Short Story Collection!

My Story...

PSA: This is my view on gun control I would appreciate personal beliefs be left out of my comment section to avoid fights. 

One foot infront of the other, that's what my therapist has been saying for the past year, ever since that fateful day that changed my world. Now, I'm using her words in running. I picked up running a couple of months ago to get me out of the house, away from the memories. I'm running through one of the suburbs in my town; my heart is tossing itself against my ribcage, and my lungs are burning. But I just keep putting one foot in front of the other; my eyes are trained on the horizon in front of me; there are hints of daylight creeping their way into the sky, making the midnight blue fade into a dark orange.

When I reach my front porch, all sense of early morning has left; the sky is now a soft blue, the fluffy white clouds almost comedically cartoonish. I kick my tennis shoes off before heading into the kitchen, where my dad is sitting with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands.

"You were out early this morning," He comments as I slump into the chair beside him, grabbing my laptop from the counter behind me.

"Couldn't sleep," I mutter, finding my presentation.

"Bee, this isn't healthy," Dad says, his voice heavy with worry.

I look over my laptop at him; his blue eyes, like mine, are brimming with untold stories, families that have been altered, stories of loss, and ghosts that will forever haunt us. However, unlike him, I am about to open those stories up infront of thousands who will be at the National Convention for Gun Control.

"One more day, hopefully, tonight I can rest," I say, giving him a weak smile before returning my attention to the presentation. I flip through the slides show, each holding a picture of someone or some chart from the millions of studies I have read in the past year. There is only one slide that I can't bring myself to look at, knowing that it will shatter any resolve that I have left to do this.

I close out of the meticulously pristine slideshow and open the document holding my speech; Dad's chair scratches against the tile floor as I start reading the first paragraph. He bangs around the kitchen as I read through the speech that I have long since memorized, every word so carefully thought out, so many hours of writing and rewriting, screaming, crying, and feeling as if everything I had written was trash. Now, it is staring back at me in the twelve-point font.

I chew on my fingernails, a bad habit that I have started doing again due to the stress of this speech. I mutter the words under my breath, making sure that they flow; somewhere in the middle, Dad places a plate of eggs and toast infront of me and a mug of coffee. I nibble on the corner of the toast, my stomach tying itself into knots as I look at the time and realize that in two hours, I will be up on stage.

"Eat, please," Dad says, leaving the kitchen.

I close the lid of my computer and stare out of the window. I hear movement upstairs, meaning Mom and Milo are getting ready. I force myself to eat the toast and a few bites of egg before getting up and tossing the rest. I walk to my room and close the door behind me.

"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper, running my hands down my face.

I go to my bed and sit on the edge, head in my hands. I look up and am met with the last picture Gracie and I ever took together; our smiles are large, large enough that Gracie's hot pink braces are on display. Her black hair fills up most of the picture in a mass of curls; it makes her pale complexion even paler. My arms are thrown around her neck, head peaking over her shoulder.

However, as my face has changed, lined with exhaustion and worry from the events of that day, her face hasn't changed; her face is frozen forever at 18. Never getting older, never creasing with laughter again. I pick up the picture, staring at her; tears prick in my eyes as I realize she is why I am doing this, not for me, but for Gracie.