My true passion

I've always wanted to be a writer, for as long as I can remember. That can be a hard job to land though and many of today's great writers started their careers as something else. Terry Brooks for example, was a lawyer for 17 years and it took him 7 years to write his first book, The Sword of Shannara. I love that book, as I have loved every Brooks book I've ever read (I must admit, there are a few I haven't read yet, but I'm sure they won't disappoint)
I just recently finished reading his book "Sometimes the Magic Works", which my loving wife so thoughtfully purchased for me some time back, but I never took the time to read until this week. That book has inspired me to investigate my aspirations a little further. So, I am posting here a short story that I originally wrote back in high school and just recently finished re-writing. If anyone has any comments, good or bad, please send them to me or post them here. Don't hold back. Let me know if it is too slow, too abrupt, doesn't flow well, etc.
I'm not quite happy with it, but I think it shows my potential writing style well.
So, without further ado, I humbly submit for your consideration:

Someone to Stay Strong

I placed the phone back on the receiver, still in a daze from the information I had just learned. How could this have happened? How could they really be gone? The first part of the conversation repeated itself in my mind:

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” I had replied. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid that Jennifer and Johnny have been in an accident.”

“Are they alright?” I had asked, panic leaking into my voice knowing one of them would have likely called me themselves if they were.

“No. Jennifer was pronounced dead at the scene. Johnny was transported to the hospital in critical condition, but died shortly after arriving. I’m so sorry.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. It had to be. I was in shock and disbelief from what I had just heard. Dead? Both of them? I could never see either of them again? Why had my two best friends been taken away from me?

I walked down the hall as these questions raced through my mind, assaulting my emotions mercilessly and feeling as if they might rip my very soul from my body. I entered my bedroom, feeling like I was in a dream and looked around at the neatly organized room. Everything in its place, just as it always was. I kept my room the way I liked my life, organized, calm. No surprises unless I was the one orchestrating them. But this… I did not see it coming. I picked up my keys from where I kept them on top of my dresser, next to the small display of Burger King toys of characters from the movie Toy Story and walked back the way I had come.

I drove to down the street on auto-pilot, hardly aware of where I was heading, trusting my instincts and habits to take me to the place I often went to reflect on things. The dark streets were empty of movement, save for the occasional pair of headlights, providing a brief glimpse of the damp surroundings as I drove through the light rain that had started to fall about the time I received that fateful phone call. There was no moon. Or, at least no moon was visible. No stars either for that matter. Clouds filling the entire sky, or so I assumed, not being able to actually see them. The black of the sky weighed down on me like the ominous message that kept playing itself out in my mind as I navigated the familiar path without thought or effort.

The familiar overpass was barely visible through the light rain, no street lamps illuminating it or the surrounding area. Perhaps that is why we came here so often. Out of the way, always wrapped in shadows or the black of night and free from even occasional traffic. No one came here. No one but us. Everyone else raced along the interstate underneath. Blissfully unaware that this place even existed. Memory lane. That’s what we liked to call it. None of us knew its true name. That never mattered. All that mattered was that we could come here to be kids. To engage in activities that we all knew would get us into trouble, if we were ever caught, but which we did anyway for the thrill and excitement. Those times were all about us and the rest of the world didn’t matter. But tonight it was just me. There would be no more “us”. Not anymore. I parked my car a block away from the overpass, out of habit more than anything else, turned off the motor and felt the light rain hit my face and arms as I climbed out.

Walking toward the overpass, I thought of how this terrible thing could have happened. I was angry. Angry at Johnny for driving so carelessly. He always drove that way, but most of the time it simply added to our fun and excitement. These kinds of things weren’t supposed to happen to kids that just wanted to have fun. We didn’t drink or do drugs and would certainly never operate a vehicle had we decided to experiment with those things. Yes, we were often careless, but there were certain things you just didn’t do. Even we knew that. Speeding in certain parts of the city was one of those things. So why had Johnny done it? Might have done it, I corrected myself. I didn’t know if he was speeding at the time of the accident, but I was still angry. Angry at Johnny for being the one driving. Angry at Jennifer for not insisting her brother drive carefully. Angry at both of them for leaving me. Angry at whoever had been driving that van that had run the right light. That was who should hold the majority of the blame. That was who had been driving under the influence and had taken my friends from me. But that person did not currently have a name or a face. Jen and John had both.

I stood on the overpass, looking out across the horizon, or where the horizon would be if anything were visible. Dark shapes of cars and trucks passed beneath me. The light from their head lamps mostly consumed by the rain as they drove along, barely able to illuminate more than just a few feet. No one could see me standing there. No one would see anything if I were to throw myself over the side. Perhaps in front of a south-bound semi. Those had always been the most fun, having to travel more than four miles from that point to reach our location, if they knew how to reach it at all. I thought on that option, a quick way to end this pain that was consuming me and perhaps allow me to be with my friends once more. I approached the edge and looked down, unable to see the road I knew was beneath me through the dark and the rain. It was getting colder now, but I hardly noticed. That slight discomfort was greatly overpowered by the anguish I felt internally. I put my hands on the cement barrier that acting as a railing for the overpass, feeling the rough, wet surface against my palms. It would be so easy. Just hoist myself up and swing my legs over the side as I had done so many times with fences in the past. Just wait for the right time and it would all be over in mere seconds.

I removed my hands and took one step backward. Coward. Don’t you want to see your friends again? Rage flooded through me anew. Angry with Johnny. Angry with Jennifer. Angry with the nameless killer who had taken them from me. Angry with myself for being a coward. I punched the cement barricade in frustration, feeling the immovable object jar my fist, arm and entire body with the impact. Fist still clenched, I raised it towards my face, looking down toward the fresh cuts that must surely be there, but which I could not see. It had stopped raining now, but I could feel moisture running down my arm, collecting at my elbow and dripping onto the asphalt at my feet. Perhaps the faint splashes I could hear through the silence of the night were from my blood dripping into a puddle. Perhaps it was just rain and my hand had not been cut. It did not matter. Nothing did. My friends were gone and they were never coming back.

The next morning I awoke from a troubled sleep. Had it been a dream? Perhaps at any time the phone would ring and Johnny or Jennifer would be on the other end, asking that familiar question. “What do you want to do tonight?” It was never a question of if or with whom. Only what. We did something every night. But no call came.

The funeral was a few days later and by then my rage and anger had mostly dissipated, replaced by a numbness that was starting to sink in. Perhaps I was still in denial. Or perhaps I just didn’t know how to handle the gravity of the situation. What kid did? Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to kids. At least not kids you knew. This was the kind of thing you heard about on the news, in a place far away that you’d never even heard of before. They didn’t happen to you.

Everyone was in their best dress, myself included, as I arrived at the church. It was a beautiful spring day. The rain from days before had now been dried by the brightly shining sun and the sounds of falling rain had been replaced with the faint chirping of birds off in the distance somewhere. Flowers were in bloom and everything was green. It was my favorite time of year and I particularly enjoyed days like this. So did Jennifer. We had enjoyed many things together since we started dating. That seemed like so long ago, but in truth it had been little over a year.

Music was playing as I entered the church and greeted family members of my friends. Several bouquets and wreaths were on display by the pulpit and around the two coffins in front of the first row of pews. The lids were closed, the viewing had been the night before, allowing me one last chance to see my friends. I couldn’t remember who I had spoken to that night or if I had even spoken to anyone. I didn’t seem to remember much these days. Perhaps it was from a lack of sleep. Perhaps it was because in my mind they were still here and the three of us were thinking on what we wanted to do that night. Perhaps it was because I could not seem to find a way to escape from this waking dream.

When it was my turn to speak, I walked to the pulpit and looked out at everyone sitting in the pews. Most I knew, some I did not. Some I had only seen in pictures before. But all looked up at me. Many eyes were red and puffy and many handkerchiefs were held close or being used to dab moist eyes. I wanted to cry. It hurt so much and crying seemed like the only appropriate action. But I knew that wasn’t what the family needed. They needed to hear kind words about their departed loved ones. They needed their faith bolstered that they might be able to see them again one day. They needed someone to stay strong.

I recounted the good times that I had shared with my beloved friends and mentioned their many enduring traits. How Johnny was friends with almost everyone and always had a light-heartedness about him. He would always tease you or find something to joke about. It could be annoying at times, but I didn’t speak on that. I only spoke about how he could make you laugh if you were having a bad day and always seemed to be able to take your mind off things. I could sure use some of his influence in that way these days. I spoke about how Jennifer was so selfless, always helping others and considering their own needs ahead of her own. I recounted how she took care of her younger brother when he was sick, caring for him in that motherly fashioned that seemed engrained as a part of her very being. Perhaps that was what had attracted me so much to her. Both of them were truly a blessing to all of the lives they had touched in their short span on this earth and I said as much in my closing words, stating that both would be missed by friends and family alike and that the world would not be the same without them.

Many in the congregation cried, either from grief, gratitude or found thoughts of the departed, or perhaps some mix of the three. I somehow managed to make it through my words without shedding a tear. I had found a way to stay strong.

Everyone drove to the cemetery after that, words were spoken, prayers were uttered and the coffins were lowered into the ground. Some left right after that, others stayed and talked for a time, but eventually everyone was gone and I found myself alone in front of the two fresh graves, not yet covered.

To my left, the tombstone read:

Jennifer Miller
1978 – 1995
Always thought of others

And the one to my right read:

Johnny Miller
1976 – 1995
A friend to all

I read both of them a few times, agreeing that the information displayed could not be more accurate. The numbness that had so fully enveloped me earlier was starting to fade and I could feel the pain and anguish returning. The strength I had fought so hard to show earlier quickly leaving me. I looked around again, ensuring that I was alone and allowed the strength to be drained from me and the pain and anguish to fill the void that it had left.

The emotions were so overpowering that I dropped to my knees, unable to stand under the burden that was being placed on my soul. I cupped my hands around my face and closed my eyes, unable to stay strong any longer. Then, I cried.