Don't Fear The Reaper

{x. like tidal waves}

❝Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.❞

-Welcome to Night Vale

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Though certain things in Ashdown seemed brighter from that Wednesday on, the following week seemed to crawl in a sluggish pace, the days going by much too slowly. The only vaguely interesting thing was the new routine I found myself in.

Still plagued by nightmares - I could be as happy as a kid in a candy store, but my mental illness wasn't going away anytime soon -, I'd tumble out of bed and take a decidedly more happy Kat to school. There, sometimes we'd split - I'd walk to class by myself, and she'd join her soccer buddies - and sometimes we'd stick together, Macy joining us whenever she could get away from the Evil Queen.

With Veronica, drama club was awkward, but if anything, Mr. Summers and Violet liked me the most. And it was during my 7th period study hall with said English teacher that my routine finally broke once again.

In this semester's study hall, I have no friends. Of course, there were only 4 or 5 people who actually talked to me anyway, but it still feels painful to have my peers not even give me a passing glance. I sit near the window, towards the back of the class, in one of those desk-chair amalgams that makes your spine hurt; when I come here daily, I almost always just find myself twisting my hair around my pencil and staring out the window, reliving memories, over and over and over again.

Today, my hair is in a French braid, my clothes consisting of a oversized maroon sweater and black leggings, which could've been fashionable but just looked lazy on me. Outside the glass above the counter next to my seat, I watched brown and amber leaves fall to the ground like soft rains, my mind thinking of the many, many Autumns before I'd spent with Will. If it was any other Thursday, he and I would be pulsing with excitement for tomorrow's football game, talking about all the things that could possibly go on below the student section - the fights, the crimes, the arguments between rival teams. Once, a kid from the opposing school had brought a homemade knife and attempted to sword fight a freshman; back then, that seemed like the most morbid thing that could ever happen to our hometown.

Now, I know differently. Now, leaves are no longer symbols of football season and band music and a summer far, far away; now, they're symbols of what has been and what could've been. If only things had gone different that night.

If I'm not remembering my life before the crash - whether voluntary or involuntary - I'm usually thinking about what I could've done to change its outcome. These thoughts make my stomach hurt and my muscles feel weak, because some part of me still believes it was my fault.

If I hadn't started talking to him, perhaps he would've kept his eyes on the road, and then he would've known to stop. Or maybe if I'd never wanted to go to prom, we could've just stayed home and never been in the situation in the first place. There's a thousand ways May 29th, 2017 could've gone differently for me, and every one of them makes me feel sick.

But then I remember Mor, and his words about gods and fates and angels, and the thought that maybe he was simply meant to die young flashes through my mind. It doesn't make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.

I lay down my pencil and glance around the room. Some sophomores are sitting on desks in the middle, playing a game of hot potato with a tape ball to the tune of Gucci Gang. Those who aren't participating are doodling on the front whiteboard with dying red and purple expo markers. Above the board, the clock ticks away, slowly reaching the 2:25 mark - 15 minutes until school lets out.