Off the Record

Ⅲ

        Lucas releases a chuckle under his breath before he speaks sensitively, "That is an understatement." He purses his lips and his eyes are focusing on nothing from getting caught up in daydreaming. 

I bobble my head in a silent agreement. Ever since he started showing up at the support group three years ago, I slowly began to hate him more and more. Okay, maybe hate was too strong of a word, but he sure as hell pisses me off.

"You don't seem like the bitch I thought you were." His lips curl into a grin, but I'm not laughing. I run my fingers through my long, soft blonde hair, placing the strands behind my ear. 

My body became stiff in the frigid air; I kept my face emotionless as he reminded me of who I have become. 

Holland, the bitch, killer, murderer. A check mark lies next to all four.

A sprinkle begins around us, slowly picking up, making rain droplets ricochet off of the concrete paved in the streets. I lift the hood of my coat over my head and place my hands in my coat pockets.

"You don't know me. First impressions are usually on the money and I think calling me a bitch just made it rain here in Seattle." I don't look over at Lucas, I don't want to see the resentful look plastered onto his face. 

My left hand runs over my right to make the silly notion of money raining. That gets a little chuckle to leave his gorgeous lips. I can't help but be a bitch to him. I don't want to grow attached to anyone. 

Been there, done that, never again.

"Look, I only go because I know my mom would be proud that I committed to something." He glanced over at me and shrugged when he caught me giving him a questioning look. "It's not like you care." He looks opposite of my direction; a cold shiver runs through my body.

"Right now, I don't know whether to laugh laugh or pity you." Says the girl that only goes to the sessions for the exact same reason. 

Did someone say hypocrite or am I just falling further down my own personal rabbit hole?

"I retract my previous comment: You are a bit of a bitch." We exchange smirks. Hey, at least I can put the 'ass' in 'sass."

I don't need sympathetic looks from people around me; I get enough of that from my parents. I wish they would talk about the accident. Instead, they mope around like he disappeared from existence. 

I hate thinking about his name, his voice, the way he was so pure and thought everything was wonderful. The world was his playground; and his laugh, dear god his adorable laugh. It was annoying to me when I was thirteen, but I miss it now.

 I would kill to hear my parents mention his name one last time. That way I know that they haven't forgotten that my little brother Nathan ever existed. 

The only evidence left is his grave down in the Lake View Cemetery. They stopped visiting him awhile back. I can remember the last time we visited the grave as a family. It was four months after the accident and my parents still couldn't believe that he was gone.

 I knew he was gone, I wouldn't let myself hold onto the idea anymore than a few horrible moments after the accident.

 Wishing doesn't change something that already happened. That's basically giving yourself false hope. What am I supposed to do? Hope that when they bury my younger brother's soulless body six feet underground that he isn't actually dead? 

That's complete bullshit.

Outside of the van I could see the figure of a body on the ground that had no motion whatsoever; no rise in the chest, no twitching fingers, no smile.

Oh god. Oh god, please no.

I could still hear my headphones only a few feet from where I was hanging. I felt an abrupt rush to my head as I was pulled from consciousness. The lights around me slowly fade, along with my ability to grasp my surroundings. The only motion my mind could grasp was my body falling to the ground, my head slamming against the frozen, impervious ground.

I guess falling from things has become quite a habit of mine.

 Back then, I couldn't help thinking that it should have been me that died in the accident. No matter how hard you wish or dream about the incident, it will never change the past.

I didn't want to remember my past. We mourn the past as a forsaken void embodied with regret and horrifying memories. I remember when I was younger, my grandmother used to tell me that if something or someone is behind you, chances are that they are there for a reason. Those in the past, deserve to stay there.

I highly doubt she'd say that about the accident; that past stays right with me, haunting my every movement. My horrible and devastating past creeps into my mind from the millisecond I open my eyes in the morning.

 I'd like to say that I am like F. Scott Fitzgerald in a sense where I just beat on against the current until I'm borne back ceaselessly into the past. It fucking hurts to remember the past. The fact that I still stumble on it even though it's behind me, is something I'll never be able to forgive myself for.

I've learned that sometimes we survive by forgetting.