When the Lights Go Out {complete first draft}

Day Three: Do You Remember?

I’m sick of Friday’s now

Life could have been different, very different. If mom and dad had stayed together things would be different; if my younger brother and sister hadn’t been born, things wouldn’t be what they are now; if I’d done just one thing differently, I’d be alive and well, enjoying life, not really thinking about taking it seriously. But still, this is what it had boiled down too, and this is my comeuppance for thinking that I always had another day.

                  I had walked down the road with Imogen, talking about things we used to do together. I had asked her not to take a car, but instead to walk, so we had more time to talk about things. One thing that came to mind was the fact that I was trying so hard to realise how I got here, that whilst I was here, I hadn’t learnt to let go. I hadn’t lived recklessly. I just sat here… thinking. I could have stolen a card, or maxed out a credit card. I could have spontaneously spent my life savings on something I always wanted. I was getting my own way by not going to Vincent’s party, but I wouldn’t do anything reckless, or significant, with my life tonight. I would just breathe, spend time with a friend, and then die. But still, time was an important factor in this.

                  Time is what I did have – these last few days panning out as one Friday meant something. This was extra time that I had been granted. This was for a reason – although I did not know what. I was grateful for it, sure, but I did not understand it.

                  “And,” Imogen giggled, “we were in so much trouble!” She doubled over, tears formed in her eyes. “God, I don’t know how we go away with it really. No one else could have, I bet you. You always had such a charm on our dear father, I tell you. He was so mad at me, because we’d accidentally burnt a pan of beans and the tea towel caught on fire, nearly setting the kitchen on fire! Do you remember? Remember?”

                  “Yes,” I said, smiling politely. Inside, it felt like my insides were burning, I could have been sick. 

                  “But then you battered your eyelids at my dad, and said you were only hungry, and he whipped us both up fried breakfast. He didn’t speak to me for a week afterward but you were still welcome around every day. There’s something special about you, Marisol. Something worth holding on for.”

                  I stopped walking, my mouth dropping open. Something worth holding on for. Was I holding on, in this in-between? Or was something keeping me here? Did I have the power to decide whether I’d die again tonight or not?

                  “What?” Imogen said. She blinked; barely fazed by the car that drove passed us a little too closely. I flinched, thinking about the car that had smacked into Vincent and I, and the car that had ran me over after I’d broken up with Vincent.

                  “What did you say?”

                  “That my dad thought you were special.”

                  “Say what you said word for word.”

                  “He didn’t speak to me for a week afterwards but you were still welcome around every day?” Imogen frowned, kicking at the pavement with her shoes.

                  “No, after that,” I said, waving my hand. “After that.”

                  “There’s something special about you, Marisol.”