to close. You would think that two years is enough time for them to forget. For myself to forget. Some try to pretend they don't know, but everyone can tell. The sweet words, the way their voices change completely when talking to me.

I answer the small talk with short responses, brief enough to keep it light, but just long enough to seem as normal as this can get.

The weather is beautiful. Yes, it is.