My body

I’m an idiot.

My eyes flicker open as my alarm starts to blare, and I let out a quiet groan. The only positive thought that crosses my groggy mind is, it’s Friday. I had to whole weekend to myself. My Mom and Dad worked at the same art museum, both working as curators and so were going on the same business trip. They leave at 9 0’clock this morning and don’t come back until Tuesday morning.

I’m one of the lucky teenagers who have the luxury of busy parents. They were rarely home, because there work required them to travel.

I roll out of bed, my feet hitting my hardwood floor with a thud. I hurry and shower, getting dressed and doing my makeup. I’m not in the mood to do my hair. Who was I going to impress? The whole school population still thought I was a psycho.

I half skip down the stairs, and see my parents in the kitchen.
My dad’s bent over the counter, his glasses almost falling off his nose, absorbed by the newspaper. My mom is buttering a piece of toast and looks up.

“Good morning dear,” She says, sliding the toast to me as I sit down at the bar stool.

“Morning,” I reply, biting into the toast. “Hey dad.”

“Hello,” He replies, a small smile lighting his face but his eyes don’t leave the words he’s reading. I finish my breakfast, hug each of my parents good bye –Dad reads the news paper over his shoulder- and head out the door.

My head is thankfully, empty. She isn’t lurking anywhere, isn’t waiting to ruin my day. It’s cold and the sun’s barely out due to day light savings. The thought of my parents being gone is making me so giddy, as if I’m a little kid.
If I weren’t the school nut job, I’d throw a party.

The last time I went to a real, raging party was so long ago. When She was only just becoming stronger.
Everything is meshed together, a sweaty haze of dancing and drunkenness. A guys hands are on me, hands gripping my hips tightly, possessively. I have an arm wrapped around his neck, the other holding onto a half empty bottle of beer. I guess he’s two or three years older then me.

My brain is a jumbled mess, nothing seeming to matter.
He takes my hand, leading me out of the mass of bodies. We get to a door and he opens it, revealing the empty back yard. As soon as we’re outside the cold air clings to my exposed skin, making me shiver.

His arms slide around my waist, holding me upright as I lean back, putting the bottle to my lips. The alcohol rushes down my throat, some of it dripping over my lips and down my neck.
I pull the bottle away, and he suddenly retracts his arms so I fall against his chest. He leans forward, sucking on my neck. My skin buzzes and I wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes. One hand moved to my hip again, the other roaming up and down my back. It lands on my butt.

I can’t think clearly, all I can concentrate on was feeling, sensations.
“What’s your name?” He asks, his breathing rolling across my skin.

“Ally,” I half breath, half moan.

“That was so sexy,” He says, making me blush.

“What’s your name?”

“Wade.”
Suddenly Wade’s lips are on mine, moving hungrily. He steps back, pushing me up against the wall. He’s able to hold both my arms above my head with one hand, and brace himself against the wall with the other so he doesn’t crush me.
I hear the door open, shuddering against the wall.

“Who wants to go on a beer run?!” Someone says in a sing song voice. Wade turns his head, not changing how he has me held against the wall, my breathing heavy. The guy doesn’t seem to care that he’s caught out heated make-out session. Grinning, Wade responds, without my consideration.

“We do.”

The heater blasts, warming my chilled skin. Wade’s about to back of the drive way when he notices something. Leaning forward, he gives me a sloppy kiss. He pulls on my seat belt, clicking it on.

“Safety first,” He chuckles. He drives out, speeding down the street. The radio is playing lowly, barely catching my attention. Something occurs to me as we cruise down the empty road.

“How old are you?” I ask, twisting my neck to look at him. He has black hair and his piercing green yellow eyes meet mine briefly before going back to the blacktop.

“19.”

“Then how are you going to get beer?” I ask, my forehead crinkling.

“How old do I look?” He asks, seeming to ignore my question.

“20 at the most,” I reply honestly, but by the look on his face I can see my guess isn’t the one he wanted, or expected.

“21,” He corrects, “Plus, the guy at the place we’re going knows me.”
I nod, turning to look at the road.
A telephone is what I see before Wade stomps his foot on the break. There’s a loud crunch as the car makes contact, and my neck is wrenched painfully. An air bursts out of the dash board and steering wheel, mine shattering the windshield, not even hitting me.

It’s not till the car has completely stopped movie that everything starts to come into perspective. I can’t hear very well, but I can hear my quick, short, gasping breaths. My head is leaning against the head rest, my neck throbbing.

The wind shield is completely gone, pieces of glass scattered over my lap, on the dash board and on the floor.

The shock of the collision has lessened the affect of the alcohol, the weight of what just happened spreading through my mind.

“You ok?” Wade asks, his voice carrying the same seriousness mine has taken on.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, taking in a heavy breath, making my neck ache. I cringe, craning it to the side, only to feel more sharp pain.

I hear Wade’s door open and mine shortly after. Wade leans in and unclips my seat belt, helping me out. I move stiffly, most of my body aching. I examine the vehicle.

The whole engine area is crunched together, the damage less severe only a few inches away from the dashboard. He mustn’t have been driving very fast, because neither of us our hurt besides my sore neck.

“My parents are going to kill me,” I groan, moving my body as little as possible. I swivel my body to look at Wade, “What are you going to do about your car?”
If the road hadn’t been empty, people would have been here to help us, been calling 911. But no one was here, and all the responsibility was left to us.

“I have some friends who can tow it.”

“So… my parents don’t have to know?”
He grins, wrapping an arm around me and yanking me to him. I gasp, my neck screaming, but he doesn’t notice.

“No one will ever know.”

Alcohol had been how I’d coped with her voice in my head. When I woke up the next morning I’d realized how lucky, and idiotic I’d been. I didn’t drink after that, which was good and bad. I had to listen to her twisted thoughts at full volume because of it.

Two years ago, Dawson had coping issues too. But he had trouble dealing with the accident. Not with a dead girl in his head.
I remember one day in particular.

”Dawson?” I call, knocking lightly on his bedroom door. There’s no response, no sign there’s life in the small room beyond the wooden door. “Dawson?” I say again. A strange flurry of rage goes through me, and I don’t know where it came from. It can’t be my emotion. Because I’m not mad at Dawson for ignoring me. Why should I be? I know I’m the last person he probably wants to see. But I need to see him, see he’s not an emotionless void.
“It’s me, Ally,” I say hesitantly, knocking louder this time. No response. I can’t take it anymore, my worry has shortened my patience. “I’m coming in.”
I slowly, cautiously crack open the door, peeking into my best friends messy room.
He’s lying on his bed, his brown hair messy, almost long enough to cover his hazel eyes that are staring up at his ceiling. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Seeing him like this makes my heart ache, makes me want to turn and leave, forget about my damaged friend.
But I can’t. I can’t leave him in the baron waste land he’s stuck in.

I walk over to his bed, sitting down.
“Dawson?”
The dead expression on his face doesn’t waver and if it weren’t for the steady rising and falling of his chest, I would have assumed he’d left this world hours ago.
I make my voice firmer this time, more demanding, “Dawson.”
Nothing. I can feel the panic rising in me, the desperation. I just need to hear him talk; hear the emotion in his voice. See anything that might represent brain activity.
“Dawson, please, talk to me,” I beg, my voice sounding as if someone’s hands are wrapped tightly around my throat.
Finally, his eyes flicker to mine. I could have kissed him.

“It’s my fault,” He says with such conviction, that I almost believe him. But I know he’s wrong, I know with every fiber of my being, that it wasn’t his fault.
I notice a glistening layer over his eyes; see his lips begin to tremble. I fall forward, wrapping my arms around his neck.

And for the first time in Dawson and I’s almost three years old friend ship, he cries.
He sobs into my hair, gripping me as if I’m the only thing keeping him from shattering. And really I am. Because as all of his pent up emotions flow, I feel as if I’m the only support system keeping our lives stable, stopping them from crumbling.

“It’s not your fault.”