The Cost of Falling

Chapter 34

The big moments are lonely and quiet. Silence punctures every flash, but it's a loud silence, deafening. The bright sun muted; the car radio's blare hushed. My gaze locked with Conner, letting the hint of a shake to his head ripple through me. All of my existence stopped. In the darkest part of my mind, I longed for it to be Nana. She lived a long life; it was a cruel hope. But then Nana was there on the doorstep, her face ashen. A police officer was talking at her, clutching a clipboard and a bag of prescription bottles. From behind her came the stretcher with the bag, pretending to hide what I feared, what I already felt in my core.

My eyes darted back to Conner, hoping for a different answer, but my gaze caused him to crumple to the ground like a weed that had outgrown its roots. His face dropped to his hands, his knees the highest points in his collapse. My own hands went to my head, but my mind was blank until the sharp slam of the ambulance door snapped me back.

I don't recall the conversations or the hugs from Conner and Nana. I froze. Danny was gone, and I was frozen.

Hours later, I found myself in Nana's kitchen, marveling at how familiar things can twist in silent erosion. Nana's kitchen was still brown and orange. The linoleum still squeaked beneath her Reeboks as she paced. But now, I could see the corners of the wallpaper peeling and the scuffs on the floor. Nana was focusing on chopping and stirring to push away from the world. Conner's vacant stare would settle for long moments on nothing. I wondered if he remembered the last time Danny juggled the oranges or shook salt on his pizza. Danny surrounded us and clung to us like the smoke from one of his cigarettes.

I stood up too fast, causing my head to spin for a moment. I mumbled about the bathroom as I escaped the suffocation. The living room was the same; pictures of Danny on the walls and above the TV. One of the three of us, Danny in the middle with his lop-sided smile, punched me in the stomach. I tore my gaze away and headed up the stairs. The fifth step still let out a tired cry.

The EMTs left Danny's door wide open. It still smelled of him: peppermint, weed, and cigarettes. The room was alive with him as though everyone had forgotten to tell it he was gone. The space still felt full of intention: his phone plugged in to charge, work coverall hanging on their hook on his door.

I fell to his bed and crumpled to the pillow. The corner of my eyes pricked with the warmth of tears, but they refused to materialize. Tears would be too satisfying. My hand slipped beneath the pillow to cradle my head as a paper corner bit my finger. I pulled it from beneath the pillow and turned it over in my hand.

I knew what was inside. I didn't have to unfold each crease carefully, nor did I have to smooth it out on the bed before flipping it over. But the slow pain felt good. The stabbing of each beat of my heart until I finally flipped it over. They covered the page, dozens of them: single red balloons, never intersecting.

Accidental doesn't soothe; it haunts. Accidental means a life with intention ripped from the world, never to be set right again. The word swirled in my mind, engulfing every memory with flames. I could still hear "forever" crossing his lips into my ear. The warmth of his breath burning into me. I clung to the pain as a reminder of him.