To Those Who Never Die

page one.

Chapter One: Pilot.

Whenever I think back to that night I came back from Brandon Lanchester's party during the second year of senior high school, I could only think of four words;

I don't regret it.

From drinking my tenth cup of gin and vodka mixed punch from the kitchen of Brandon's apartment and making the decision to drive myself home, I don't regret one bit. Now, saying that would seem like I did want that black Ford truck to ram into the driver side of my Audi, because heck- that was the scariest thing in my life. You may be wondering how in the hell I went from senior basketball player to random dude at school with only one and a half working legs.

I don't know where to start, honestly; maybe I should kick it off with a normal "the beaming laser lights illuminated the room with such a youthful, teenager gleam as the thick smell of alcohol hovered over the dancing shadows and figures of JFK high school", or maybe you'd like to know about the moment I didn't see the rapid movement of a car in my blindside on the bustling highway after deciding to (being the stupid teenager I was) drive myself home.

Now save me the "you're supposed to know better" bogus, because I've heard that enough times in my life to last me my entire existence, so try driving home after downing half a dozen cups of alcohol while trying to pay attention to the roads and the cars, and not the black, green and red spots dancing around your head like tweety birds.

From the moment the hard impact of the truck's hood collided with my small car, I couldn't comprehend anything else other than the shock of pain, washing through my entire body and the sound of blood rushing to my head as me and my vehicle tumbled thrice- I know, who even counts when they're literally flying across the road like tumbleweed?

The next thing I knew, I was on the hardest bed I've ever slept on with a soft, white blanket covering me.

You must be thinking; "poor Clayton, he must have not handled his leg fracture and totally desolated life well". Hell yeah. At that moment, I thought that maybe, just maybe, karma was coming after me; that karma had this plan to wipe out my life and take everything I've ever loved away from me. Basketball, school, friends, everything. It really did seem like that at the moment, but truthfully, I couldn't have been more thankful.

And it really all started with day one of therapy at St. John Hospital.

Day one; the day I started to believe angels existed.

You must really be getting "Me, Earl and the Dying Girl" vibes- with the title, the storyline and etcetera. Trust me, I already feel like Greg Gaines as I write this book for you, like how he wrote an essay about Rachel after she died. But again, the girl in my book (unlike Rachel) really doesn't die in the end. Really.

"Clayton." Dr. Hawkes (my therapist) was scribbling down notes about my behavior as I watched a clock on the wall click with every second that passed, a pair of thin glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, making him look a bit older than forty-eight. I could feel his eyes skim over me, watching my every move as I anxiously tapped the floor with my space jam sneakers. If you were to ask me, his name served him right.

"Say, doctor Hawkes, do you happen to have a sister named Sparrow? Cause' I gotta swear I saw her in a tree when I was on my way here." now I know, that was even as lame as an oompa loompa skydiving with Wonka. Don't ask me about the reference; I'm just trying to be humorous.

"Don't stall with me Mr. Deluca. Answer the question so we can rid of this torture that both of us know won't help you." his tone was stern, but still hiding his comfort and concern for me. At the time this moment happened, I was infuriated that a middle-aged man that looked old enough to be a guest at The Last Supper (okay, that was an overreach) would say that to me, but looking back now, I think I'd rather have him say that to me instead of lying to my face and say "you'll be okay". Because (spoiler alert, my friends-) I was never okay.