She wanted to live. That’s all she wanted in life. But she couldn’t even get that. She came from a broken home. She survived the abuse of her stepfather. She survived the rape. But she couldn’t survive the shooting. She was getting help. Her mother was becoming more involved in her life. When she finally had her life together, it was snatched away and she couldn’t do anything about it. James stole her life. The life she wanted. The life she deserved. It wasn’t fair, but nothing is fair in life anyway.
I sit on my big black rolling chair. I lean back as I stare out the window. My yearbook in my hands; Rachel’s face filling my mind. How do I make her remembered? I throw my yearbook at the wall in anger. I grab onto my knees; crying into them. I wipe my tears and look down at the yearbook. I see a white piece of paper sticking out of it. I go on all fours and crawl towards it. I slowly pick up the paper. I open it slowly and see an address on it. I recognize the handwriting. It was Rachel’s. I quickly grab my bag and head out the door. Maybe this was how Rachel was known.
I take a deep breath and slowly ring the doorbell. I hear a shuffle behind the door,
“Wait a sec!” I hear a yell, followed by a couple of swearing. After about 2 minutes, the door finally opens. I’m greeted by drooping eyes, wrinkles, a pink nightgown with a brown rope over it, brown sad eyes, uncombed red-dyed hair and a bottle of vodka, “What?” she asks me. I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare at what has become of Rachel’s mother, “Are you deaf or something?” I shake my head. She squints her eyes at me, “Oh I know who you are. You’re that Greenson girl aren’t you? Why’d you come here!? Huh? To remind me that you survived and my baby girl didn’t?!” I widen my eyes and shake my head,
“No ma’am I would never do that!”
“Then why the fuck are you here?” she asks taking a sip from her vodka. I blink away my tears,
“I was a friend of Rachel’s.” I tell her in a shaky voice,
“She never told me about you.” She said attempting to close the door. I put my foot out stopping her,
“Please,” I tell her with tears in my eyes, “I need this.” She sighs and looks down,
“We all need a lot of things. But we don’t always get them. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Without thinking I blurt out,
“She wanted me to come here!” she looks up at me,
“What?”
“She gave me this.” I pull out the paper in my pocket. She grabs it from my hand and opens it. She reads it and starts crying, taking a sip from her bottle. She holds the paper tightly and invites me in. Garbage, clothes, empty bottles, and cigarette butts covered the floor. I slowly walk over them trying not to step on anything. Ms.Harris didn’t seem to care. She stepped all over it. We walked into what seemed like the living room. She removed some of the clothes on the couch and threw it on the floor. We both sat down as she took another sip of her vodka. She leans back in her seat,
“Tell me.” She demands,
“Are you sure you want to know?” I ask her, I didn’t think she was ready. The truth would crush her,
