There goes my life ~ Michael

Why is it that I'm never able to say what I want to say? Maybe today it's because I'm doing my best to be kind and considerate. Maybe it's because if I said everything else, this would be a very boring blog post. Maybe it's because I can't even find the words to express what I'm feeling. So for right now, here's some more of *that* story. So, today, meet Michael

Michael
I was heading out the door for early morning football practice the next morning when I noticed my mom sitting at the table. My mom was never up when I got up for practice. “Everything ok, Mom?” I said, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket. “Michael.” I grabbed a bottle of water and threw it into my backpack, along with my text books and lunch. “Michael.” I took a bite of the apple, the juice dribbling down my chin. “Michael Eric!” She had my attention. “Yeah.” I leaned up against the counter. “Mr. O’Roark called last night.” “To plan another dinner I need to attend?” I asked, giving a slight chuckle. “Honey, Brooke died last night.” Her words caught me by surprise. “What?” I laughed again, but it was an awkward laugh. “Brooke died last night. She was murdered. They found her body.” “Are… Are they sure? What if it’s Bridgette? They do sort of look alike.” It could have been Bridgette, right? Brooke would be devastated but they could get through it. They loved each other. “It was Brooke. Bridgette was at home, and she had ID on her. It was Brooke.” I stared at my mother. If this was some kind of cruel joke, it wasn’t funny. “I’m sorry.” “No! No!” My voice got louder and louder. “I’m so sorry.” My mom was crying softly, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. “She, No! Brooke is not dead, Mom. She’s just late coming home. She’s at a party, she’s in the hospital, but she’s not dead.” My voice was firm, leaving no room for arguments. My mom just nodded. Brooke was gone. My Brooke was gone. The only girl I’d ever loved was gone. We were going to get married. We were going to have the American dream, the house with the white picket fence, and 2 kids. This wasn’t happening. “I’ll call your coach,” My mom said, leaving the room. I dashed for the sink, dry heaving. My stomach churned. This wasn’t happening. I wiped the mucus that I’d managed to cough up from my face. Brooke was dead. My dreams, my life, had died right along with her.

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