Baby, I'm a Lost Cause.

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I'd wondered for a while now what was beyond our outer space. I remember being a tomboyish kid in my overalls, staring into the stars in my backyard in Kansas with Sylvester. We'd wait until our dads chased us through the dark fields, and fall onto each other with laughter as our father's dragged us back home.
But it didn't matter, and the memories were fading. And Sylvester was dead.
I opened my eyes to the Sun rising through my raw-foil window. Pablo was pawing at my face, his sharp nails scratching my skin. I threw him into the ground and he landed gracefully on four paws.
Once again, it was five in the morning. In other words, time for school.
"Rosemary Mckenzie Torres! Get your ass out of bed before I come and rip it off you!" I heard Deborah screech from downstairs. Deborah was my step-mother from Hell. She yells, screams, and has a knack for seducing my Dad every night. In return, I yell, scream, and make sure I sneak out before any late night plans begin.
"I'm coming," I groan. Take off my pajamas and grab a new outfit for the day, before taking a look a the gashes I've slashed into my upper thighs and at my wrist. Their getting better, I thought. It had been a whole week since I cut. I was proud, and I knew that I was utterly pathetic.
After throwing on a jacket to cover the scars, pants, and sneakers, I ran downstairs and grabbed my bag. I knew Dad was still sleeping. I said bye to Deborah, rubbed Pablo's soft face, and walking a mile down the dirt road that was my bus stop.
It never bothered me that it took a little more then an hour to get to school. It was my last year. I was a eighteen year old. Pretty soon, I'd leave high school and move on. The worse part of the bus was probably having something to do while I waited.
I dreaded History today, but I slowly walked into my first period class. For some reason, I kept thinking about Sylvester. It wasn't like it was his anniversary of death, or anything, but just a memory fading off so fast. In a lot of ways, he was my first kid love. Not the mushy gross sexual love for teenagers. Love, in the most innocent sense.
But he was gone, now. Dead, by an anonymous driver in a car. It's been a bit more then eight years.
Instead of tearing up in History, I told my teacher I had to go to the Guidance office, and with the flowing water in my eye, he believed my lie. And just like that, I abandoned my reckoning, and went to the one place where I felt weightless:
The place where I first met Sylvester.

It had been a while, and I counted, walking. Eight years, and approximately three months, two days, eight hours, and some-odd minutes since I had entered the barn. It was more worn out, but still, perfect: An abandoned red barn, exactly half way between my house and Slyvester's. We used to come here daily. Sneak off as kids and stay there for hours. The paint fading, weeds growing profoundly around it, circling it; an apple tree pointing over it, just shading off the largest hole that let through in the roof. Still, cracks remained, so light streamed through in bars, illuminating it, beautifully.
My tears slowed. All this, just from the outside. I couldn't wait to get in.
I peered through a crack in the door before trying to open it. It wouldn't budge. I pushed a bit harder, and the door slid off it's hinges. I bit my lip and laid it down on the hay still scattered around the ground.
I took a deep breath, and let my memories flood in.
Tears fell continuously, but a smile was on my face. I thought back to our first meeting. I was exploring. He was exploring. We were both ten. It seemed we had enough in common to imagine the world as our oyster. His sweet hazel eyes. . .And he had this crooked grin that any young girl would fall for. We created a friendship. And our friendship had no boundaries.
My focus came back to me as my eyes blinked open. I wiped my forehead of sweat before turning directly in front of me, to meet my sudden fate:
A tall boy with short black hair and green eyes gripping a pistol in his left hand.

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