The Approaching Curve

One, two, three, four . . .
Please, Tristan! Stop the car!
Five, six, seven, eight . . .
No, Zane! It’s far to late!
Nine, ten, begin again . . .
This is not how it has to end!

“Honey,” someone suddenly called, bringing me out of the haze that seems to set whenever I’m alone. “Tristan, what are you doing,” the voice called out again, more worried then questioning.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been singing that twisted rhyme; something that was part childhood lullaby, part hideous memory. Somehow, though, I don’t think that was what she was refereeing to. By now, everyone had gotten used to that. No, I think the more pressing concern for my mother was the sight of her teenage daughter, half dead inside and huddled on the floor, drawing on the freshly painted wall with a marker like a child.

“I’m drawing my perfect world,” I told her, but I regretted it instantly as a look of horror crept over her face. With a voice as equally terrified, she let out a shaky breath, and whispered, so softly that I almost couldn’t hear, “Why?”

The words seemed to leave my mouth before I realized I had them. “Because,” I told her, “everything was supposed to be perfect. Everything would have been perfect. And now, all I have left is what should have been, and I won’t waste those thoughts on paper. I’d write everything down, forget what I’d thought, lose the sheet, and it’d be as if I never had those thoughts at all; as though we never have those thoughts at all, because I know, he thought them too."

I turned away from my city and looked my mother in the face. I could see the tears in her eyes that she refused to let fall. I knew I had said something wrong, but how could she understand. She didn’t know. No one knew.

“You have to move past this Tristan. Zane is gone now, and there’s nothing you can do.” With one last glace at the wall, she turned from the doorway and walked off. I felt bad for making her cry, but like she said, there’s nothing I could do.

Turing back to what would have surely one day, under different circumstances of course, been my Utopia, I drew in two small figures; one for me and one for him. Tristan and Zane, together forever. But, as I put the cap back on the marker, I couldn’t help but notice that something was not right. They both seemed to be missing something. The wounds. The crash had left horrible gashes on our bodies. Mine turned into scars after several months, but his never got the chance.

The worst part is, that I still blame myself for what happened, even though I know it’s his fault. I wouldn’t have missed the curve if he had only been true to his feelings; if only he had told me he loved me.