Surviving After Dark

pte

those huge, life-alt

and in the movies? Those moments that the character

y lives flipped one-eighty, never to be the same again. Of course, for them, it was always something good. Somet

ted t

n real life and fiction. I'm sixteen now, and I still struggle some

her little

same table, eat the same breakfast, and have the same conversations with my mum and dad. Then I walk the same route to the sa

ing will be the s

rs, and my blood is rushing through my veins like it's trying to escape. Because that would be easier. To j

n us as we sit on the cold, hard, plastic chairs. Their shapes are just blurred, like ghosts, there but not there, on the very edg

dly in the sky as if it's daring anybody to question its right to be there

heat waves in the distance outside of that window... and I feel

l ever feel

sand

e room as me. Maybe I'm not really in the room at all. Maybe I'm the ghost, and I'm

the boy sitting next to me, his ash brown hair unruly as always and falling into his eyes. He doesn't try to move

his voice, that edge that tells me he is fightin

d it's all I can do not to turn and bury my face in his chest and sob.

in in my sight line, along with that of the uniformed officer, standing stiffly beside him.

pt my nod, at least for now. He glances behind me at the woman standing in the corner, and she steps forward. "Thi

ks to the side of Mr. Nichols' desk. No, more than sad, and pitying, and it makes my stomach churn. I tense, and my brother feels it, and his hand tightens on top of mine, willing me to be calm as Rachel positions herself on t

ses our names as a greetin

s Mr. Nichols, and I regret saying it. It's a stupid thing to be hung up on right now. B

she gives me a small smile. "Cassie. I'm sorry. I know this is a lot to take in." That's an unde

ver so gently behind him as he leaves the office. As if the sound of a door slamming might startle us or send us i

with fewer people in it. Like