Always and Forever (16 page)

A slow, wicked smile spread across my face. If I looked in the mirror, I was certain my eyes would be gleaming. You know what they always said. Third time was a charm.

I didn't even stop to consider my actions, not wanting to find some reason not to do this, like how drowning was probably the worst way to die. Or how cold the water was likely to be. Hypothermia wouldn't be a picnic either.

I dropped my hands from the steering wheel and slammed my foot down on the gas. My eyes slid closed, and my foot pressed down harder. The Colonel roared, protested against my demand that he go faster. A hard bump and I knew that we were on the wooden bridge. I jammed the gas pedal all the way down to the floor. The
Colonel groaned in agony. Another hard jar, a whining squeal, and then a crunch as the car's front end crashed through the side of the bridge and destroyed the flimsy wooden planks. I bounced in my seat as we went airborne, and my eyelids snapped open.

Shit.
I'd forgotten to unbuckle the seatbelt. I reached out to rectify that oversight, but I bounced again as the Colonel plopped into the frigid waters below. My body slammed forward; the seatbelt bit cruelly into my chest and abdomen. My forehead struck the steering wheel. Light exploded behind my eyes upon the contact, and stars rained down around me.

Sharp pain knifed through my legs, and I knew without looking that icy river water was filling the car. Soon, it would all be over. Soon, I'd be dead. I leaned back in my seat, and a low groan snaked its way up my throat and out of my mouth. The stabbing pain in my legs worsened, and my groans gave way to agonized whimpers.

But none of that mattered now. I'd finally gotten what I wanted. Death on my own terms.

I opened my eyes to allow myself one last look around at my mortal life, but everything was fuzzy and out of focus. The periphery of my vision clouded, blackened. Was this how death came? Weirdly, the fast approach of blackness reminded me of the cancer which slowly turned everything dark and decayed, ate away at all the goodness and light until there was none left to be had.

Just then, I saw a beam of light coming toward me. Bright white, almost blinding. There was only one thing that could be so beautiful, so awe-inspiring. I'd never really thought about the existence angels before, but they must be real because they were coming for me now.

“It's alright,” the angel said as he pulled me from the drowning bones of Colonel Mustard. “I've got you now. Everything's going to be alright.”

“Thank you,” I whispered to the Colonel. He'd died a soldier's death out on the battlefield of my life, and for that, I was immensely grateful.

The angel swam us away from the crash and then hefted me up into his arms once we were on shore. His body trembled against mine. Strange. I never knew that angels felt the cold, let alone could shiver.

Some small bit of something kicked up at the back of my hazy mind. There was something wrong with this picture. I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

I shook my head, opened my mouth, but no words fell out. Why wasn't the angel taking me off to Heaven now? Why were we stumbling around next to the site of my death? And, where were those other voices coming from? I peeled back my eyelids to look at the angel, but everything was still fuzzy, completely out of focus.

“Don't worry,” the angel assured me. “You're going to be okay.”

I stiffened in the angel's arms as recognition washed over me. If I heard that voice right, then I wasn't dead at all. I'd just been rescued, and by the town sheriff. My whole body sagged and broke under the weight of this realization.

Seriously. How many more times was I going to fuck up my own death?

N
INETEEN

“DO I REALLY HAVE TO DO THIS?”
I asked. I shot a glance toward the school as Dad pulled up in front. There was really no reason to go now. I mean, everything was done. I'd burned every bridge, so to speak. I had no best friend. No boyfriend. No ties to keep me coming back. It was over. Almost.

His hand closed over mine, squeezed lightly. “This is what you wanted, princess. Normalcy. Remember?” He visibly swallowed, forced out a reassuring smile.

A quick jerk of the head for a response, as I fought to unbuckle my seat belt. Caught by my own demands. For the fourteen thousandth time that morning, I wished Mom were here. She'd been all for me staying home so she could watch over me. Since the accident, she hadn't let me out of her sight for a single second, like if she lost sight of me at all, I'd drown in my Cheerios or something equally tragic.

The accident. Bitterness skittered through me for the millionth time in the past few days. The accident. Yeah, it was only an accident that I'd survived. Where had Sheriff Mathers come from? I shook my head and pushed away thoughts of my rescue and the ensuing trip to the emergency room, despite my assurances to both the sheriff and the EMTs that I was fine.

Things went from bad to worse rather quickly after that.

“I'm sure everyone's heard about the accident,” he continued, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Your friends will probably want to see for themselves that you're okay.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I mumbled.

“We're going to have to face this and very soon,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle, caressing. “We can't just keep pretending that nothing's wrong. You heard what Dr. Shreve—”

“I know,” I snapped out. I jerked my bag up onto my shoulder and pushed the door open. I had to get away. From him. From this. From everything. “I'm dying, Dad. I'm not deaf.” Stupid accident. If only I'd done it right. Then, I wouldn't be faced with all this now. I'd be free of all this terror, all this pain.

“Mia—”

“I'm going to be late.” I slid out of the car and slammed the door behind me. The car idled for several minutes as I slogged into the school. I didn't once look back for fear that Dad would be right there to demand that I stop hiding my death sentence and tell everyone. I just couldn't do that. Because if they knew, it'd be a fate worse than death. Seeing their pity would be harder than feeling their anger, their pain now. For all my friends, my loved ones, ignorance would be their shield, a coat of armor to protect them…and me. And right now, I needed that shield, something to ground me, keep me sane until I could find a way out of this dark, cancerous pit I'd fallen into.

I weaved my way through the crowds and miraculously got to my locker without having been sucked into a single conversation. After I spun the combination and yanked open the door, my vision blurred and swam with angry, bitter tears. I leaned forward, rested my forehead against the cool metal shelf—a perfect position to hide the emotion that roiled up from deep within me.

Memories—sharp, jagged slivers of pain and terror—lanced through me. The emergency room doctors examining me after the accident, frowns creasing their foreheads. Hurriedly mumbled assurances that the battery of tests they ran me through were all just a formality. Mom and Dad rushing into the exam room, eyes rounded with fright and then instant relief upon seeing me. Dr. Shreve entering the room soundlessly, a white lab coat hastily thrown over a shimmering red party dress. They'd called her in just for me. And, so we all knew.

It was bad. It was really, really bad.

Barely more than two weeks since my last MRI, and the tumors had grown to nearly twice their original size. What should've taken months to kill me was running rampant through my brain, eating up every day and turning it into a fraction of a second. At this rate, there was no way I'd last a year. I probably wouldn't even last three more months. Dr. Shreve had made it abundantly clear that even if I was extremely lucky, I'd still be dead long before the school year ended in May.

Big, warm hands dropped onto my shoulders and rubbed gently. “I heard about the accident. You okay?”

I drew in a deep—hopefully fortifying—breath, nodded, and turned to face Brad. “Yeah, I'm fine. The Colonel's not doing so hot, though.”

The attempt at a joke fell flat as he took in my puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the worn, haggard expression on my face. Wordlessly, he pulled me into his arms and pushed my head into the hard muscles of his chest. “So, the rumors are true, then? You and Kal did break up?”

I didn't reply, just burrowed deeper into his arms. We stayed like that until the halls were nearly empty and the tardy bell rang.

With a small, desperate sigh, I pushed away from him and rummaged through my locker for my English book. When I closed the door, Brad slipped his arm around my waist and steered me down the hall.

“Boys with boyfriends really shouldn't be groping girls in the hall. What will people say?” I murmured, hoping to break up the pressure about to erupt from the center of my chest.

“Let them talk,” he stage whispered back. “Anyway, it's good for Dave to get jealous every now and then. I can't let him think he's got me wrapped around his little finger.”

“But you are,” I said. A broad grin cracked my face in half.

“Well, he doesn't need to know that,” he countered and rolled his eyes with mock exasperation.

I couldn't help but laugh at that. It bubbled up inside of me, tumbled out in a shrill gale of half-hysterical giggles, which made both of us giggle even more. We stumbled into class still laughing, and Mrs. French—the irony was not lost on me that she was an English teacher—glowered at us, tapping her foot impatiently as we slithered into our seats.

Several times, I snitched quick across the room over to where Brad sat. But I wasn't looking at him. It was the desk directly in front of him that captured my attention.

Kal.

He looked…normal. Not at all like he'd just broken up with his girlfriend and dropped his best friend all in one day. Not the least bit devastated. He seemed completely okay.

Bastard. I rubbed at my chest, at the fault line riding just over my heart. There was no one but myself to blame for how things had gone with Kal. But did he have to look so unaffected by it all?

Once attendance was taken, Mrs. French launched into a rant about literature today and how it compared—or, in her opinion, failed to measure up—to the classics of Dickens, Austen, the Bronte sisters, and a host of other dead and long-forgotten—except by her—writers. Within two long-winded, rambling sentences, I had zoned out, my mind wandering to other, more pressing matters. Like my life, or more to the point, my death.

“Ms. Gordon?”

“Huh?” I snapped to attention amid a low murmur of snickers that I'd been caught daydreaming. “Could you, uh, repeat the question, please?”

“I asked,” she said slowly, clearly irritated with my lack of attentiveness. “If you would read us the cummings poem on page 193.”

Groaning inwardly as the class tittered some more, I hurriedly flipped open my book. I licked my suddenly dry lips, cleared my throat, and started to read.

“I carry your heart with me—”

My brain shut down; the words dribbled off my tongue even as my heart stuttered to halt. My gaze jerked up off the page, sought him out, even though he so obviously didn't care about me. It was no less than I deserved. I knew that, but my chest cracked open even more as my gaze latched onto his cold, hard stare. I flinched as though he'd physically hit me.

“Ms. Gordon,” Mrs. French fairly growled. Her patience with me and my flightiness had ended.

I forced my eyes back to the page before me, swallowed, and started again. “I carry your heart with me…” The pain turned beastly,
then. It grew razor-sharp teeth and clamped down on my already ravaged heart. The pressure in my chest tripled, so much so that I couldn't even muster the strength to draw in more than a shallow, hitching breath.

“I carry it in my heart. I am never without it—” I shook my head even as the words blurred, jumbled, and swam around on the page. I blinked furiously against the tears, slammed the book shut, and jumped to me feet. “I'm sorry,” I mumbled. “I-I'm not feeling very well.”

I didn't even wait for her to excuse me. Nor did I bother gathering up my things. I just walked out of the room, not once looking back. I couldn't bear looking at him, seeing his harsh glare, the steely resolve set in place to hide any hurt that I might have caused. Yes, I am that much of a coward.

I hid in the third floor girls' bathroom for the rest of class. It was rumored that some girl—like fifty years ago—offed herself up there, slit her wrists and then locked the door so no one could come to her rescue. People said they could still hear her ghost wandering the stalls, crying over the boyfriend who'd broken her heart. At least, that was what they all said, and really, it must have been true or else it wouldn't be empty almost all the time, especially considering it was the only bathroom on that floor.

Whatever. I was just glad the restroom was devoid of people. I didn't think I could deal with giggly girls who swooned over boys or lamented about something terribly traumatic, like a broken nail.

I went to the stall furthest from the door and barricaded myself in. Then, and only then, did I let the tears fall. I hated that I was crying over him. Why did it hurt so much? It was supposed to be better this way. He wouldn't have to watch me die a slow, horrible death. It should be easier, having spared him the agony of watching me become some drooling, vegetated version of myself, but it was nothing short of torture. A loud sob burst forth, salt coating my lips as the tears slid down my cheeks. It was better this way. It had to be.

The minutes ticked by. Each
click-click-click
of the second hand taunted me as life flitted away. Moments I'd never get back, gone. Time spent loitering in a room saturated with the combined scent of industrial-strength cleaner, the high-pitched laughter of gossip being
swapped, cheap perfume applied too heavily, the tears of countless broken hearts, and those of at least one dying girl.

It was a strangely comforting combination.

The door scraped open, a loud screech of old, rusty hinges in desperate need of oiling. I swallowed the latest sob to work its way up the back of my throat and slowly, almost silently, lifted my feet up off the floor, drew my knees up to my chest, and wrapped a protective arm around my legs to hold them tightly in place.