What I Can't Recall

Prologue

Sometimes I look into the mirror, and for a flicker of a second I see the fifteen year old girl I once was staring back at me. That funny, stubborn, impatient, naive, innocent girl. I wonder if somewhere under all these layers over me that girl is still in there, trying to find a way out of this mess. Or is she gone forever? It seems like she is. I'm just not that girl anymore; I'm not September Lily Day who spent all her time running around with the boy next door without a worry in the world. I'm someone else. But who? I'm not too sure of anything about myself anymore except my name, September. But September could be anyone. Do I get to pick who she is, or has someone already chosen for me? Once I become someone, can I just un-become them, or am I stuck being her forever? Is life about finding yourself, or creating yourself how you want to be? If it's the latter, I can't help but feel as if I've created something horrible; made a mess of myself.
But I can't very well start all over, can I?

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Chapter One.

"Well, I guess we're here," Bryler says after a moment of us awkwardly standing on my porch with nothing to say. We had seen a movie earlier and afterwards we walked home together, chatting the night away until there was nothing else to say. Which left us here.

"Yeah, I guess we are...," I say, trailing off. I want to say something else, but I don’t allow myself to open my mouth and even start. I know I’ll just end up saying something stupid and making a fool of myself.

I tilt my head up ever so slightly so that I can see his face. It's dark outside, but the moon gives me enough light to make out his features.

His dark brown hair is hanging partially in those eyes that send a chill down my spine with their dark, intense color. It’s a little overwhelming, the combo of the dark hair and eyes, but it works for him when you add in all his other features. His nose is a little crooked, but it goes with the lopsided smile of his. And he’s kind of awkwardly tall,
but his weight balances it out so that he isn’t scrawny. He just looks normal.

He looks down, meeting my gaze. He has his hands in his pockets, and is rocking slightly back and forth on the heels on his feet. That's what he does when he's cold. Despite it being early May, the temperatures are in the low forties. There was even snow a couple of days ago, and it’s in the forecast for tomorrow. In short, Bryler’s probably freezing.

I instantly feel bad because I'm the one with the jacket around my shoulders- and it happens to be his. He’d given it to me the moment we had walked out of the movie theater, and the cool breeze had rushed over us. I silently slip it off my shoulders and hand it to him. Our hands touch and linger there for a moment; I try my hardest to contain a blush. Then, our eyes connect for a moment, and I instantly get butterflies in my stomach.

This is the moment where the boy is supposed to take his hand and place it on his girlfriend's cheek as carefully as he can- as if his touch could hurt her- then run his thumb gently and slowly up and down, grazing her cheek softly. He would then tilt her head upwards and look deep into her eyes. For a moment, everything would go quiet. The only sounds would be the beating of their hearts, the silent sounds of love. Then he'd pull her towards him and slowly bring his face closer to hers, until their lips make contact.

Since Bryler isn't my boyfriend, but my best friend, that’s not what happens. No matter how much some part of me really, really wishes it would.

Bryler and I have been best friends as far back as I can remember. We grew up together, Bryler being the boy next door; our moms being the best of friends. I’m told the moment we were first sat down in the playpen beside each other, we were stuck to each other like glue. I was right beside Bryler when he took his first step, we learned how to ride bikes together, and I went into the first day of Kindergarten clutching my Power Puff Girls lunch box and Bryler's hand. In forth grade when I had a B minus in math Bryler helped me with homework every afternoon. When we were younger we spent winter days helping one another search for hidden Christmas gifts, and in sixth grade I helped him get ready for basketball tryouts. In seventh grade Bryler helped me decide what to wear to my first date to the movies, in eighth grade he gave me a shoulder to cry on after my first breakup, and Freshman year I taught him how to be the kind of guy girls love. And I was the one who helped him get through the time his girlfriend- Stacey- cheated on him Sophomore year; this year. We were always there for each other. Always.

We’ve been best friend since the beginning, but to tell you the truth, I’m starting to doubt how I feel about him. I want to be more to him than just his best friend. Every time I'm around him I get butterflies in my stomach. I also find myself missing him incredibly during one of those rare moments when we're not together; I almost can‘t stand it. When I listen to a love song, he always comes into my mind. Thinking about him gives me goose bumps. He even occupies my dreams nowadays.

"Well, it's getting kinda late. I had a lot of fun at the movies," he says, avoiding eye contact for a reason unknown to me.

"Yeah, me too," I say, not wanting him to leave. I could stand on the porch with him all night, even if we just stood there in silence. His presence gives me a peaceful feeling. Like I don‘t have to worry about anything. “I guess you better be going, though. Mom’s already going to kill me for being out past curfew.”

“Only like… twenty minutes past ten,” Bryler says, probably off by about ten minutes. I‘d bet five bucks it’s thirty minutes past. “I thought curfew was eleven?”

“It’s a school night,” I remind him, shrugging. “So curfew’s ten. And you know how she is. She freaks out if I’m, like, ten seconds later than I said I was gonna be.”

“She just loves you,” he assures me, as if I’m doubting she does. “Maybe a little too much sometimes. She thinks it’s for you own good. I guess I better get going so that you can, too.”

He pulls me into a nice, awkward embrace. It's nice because I just fit into his arms perfectly. Like I was made to go there. It's nice because I can feel his heart beating against my chest, giving me this strange feeling in my stomach. It's nice because his warmth against my cool skin feels like something indescribable. It's awkward because I like it a lot more than a best friend should like it. A lot more.

As he pulls away, I can see he's grinning a little. I wonder if he maybe feels the same way about me, but that seems too good to be true. If Bryler likes me, he’s the type who would tell me straight off. He’s a blunt kind of guy, something I like about him. He doesn’t beat around the bush; he’ll tell you whatever’s on his mind.

"Well… bye. See you tomorrow?" He asks, looking hopefully at me with those dark eyes of his.

"You bet. You know, at school. And after that," I say, struggling for words that don‘t make me sound like an idiot. I watch him as he walks slowly down the porch steps, down the walk way, and to the gates. He places his hand on it latch, as if he’s going to actually unlock it, but he spins around to face me again.
"Hey, September?"

"Yeah?" My heart is pounding a little bit faster than it was a moment before.
He looks at me for a minute, and I can tell he's about to say something important because his face gets the serious look he rarely wears, but then he shakes his head as if to say 'no'.

"Nah. It's late. You need your rest. I'll tell you tomorrow," he says dismissively, turning back around to open the gate once more. Disappointment rushes over me; I was expecting something more than that.

"You promise?” I ask him skeptically. “Because it’s not even that late. You could always tell me now.”

“I promise,” he says, chuckling a little, shaking his head in disbelief. “I swear to God, you’re the most impatient person I know.”

“Am not,” I argue, “Mom is way more impatient than me.”

“Well, besides your mom, then,” he allows, still smiling, “because it’s no mystery where you got it from.”

“It’s about the only way we’re alike,” I say defensively. My mom isn’t all that bad or anything, but I could never be like her. One of us has to be the grownup in the family, and it’s me. Mom might as well be some five year old child that I’m constantly baby sitting.

“You guys are alike in more ways than you think,” he tells me, sounding distant. “It’s just hard for you to see.”

“Care to contemplate?” I ask him, sighing. I hate it when I don’t understand what he says, because he hardly ever takes the time to explain. So I’m always left guessing.

“No,” he replies, as I could have predicted he would. “It’s late, and we both need rest. We have exams tomorrow.”

I sigh, “Fine, you win. See you around seven thirty tomorrow morning, I guess. The normal. Night."

"Night September,“ he says opening the gate. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

I smile at him, watching as he walks down the sidewalk slowly, until he reaches his own doorstep, only a good thirty feet from mine. He opens the door- it’s never locked. He throws me a glance, as if he’s trying to telling me something, but neither of us says a word. At last he disappears inside his house, and with that I turn around, put the key in the keyhole, unlock the door, and make my way inside.

The moment I walk into my house I know something’s not right.

For one, Mom isn't immediately all over me complaining that I didn’t get home until a half hour past curfew. It seems that is one of the few things she actually seems to care about that a normal mom would as well. She is forever worried that if I’m out a minute past curfew, I’ve done some dastardly thing.

Secondly, it's too quiet. My mom doesn't understand the concept of peace and quiet. She’s never been able to not say something for five minutes. Silence is just something she doesn’t like, and never has. Never will.

Lastly, I can see my mother crumpled on the floor, unconscious. And it looks as if, possibly, she's not breathing. I stand there, stopped in my tracks, not breathing either for however short of a moment it is.

My first response- as soon as I can convince myself to move- is to check for a pulse. I put my fingers to her neck- nothing. I rush to give her CPR, which causes me to see the blood I somehow didn’t notice before now.

Oh God, way too much blood.

I look for a wound and can't seem to find one, until I look at the right side of her head; the upper most forehead. A ragged wound, a bullet hole- I can clearly tell- is where all the gushing blood is coming from. I start to panic; I find that I have a hard time breathing. I want to cry, but I can’t seem to get it to sink in. It doesn’t seem real. I have that horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach; like I’m going to throw up. She’s dead. But she can’t be. But she is.

"Mom. Mom,” I say to her, an edge in my voice that gets sharper each time I say it. “Mom. Mom! Wake up!"

I keep saying it over and over, though I know she won't. I know a dead person when I see one. Yet I can't control myself.

Suddenly, I’m finally able to cry. It actually begins to sink in. She’s gone. She’s gone and she’s never coming back. Dead. Gone. I start sobbing, the kind that takes all the energy out of your body; the kind you use all your force for. But then, during a moment when I stop my little melt down for a moment to breathe, I hear it. Someone is walking up the basement stairs. I can clearly hear their footsteps; I can see their shadow spread across the hardwood floor we just got a few year back, that is now covered in blood. My back is to them, and I know for a fact that they can see me. And I know for a fact who it is. I don’t know who it is personally, but I know what they’re capable of, and what they’ve done. I know they have a gun in their hand.

I'm pretty much dead. I am actually, really, truly going to die. Before I really even got to live. I got a measly fifteen years. That hardly seems fair, compared to the people who get ninety, some even one hundred.

And suddenly, my head is filling up with the things I wish I had done while I had a chance, and the whole life I could have had is flashing before me, instead of the actual one I had like what’s supposed to happen. Then all the people I care about are in my head as well. Bryler, Mom, Sarah. They are pretty much all I have. And now I’ll never get to tell them how much I really did appreciate them. They’ll never know how much I care for them; how much I love them.

"Well, well September. Fancy meeting you hear," I hear a familiar voice say, clicking his tongue. I can hear his hard shoes click against the wooden floor, as he takes slow steps towards me. Maybe the last thing I’ll ever hear.

I turn around a fraction of an inch, almost afraid as to what will be in my vision line. I don’t like how familiar the voice is. When I finally dare to look, I see the familiar face to match.

"You?" I breathe out, shocked. I can tell you right now my face just went pale white and
I have a look of disbelief written all over it.

Really, it just figures I'd be killed by someone that I once loved. Bryler and I used to talk about how we wanted to die, and I’d always say that I wanted to die for someone I love; so that’d they’d be there with me until the very end. When I died, I wanted at least one person I loved to be there, I wanted them to stay until the very last moment. I also said that if I ever was in so much pain I couldn’t go on, I wanted them to kill me right then and there. Pull the plug, so to speak.

I' m clearly in pain now, and I really don’t know if I can go on. Not without Mom.

"Bye, September."

I take a deep breath, and with all the courage I have, say,

"Bye, M-"

And then I feel something hard- maybe a baseball bat?- hit my head with tremendous force. I'm on the floor unconscious before I can even mutter his name.