after my best friend's death

                        It was nights like these when werewolves were born. Their piercing howls could be heard through the silent nights in the quiet town of Brokridge. I walked through the cold night, fighting the snow mercilessly hitting my face. Just before Mr. Abbrow shut down his shop, I bought a bundle of the freshest blue roses he owned. Those were Cynthia’s favourite. My face was white when I passed through the stoned entryway of the cemetery. Maybe it was the cold or maybe it was the fact that my best friend had died a year ago at this very date and time. The fog made it hard to see but I knew my way to her tomb by heart. ‘Cynthia Harlow Sommers-A mystery in herself’ was inscribed on the grey tombstone above Cynthia’s buried and bruised body.

 Mrs. Sommers had asked me to decide what to write on Cynthia’s tombstone. What could have I said. Maybe she didn’t know what it felt like to lose the one person you love in the whole wide world and who loves you back; or maybe she did. My knees didn’t hold up any longer and I trudged on the wet grass. Cynthia hated winters. She hated the blackness and whiteness of winters. She hated how she couldn’t drive at a high speed during winters. So she never drove in winters. But I wondered why she drove that day. Why did she leave her house at 11:45 pm on the stormy 1st December night? But I knew the reason and I hated myself for that. 2nd December was my birthday. My 16th birthday.

 I was all up for avoiding it but Cynthia was determined to celebrate. She always said that life was too short to miss birthdays. So that night she left her place with a cake in her passenger seat and a bouquet of white lilies above the pink box, speeding away on the empty wet roads leading to my home on the 8th and 14th of Gellar lane. Snow pounded on her 20th century vintage mustang a hand me down from her cousin in New Jersey. She sped and sped with only three minutes remaining on the clock. I was reading in the quiet of my room under the bedside lamp. My folks weren’t the quietest people on earth of course and I heard Nathan jumping around outside in the living room obviously happy that mum let him stay up so late. In all those rumblings I had tried to recognize Cynthia’s voice. In my heart I knew she’d be there as usual. It was tradition by now, we both turned up at each others homes at the midnight of each others birthdays.

But she hadn’t come. My parents entered with a nice bouquet of flowers and a large silver packet; Nathan being unusually jumpy. We celebrated my birthday by cutting a piece of the leftover mud pie and sat around for a bit. That’s when it happened. A strew of cars noisily ran though the street, gliding but fast. The loud ambulance paved its way through the crowd and reached near the damaged car. I leant to the far end of my window; enough to get a glimpse of a navy blue mustang. That was all I needed to see. I ran downstairs, barefooted without a coat in the blistering cold. My legs felt numb as I pushed through the people to reach the car. And when I did, I gasped. I felt a lump being formed in the middle of my throat. I felt tears rolling noiselessly across my face. And inside I felt shaken, something was so wrong and I couldn’t help it. I fell on my knees, my cries becoming louder. I felt my mother’s arms drape around me; not forcing me to leave. She sat next to me and let me sob.

The crowd thinned out, slowly leaving, some sympathizing while some thought she was drunk driving. Normally I would have jumped up and fought with those people but tonight I was too grief striken.

Next thing I knew I was curled up in my bed, with a splitting head ache and a terrible neck pain. The night before felt like a dream and I hoped it would be. But seeing mom in her funeral dress with a tray of juice and muffins at my door, I knew it wasn’t just another bad dream. My friend was dead and never coming back.

The funeral was surreal. The feeling of numbness hadn’t left. A part of my brain felt dead. Mrs. Sommers asked me to stand up in front with the family. I got a clear view of the coffin. It was glass just like Cynthia had always wanted. She always joked that whenever she died she wanted a glass coffin with her name carved on top in gold. She relished the idea of someone digging up her grave  a hundred years after her death. Her face would remain the same how and her eyes would flash open. She would have turned into a zombie after a hundred years of unrest. She had made it very clear she did not want to die of old age or sickness like every other person. She dreamt of a more fun, adventurous, dangerous even-death.