A Falling Sky

Chapter 1

The weather is of its own accord today. I haven’t affected or changed it at all—well, not since a month and half ago, at least. I made the sky open up and rain in pellets for a week straight after I found out my dad’s cancer came back but, trust me, I couldn’t help it.

No. This weather is all natural, as it should be. I don’t need to be going and getting emotional again. Who knows what else could happen? Thunder, lightning, tornadoes…I shudder at the amount of people I could’ve hurt. I shake myself so hard that I swear I can hear the screws rattle around the empty space of my unhinged brain.

It is a hot summer day in Nashville as I peer out the window. The sky is overcast but somehow bright sunlight is peaking through. One of those days where you can't figure out whether to wear sunglasses or not. I hate that.

I break away from the window and cross to my dresser, opening the top drawer. I need to run to my boyfriend’s apartment to pick up my notebooks so that I have them for the first day of classes tomorrow. He doesn’t live terribly far so I’ll just walk there. I missed Nashville after my summer at home and I wanted to walk its streets again. I’ll even go out of my way to see all of the tourists proudly wearing their new cowboy boots on Broadway, the tacky gift shops with Elvis and Dolly Parton paraphernalia, maybe I could still smell the Fireball in the air from the honky tonks the night before.

I look down at the clothing choices in my drawer and chew on my lip. Okay, it’s pathetic but I really do not feel like putting on a bra. I’m not walking too far and I know my boyfriend, Heath, won’t care what I look like. He’s not very observant, Heath. I could show up with my head shaved and eyebrows bleached and he would only glance my way, return his eyes to his video game saying, “There’s leftover Pad Thai in the fridge if you want it.”

I let out a long breath and shake my head while I pick up my favorite Vanderbilt sweatshirt—the one that gives me no shape at all, just the way I like it. I slide it over my head and take one final look in the mirror. My hair is an unruly mess on account of I didn’t brush it this morning. I actually rarely brush my hair, preferring the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, which, let’s be honest here, I just did. My bangs are in straggly pieces across my forehead and they are getting too long. I have to keep brushing them out of my eyes. They are curtaining my eyebrows, which are getting dark and thick again, but I like the look—it’s very chic right now to have full eyebrows against blonde hair, at least that’s what my magazine said. But, hey, what do I care about chic when I refuse to even wear a bra?

I scrunch up my hair and shake it out one last time before walking out of my apartment door. I have a last second thought and run back inside to grab my sunglasses even though I don’t know whether I’ll need them. When I step outside, I try to suck in the heavy air. I immediately regret my decision of wearing a sweatshirt because, though it is overcast, the humidity is stifling. I can already feel the sweat running down my back. Screw Broadway. I need to get to Heath’s apartment right now before I melt like a slab of butter out here on the sidewalk.

I BEGIN MY WALK and decide that I don’t need my sunglasses, pushing them into my hair, not caring whether my bangs are sticking up all over the place. It also serves the purpose of keeping my bangs out of my sweaty forehead. I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and use the back of my hand to swipe the sweat drops that are beginning to form. The strangers pass me on the street and, all of a sudden, I feel self-conscious. Can they tell I’m not wearing a bra? Can they see the sweat stains? Can I just die right now?