Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter Three

TW: Death

Jay sat in the back of the ambulance, once again covered in blood that was not his own. His hands were red, the ambulance was red, everything he saw was red. The blood had dried long ago, cracking over his skin and covering up the blood that had already been there. Neither was his, but it was caked under his fingernails. It was everywhere.

The paramedics had arrived not even two minutes after Amy died. They had tried to resuscitate her, but it was to no avail. She was dead, her injuries too severe, and they had pulled her from her car and taken her away. But not before they had to pull Jay off her, kicking and screaming. He should have been able to help her, and yet she had died. Guilt was eating away at him for a girl he had only just met, and yet she had slipped away in that instant.

He curled his blood-stained fingers into his hair, his own ragged breathing the only thing he could hear. Dead. She was dead. There were no more sirens, no more tears, just him, stuck in his own head again. She had been so young, had so many things she had not done yet, and now she would never get to do it. With a start, he realized it could have been him, and he wondered if she would have died alone if he had been a minute too late. The thought ate at him, and he felt nauseous. She could have died by herself, alone, stuck under her own car.

There were two police officers standing by their cars, talking quietly and occasionally glancing at him before they continued their conversation. He didn't pay attention to them, and they had no longer bothered him after they got their statement. He could hear their quiet voices, but a distant ringing had started in his ears, drowning out everything around him.

All of this was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to leave and then he was supposed to die. He wasn't supposed to watch a girl die, crying and saying that she hadn't lived yet. He wasn't supposed to give her comfort that he couldn't even give himself. False comfort, that's what he had given her, and it hadn't even helped, because she had died anyways.

His mother had been called, though he had furiously argued that he was fine, the blood wasn't his, the blood was Amy's, the dead girl. He had refused help from the paramedics, stating what he had before, but if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't wanted them to see the bruises, the scratches. He hadn't wanted to explain that he was in pain, but it wasn't any pain that they could help.

He had gotten his wish. The cold had numbed him to his core, and now he could not feel anything. He couldn't feel his fingertips, he couldn't feel the pain in his neck. He could only sit there and have the images of Amy dying flash behind his eyes repeatedly. It would surely drive him insane. He could not think about it because the more he did, the more he ached to join her.

A car screeched to a halt near the police cars, and Jay looked up in time to see his mother, still in her scrubs, hurrying over to him. Her eyes were wide, full of worry, and she was looking at him, head to toe, assessing to see if he was hurt.

No, mom, he thought. They aren't on the outside.

"Jay, honey. Are you alright?" She was breathless.

He had nothing to say. He didn't know what to say. His thoughts were muddled, and the ringing was back in his ears, but louder, and his head was pounding. He reached up to touch his head as he stood from the back of the ambulance only to stumble back. He reached out a hand to steady himself.

This was all wrong, he thought. Was this a sick game the world was playing with him? He had wanted to die, had wanted to feel it, and he had. He had felt what death was. He had watched death in action, and it wasn't anything he had ever thought of. It was entirely different. Everything he thought he knew about it had been a lie. Death was not beautiful. It was cold, and lonely, and scary. And it had taken Amy instead of him.

He could vaguely hear his mother's worried voice, see her face drawn up, see the police officer's stop talking and begin to make their way over to him. But everything was moving so slowly. The ringing was so loud. He couldn't get her out of his head. He could see her tears, hear her cries, and he could see the moment she died. Over and over, it played in his head. Over and over, he watched her die.

He sluggishly moved forward and with one glance at his mother, he barely managed to get out, "I don't feel so good."

And he pitched over towards the ground, his vision turning black.