A "Stroll" Through the Park

                  It was her idea, my girlfriend. She wanted to meet at the park at 10 pm and go for a short stroll along the trail. I, for some reason, decided to agree, but only after her constant nagging during lunch. But enough with this, you might want to know a bit more about me before I share my problems with you. I'm seventeen. My name is Asher O'Brian. I am tall, lanky, maybe a bit frail, some would say, but tall nonetheless. I didn't need a work out. I didn't need to go running.

                  But I was kind. And look where kindness got me.

                  I'm now currently sitting on a bench, in the park, all alone, at 10:15. She usually isn't late. She usually isn't this rude. Maybe she got lost, I think to myself. But no, she wouldn't get lost. Her house is only two blocks from this park. I can see her big pine tree in her front yard from this very bench. No way she forgot.

                 Did she forget on purpose?

                 No, no one would do that . . .

                 Are you sure?

                 Yeah, I'm sure, now shut up brain.

                 I continue to have second thoughts about where she has gone. I hear the clock tower in the distance marking ten thirty. No way she would take this long. Something must've happened to her. Did she get in an accident? Has she been calling me? My phone's in the car. I'm wearing my running shoes, under-armor shirt, and gym shorts. No room for a phone. I stand, slowly walking over to the car, dreading all the text messages I've probably missed. I peer through the window. My phone's under my jacket (which I shouldn't have left in the car, since it was freezing our here, after sitting in 50 degrees for half and hour) and I can't tell if I have any texts. I rub my bare arms, which have sprouted goosebumps and turned a light purple color. Then I trot around the car to open the door.

                 I grab the jacket, throwing it across my shoulders and picking up the phone.

                 Thirteen texts.

                 My jaw drops. I can only imagine what they all say.

                 I close the door, put on the jacket like a normal person, and turn to face the traffic. Suddenly, I see a car speeding toward me. I fling myself against my own car, hoping that it'll miss me as it drives by. Luckily, it zooms past as a high speed, giving me a blast of cold wind and leaving me with the chills. I yell at them, cursing a bit, and then stretching my arms.

                 The roar of a car appears in my ear. I whirl around to see another car hurtling toward me. Did I park too far from the curb? What is it with these cars?

                The mirror smacks into the back of my hand, sending a crack echoing down the street. I scream, feeling the pain as it flashes up my arm like fire. My legs make me stumble out of the street. I collapse on the grass, trying to regain the feeling in my hand. I hear the car screech to a halt and the driver run over to me. My vision darkens slightly. The driver who hit me begins to ask me questions. I can't understand what they're saying, it's German or something.

                 As the German speaks to me, I feel the pain in my hand lessen. The man grabs my wrist. I cry out in pain, but he begins to check my hand for something, ignoring my pleads.

                 "You hand-" the German begins with rough English, "it has okay. Just bruce."

                 I look at him like he's mad.