Empy

           Thankful beyond measure that the day had finally come, you step off the bus anxious to begin your first day of middle school.  The stream of kids leads into the school, but under the bleachers you notice a group of high schoolers dressed in black skinny jeans and dark hoodies with something rolled up between their fingers.  They beckon you closer, and before you can act the white returns. The wedding dress of a queen could not compare to the purity of the white surrounding you.  The teenagers were still under the bleachers, and as you took a few steps closer you notice that the paper between their fingers has smoke rising from it, and the smell that you thought had been coming from a skunk and its newest victim was in fact coming from their direction.  You take another eager step forward, but you pause to think about what it was you were really doing.  The thought of your mother and that fateful day cross your mind, but just as quickly as those thoughts had arrived they were gone.  You run towards the bleachers, and as one of the high schoolers hands you the cigarette looking roll, you hear a deafening creak coming from the bleachers, and once again that cliff opens up and swallows the bleachers and high schoolers alike.  You find yourself balancing precariously on an island of white surrounded by a black abyss, and without thinking you raise your fingers to your mouth.  The island collapses, and you find yourself falling. An angry teacher, a furious principal, and a father coming home from work taking off his belt.  You feel a sharp pain on your backside, and you’re brought back to reality.  This time the scream isn’t voiceless.  The ground rushes up, and you can almost feel yourself hitting before –

the scene changes.  

           A flash of light indicates the final picture being taken.  You grab your date by the hand and hurriedly make your way to your car, your parents tearing up behind you.  You almost didn’t make it, but senior prom was finally upon you. Traffic was horrible, but you and your date are finally making your way through the crowds and to the dancefloor. After much dancing and laughing, you excuse yourself to use the bathroom, but instead make your way to the spot where you stashed the bottle of vodka the day before.  You find yourself before the black concessions table.  The lights go dark for the slow dance, but the white returns as you open the bottle.  Whiter than fresh shoelaces on a new pair of Jordan’s, and brighter than a freshly cleaned whiteboard.  You hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.  For once, you consider not being the one to mess everything up.  You think about your mom, your dad, your teachers.  There’s no way everyone wouldn’t know it was you who spiked the punch, but at the same time the idea of being the one to do it was more intoxicating than the vodka that you were already pouring into the punch. The table collapsed, and once again you were falling.  The punch soaked your face as you were falling, and the air rushing up around you chilled you to the bone.  You could see an ambulance pulling up, and a girl being rushed out on a stretcher. Another girl lying on the ground, a blanket covering her face, friends weeping around her.  Others were throwing up in the bushes.  How much vodka had you poured into the punch?  Surely, you thought, it had been just one bottle, but as you look around you notice three falling around you.  You slam into the ground and feel your entire body fracturing beneath the weight of the decision you had made.  You feel yourself slipping up away, but –

the scene changes.