Dead on Arrival, Chapter 2 (final part)

I snapped back into reality. We were still staring at each other. Her face was still asking me that question. That question that I had no logical answer to. I looked down at our hands again, just inches apart now. My heart thudded against my chest, but something felt different now. My hand started to move. It kept moving for what felt like an eternity until my fingers touched hers. I gently laced my fingers with hers and looked back up at her. I leaned into her ear and whispered, “I like you.”

She blushed deeply and held my fingers tighter, her thumb tracing the veins on the back of my hand, and suddenly I could feel it. I could feel that everything would be okay. Everything that Lara had done to me didn’t matter as much now. I had finally found my light switch. She laid her head on my shoulder and told me she liked me back. I sighed contentedly. I couldn’t wait for the movie to end so I could talk to her. After a couple minutes, Emily whispered in my ear again.

“Wanna leave?”

“What about the movie?”

“I’ve seen it like 10 times. And you already read the book, so there’s no point in watching the movie. And I wanna talk to you and get dinner with you.”

How could any man refuse an offer such as this? “Okay. Let’s get out of here.” I took her by the hand and led her out of the pitch-black auditorium into the slightly brighter hallway. I turned and looked at her. Her hair was messier than it had been earlier, and her dress was slightly wrinkled, but she was still wearing the jacket I gave her.

I swiped some dust off her shoulder. “Where to?”

“Let’s just walk around outside. I love nighttime walks.”

As we stepped out of the building, a cool breeze floated through the night air, lightly stirring up some fallen leaves.

“Noted.”

“Out of all the things to take note of, why would you pick that?”

“I take note of everything you love.”

“Everything? You keep track of what I like?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s put it to the test. Recite everything, from memory. If you forget even one thing, I get to punch you.”

“Wow. You would violently assault the boy you like?”

“Not a violent punch. Like, a little love-tap.” She demonstrated “a little love-tap” on my arm.

“That wasn’t that bad.”

“I know. Come on. Tell me everything I like.”

“I won’t tell you now. You’ll find out on your birthday.”

She groaned loudly. “Ugh. I don’t wanna wait that long.”

“You’re going to wait that long. I already have your present planned out.”

“Really?” She launched a volley of little love-taps on me. “Tell me what it is NOW.”

I grabbed her by her shoulders and held her back. “Patience, Em.”

She exhaled a big sigh and started walking to the car. “Buy me dinner. I’m hungry.”

“Buy you dinner? What if I don’t?”

She looked back at me and dramatically gasped. “I’m shook. You dare say no to the girl you like?”

I laughed, really laughed. I felt truly happy for the first time in months, and it was all because of this girl.

“On second thought, where would you like dinner?”

“Mhm. That’s more like it.”

“You’re getting pretty bossy on the first date.”

She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not like we’re strangers. I get to be bossy with you.”

“Makes sense to me.” I unlocked the car and we got in. “Where do you want dinner?”

“Let’s go back home. There’s this one restaurant I wanna show you.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and took a left. “You forgot to show me your music taste.”

“You’re right. Give me your phone.”

“It’s in the same spot.”

She grabbed it and scrolled for a little bit before she played Thinkin Bout You by Frank Ocean, coincidentally one of my favorite songs. I started singing along and she stared at me like I just invented fire.

“You know this song? Since when?”“It’s a pretty popular song.”

“Damn it. I was planning to sing the lyrics to you.”

“We can sing them together.” I merged into the largely unoccupied freeway, save for a few lonely cars.

“You better not miss a word.” And we drove back to town, belting love songs, not a care in the world. But fate had other plans for us tonight. All good things had to come to an end, didn’t they? If I had looked at my mirrors, would I have been able to avoid it? If the music wasn’t as loud, would I have heard it? A couple of miles behind us, a Toyota Camry with a drunk driver was speeding, getting closer to our car by the second. Emily and I were still singing happily, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger. By the time Thinkin Bout You came to a close, he was in the lane to the left of us, just a couple hundred feet behind our car. I saw it too late. I heard it too late. Before I could even move the steering wheel to swerve away, he crossed into our lane and hit my door.

The sudden collision sent our car careening into the right shoulder, hitting the solid brick wall hard enough to make the passenger door fold inwards and bend Emily’s leg the wrong way around. The broken glass from the window was buried in Emily’s face, and cherry-red rivers ran down her cheeks. It took me a couple crucial moments to orient myself. As soon as I realized what had happened, I called 911 with blood-stained hands and the cops, along with an ambulance, promptly arrived. The paramedics pulled Emily out of the car and put her on a stretcher. One of them asked me if I was okay, and I nodded slightly. They put Emily in the ambulance and sped off.

A cop came over to help me out of the car and asked me some questions about the crash, but I didn’t respond to them. I was still in shock. Things were going so well, weren’t they? We were on our first date, just a couple minutes ago. Just a couple minutes ago, I was singing my favorite song with my favorite person. Why was I punished for somebody else’s mistakes? Why was Emily just a casualty, a consequence of somebody else’s actions? I imagined her, hands on her hips, face bloodied, asking me why I didn’t save her. “I’m shook. You didn’t protect the girl you like?” No, Em. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t see him. I didn’t hear him. I looked up at the full moon and cried. Tears flowed freely down my face as I sank to the cold asphalt, searing pain shooting through my injured leg. I leaned back against the car for support and felt a sudden surge of anger boil up within me. I turned and punched the door over and over again, screaming through the misery.

“Why?” Punch. “Why?” Punch. “Why her?” Punch. “Why not me?” I threw a rapid flurry of blows at the warped metal until my knuckles began to severely ache. The cop ran over from his patrol car and helped me up to my feet. He put me in the backseat of the car and asked me for a guardian’s contact number. I gave him my mom’s. He pulled away from the wreck and sped back towards town. I laid my throbbing head on the seat cushion and tried to fend off the voice, but I felt it grow louder and louder.

you were going to leave her in three weeks, remember? Shut the hell up. Please, not now. even in the end, you couldn’t tell her you were moving. even if she had lived, would you two have stayed together? did you even deserve to have her? do you even deserve to live? Did I? Why did I deserve to be okay? I inspected myself for any damage and was deeply disappointed. I was strangely, unfairly, unharmed. Was Emily even alive? Was it fair that I was okay while she was struggling for her life? She was struggling for her life because of my mistakes. I was driving, I should have been more careful, I should have checked my mirrors, I should have seen it, I should have heard it, she shouldn’t have been in your car at all you don’t deserve somebody like her you don’t deserve her you don’t deserve to-

I passed out in that backseat. I don’t directly remember anything from the next couple of hours, but I remember waking up in a hospital bed, bright fluorescent lights painfully piercing my eyes. I rose a little, supporting myself on my forearms, and saw my parents sitting next to my bed. My mom was fast asleep, but my dad hurriedly woke her up after seeing me regain consciousness. I only had one question to ask them.

“Where’s Emily?”

My parents exchanged knowing, burdened glances, their silence speaking unbearably loud volumes. Emily was dead.

“The doctors tried their best.” My dad tried to place a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I pulled back. It couldn’t be real. She had to be standing right outside, wearing the same outfit and the same smile. She was just messing with me. It wasn’t real.

I didn’t respond to my dad. I laid back down, closing my eyes, not wanting to face reality.

“David?” That didn’t sound like my parents. Who was that?

“What?” I opened my eyes. A woman was standing at the foot of my bed, and my parents were nowhere to be seen. She looked to be the same age as my mom. She had chocolate-colored hair, hair that felt starkly familiar. With a tidal wave of guilt, I realized that this must be Emily’s mom. I immediately slammed my eyes shut. I couldn’t look at her, I didn’t have the right to even be near her. I’m the one who killed her daughter, not some random alcoholic on the highway.

“David?” I felt her step closer to me and I wished I could get up and run out of that room. But my leg was in a cast, and I was stuck. Where were my parents? They must have set this up. Why would they do this to me?

“Can we talk? Please. I’m not holding any grudge towards you if that’s why you’re scared.”

Oh, shut up. I killed your daughter. It’s normal, it’s expected that you hold a grudge towards me.

I heard her scoot a chair next to my bed and spoke softly. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you had with her, but I can tell she trusted you. She rarely lets anyone take her out, especially not for the night. I wish I had earned her trust. She would have told me everything about you and introduced me to you, and we would have been able to help each other through this. The truth is, I was never emotionally close with Emily. I was never able to be there for her. I gave priority to trivial things like work, rent, bills, and all the other secondary commitments in life, and I ended up neglecting my daughter. I just hope she died knowing I loved her more than anything. Everything I did was for her, for her to be able to go to Stanford and make her dreams come true and become anything she wanted to be.” She sniffled loudly. She must have started crying, and I started to wonder if she was telling the truth about not holding a grudge. “I’m just glad” -sob- “that you were” -sob- “there for her.” She was silent for a moment, then spoke. “I’m glad that she died with you.”

My breath caught in my throat, trapped by unspoken words. She was glad that Emily died with me? I felt a strange weight leave my body. She isn’t angry with me? she isn’t angry with you. It wasn’t my fault? it wasn’t your fault. Shut up. Why are you being nice? you’ve been through enough. you deserve to finally feel good about yourself.

I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. I took a deep breath before I brought my gaze to her mom’s face, and stared at her for a moment before I began to sob. I sobbed even harder than I had on the freeway, and each tear that ran down my cheeks carried a little bit of my regret and guilt with it. She put her hand on mine to console me, but it only made me cry harder. Her fingers felt almost identical to Emily’s. She gently squeezed my hand and got up.

“I forgive you, David. And I can promise you that Emily forgives you too.” She walked out of the room and closed the door behind her, leaving me completely alone.

The next three weeks went by in a gray haze. I was discharged from the hospital a couple days later after the doctors were certain I was okay. My cast had to stay on for two weeks, so I was confined to my bed. I had crutches, but I didn’t feel like learning how to use them. Everything I did felt meaningless, and I spent the days just lying in bed with the blinds closed, listening to Thinkin Bout You on repeat. It was forever etched in my memory as the song that killed Emily, and listening to it would only made me more miserable, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t bring myself to try to move on or forgive myself. My schoolwork was piling up, but I didn’t care. I was going to leave this god-forsaken place in a couple weeks anyway.

My parents had done all my packing for me, and my room was depressively bland. Our entire house was now mostly just blank walls and rooms. Our possessions were now in some storage center in Colorado, waiting to be used as decorations for our new home. The actual move wasn’t as emotional as I had expected it to be. Had Emily still been alive, leaving California might have meant something to me. I guess I still had Asher, but I had been ignoring him since the accident, despite his endless calling and texting. I prayed that moving away would finally push him away from me. I didn’t need or want his pity. He didn’t understand what I was feeling, and that wouldn’t change, no matter how many misguided attempts he made to sympathize with me.

“Davey!” My mom yelled from the driveway. I dragged my suitcase outside and put it in the trunk of our car. I took a scrutinizing look around our, now old, neighborhood, expecting to feel some pang of emotion. To my absolute indifference, I felt nothing. I shrugged to myself and got in the backseat, thankful to finally be leaving.

A couple dreary, tedious weeks passed in Colorado. I had my first day of school in late March. The school was alright, I guess. It was strangely similar to my old school, and that pissed me off. I found myself daydreaming, or rather, daynightmaring, about Emily during class, which also pissed me off. I didn’t know much about the teachers or the kids, so I couldn’t say for sure if they pissed me off. I had made one friend, though. His name was Dave, which was a strange, but interesting coincidence. We shared the same sixth period, Creative Writing. He was pretty good at storytelling, and he helped me improve my own stories, which had become my new passion as of late. It was a way for me to escape my persistent grief and guilt and put it down on paper, which felt healthier than letting it consume me from the inside out. It was probably the only good part about Colorado so far.

The second good part came in early May, just before my finals, which, for some reason, I was required to take. Dave and I were having lunch in the cafeteria, and he handed me a flyer.

“Check this out.” He slid me a teal-colored flyer with yellow text. It read: “Creative Writing Competition Hosted By the Creative Writing Club! Submit Your Entries Before School Ends!” And below that: “The theme for all entries is personal tragedy. No word limit. We aren’t expecting many entries.” At the very bottom of the flyer, it said that winning entries would have a small excerpt published in the school newspaper. Dave looked at me with expectant eyes.

“So? What do you think?”

It was an interesting prospect. And I certainly had a personal tragedy to write about. “I’m considering it.”

“We should do it together. See who wins. A little friendly competition.” He took the flyer back and finished off his lunch. “What do you say?”

“Why not?” The worst that could happen is not being featured in the school paper, which almost felt like more of a prize than the actual prize. I went home that day and opened a blank document. I titled it, “Emily”. I stared at the white screen for a couple minutes. A couple minutes turned into an hour. An hour turned into several hours. Before I knew it, it was dinnertime and I still had nothing written down. I absentmindedly chewed the meatloaf Mom had made, thinking about how I could start the story. I went back to my room and had another staring match with the Word document.

I forfeited and went to sleep, hoping I’d think of something tomorrow. But I didn’t make any progress until the last couple weeks of school. The deadline was coming up and I had completely neglected studying for finals in the hopes that I’d have an eureka moment if I just kept staring at the computer. I must have typed out hundreds of potential beginnings over these couple weeks, but none of them felt right to me. I temporarily gave up and went down to the couch to browse Netflix and look at the thumbnails. A couple minutes later, I came across the movie Emily and I had watched a lifetime ago, cuddled on her couch. Suddenly, it hit me. The perfect, and only way to start my story. I ran to my room and opened “Emily”. I thought about it for a moment before hastily typing out, “As I sat there, my left arm draped over the armrest of the polyester couch and my right arm resting on Emily’s shoulders…”