Fingertips

Sometimes I like to push music into my ears just to see what comes out of my fingertips.

The Approaching Curve

The deepening night couldn't quell the sounds of youth and excitement that erupted from the backseat as the sedan whirled around the bend in the dark. A red lunar eclipse and a desire to escape books, homework and responsibilities for a few precious minutes had driven the five of us into the hills on outskirts of the city.

Driving down the dark and winding road at breakneck speeds was far more exhilarating than idly gazing at the scarlet moon, and the silent hills echoed with screeching tires and howling approval.

Whoa, hey. Slow down, double take. That was something we hadn't noticed the first time around. Silence fell as we pulled around for a closer look.

Flowers, candles, cards, t-shirts, a box of books and memoirs, photos, a large balloon, each with the same picture printed on the front. One word was present on every image, every candle and every t-shirt: Sarah.

All we could do was stare, hands shoved deep into pockets. Various shades of pink on candles and flowers stood out in the beam of the car headlights against the darkness of the ravine below. The laughter and joy that had filled the night only moments before died right there in my throat. No one said a word.

Standing before a memorial that was supposed to represent seventeen years of life, my heart ached for Sarah, for a girl I never knew. I fought the lump in my throat as I thought of Sarah's family and friends, dealing with the sudden death of a loved one. But in that moment, I couldn't help but think of myself and the four guys standing there with me.

The flowers and the balloons, the cards and the condolences--those could be for us. For me. Those t-shirts could have my face printed on them, those candles could be burning in my memory. This could have been our car tumbling off the road into the darkness below; our bodies being crushed, mangled and never found; our lives being snuffed out in an instant; our potential wasted and gone forever.

Only the eerie whistling of the night breeze and the uncomfortable shuffling of feet on the dusty road could be heard. The moon still burned red overhead.

~

The car pressed on faster through the night. It could've been the best night of her life. Or the worst. It was hard to tell.

She still donned the expensive dress that she had bought two weeks ago with her own money and danced in all night. It was a wonder she hadn't soiled it. Loud music and the smell of liquor poured from the car windows--evidence of a good time. Or perhaps something else.

Prom, friends, boys, dresses--maybe that's what filled her thoughts. The road swerved right and left and back again. Maybe she wasn't thinking at all.

Maybe she was living it up, making memories, going big. She had her whole life ahead of her but there's never a better time than right now. Or maybe she just wanted to forget, to escape, to pretend like it never happened.

"Live fast, die young" the song repeated, the bass thumping rhythmically. She tipped her head back one more time. The parents will forgive me. Or the parents just won't care. She certainly didn't.

The midnight wind whipping through her hair felt like freedom; the burn in her throat, paradise.

Up ahead there was a curve quickly approaching. She made no indication of slowing.