When I first met Alex, he was instantly fascinated by my name. He talked on and on about how light and pretty it sounded, how it could conjure up memories for almost everyone who heard it. Then he talked about the concept of names, how people just picked this word, this assortment of letters that would identify us for the rest of our lives, and how others associated that name, the sound and memory of it with us. They assign our personality traits to those names, or perhaps our names to the personality traits. Our names have one of the first hands in identifying us and shaping who we are.
As I stood there with them there on the shore, sticking around for probably a lot longer than I should have, our names were the only thing I could think of. Because here we were, both of us gone but still stuck in one spot. Presley and Alex. Alex and Presley. And if we’re both here, dead and done for, then names are really the only thing we have left.
Brianna, Macy, Lucas, the Detective, Kate, and Brian all stayed frozen in their spots too. The only sounds moving to us were the rushing of the water, the soft winter breeze bustling through, and the occasional quiet sob that came from one of them. It’s a dark and calm moment of grief, and though it felt like I didn’t belong, I could not bring myself to leave.
The lights soon pierced the sky, red, blue and white cutting through the lingering fog. The troop of people came calmly down the stairs to the shore. Many of them approached the Detective first, patting him on the shoulder or whispering their sympathies. So many of them came to him, he eventually had to turn away, folding in on himself.
It was an oddly quiet whirlwind from there. The police examined the area, quietly shared their suspicions. The paramedics took Alex away from his dad, lifting his lifeless body and laying him on the sand. Brian fell apart even further, and Kate stepped up to attempt to comfort her ex-husband.
And there was a coroner. I mean, of course there was, but it was terrifying. I don’t think I had ever seen a coroner in real life, doing what he does. But there he was. He examined the scene first, looking back and forth between the cliff and the rock covered in Alex’s blood. He turned to the police chief, and I just barely overheard his initial analysis: “This is much too far out to be a fall. That’s a running leap if I’ve ever seen one. This boy jumped.”
He made his way over to the body after that. It was all far too technical. He looked over the wound, examined Alex’s body. And then, he simply made the confirmation. He made it all seriously real.
I finally had to turn away when they covered Alex’s body with a white sheet. It was finished. Done and done.
I walk along Main Street downtown now, completely in a daze. Alex West is dead. I am dead. They found Alex’s body. No one knows where I am. I don’t even know where I am. I don’t feel like I know much of anything anymore.
I stand in the middle of the street, directly in the center of the yellow lines. A car is coming. Its headlights shine down on me, like two spotlights looking for a singer on a stage. I want the car to hit me. Can you still want to be dead if you already are?
The car breezes past me, the side mirror going just by my arm. It’s a Jeep. For some reason, my mind shouts that out to me. And then I realize why.
It’s my Jeep.
I spin around to find the driver parking by the curb outside the police station. The doors open, and I watch Mom and Lennon step out, rushing away and up the stairs into the station.
“Oh my god.”
I run after them, taking two steps at a time to get inside.
“Mrs. White, thank you for coming in so late.”
I stop just inside the doorway beside Mom and Lennon. A tall woman in uniform with a low bun in her hair has met Mom and Lennon, clearly having waited God knows how long for them.
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Ashlee Cornell, Detective Crane’s partner.”
Mom nods frantically, her eyes looking at Detective Cornell, but seeming to travel somewhere far off. “You found something?”
Detective Cornell nods, becoming stern and professional. “Yes. I would like to take you somewhere more private to explain.”
She motions her head back, and Mom and Lennon immediately follow her. I hurry behind them, my mind unable to comprehend what might have been found. Does it have something to do with Alex and that envelope he dropped off?
Detective Cornell leads us into an interrogation room. It’s dark, sharp and cold, the silver table in the middle being overlooked by a two-way window. It looks just like the rooms as you see them on crime shows, and it feels far too confusing.
“We received an anonymous delivery this evening,” Detective Cornell says as Mom and Lennon take the two seats at the table. She seals the door shut, seemingly locking us all into a prison cell together. “This envelope was left at the door.”
She stands behind the table, holding up the opened yellow envelope with my name written in heavy blue ink across the front. It’s the envelope. It’s from Alex. I fall back against the wall, facing the Detective.
“Inside,” she continues, “was a note and flash drive. We have officers on the scene of an incident that we believe may be related to the note, so we’re holding that for further evaluation.”
He wrote a suicide note. Alex had this planned out. When did he decide this? Why did he decide this?
“However, upon viewing the contents of the flash drive, we called you immediately.”
Both Mom and I are shaking our heads, unwittingly mimicking each other. “I don’t understand.”
Detective Cornell releases a long, heavy breath, hanging her head as she picks up the flash drive. She looks up at Mom, trying to maintain her professional demeanor, though her eyes are sad. “Mrs. White, Lennon. This video appears to show Presley’s death as it happened. It appears that someone…caught it on camera.”
It is far too silent for such a shocking piece of information. Mom covers her mouth, still shaking her head, and Lennon stays frozen, staring down at the flash drive. I hold a hand to my chest, feeling the tears already building up.
“I am the only person who has viewed any portion of the video,” Detective Cornell says. “I felt that you two should be the first to see it in its entirety. That is, if you feel you are ready for it. It is entirely your decision.”
Oh my god. It’s the answer. On that tiny little device is the answer to what happened to me. I want to see it. I can’t see it. I have to see it.
Mom and Lennon look at each other, a million emotions passing between them. Lennon looks to be just on the edge of a complete breakdown, but she takes slow, calculated breaths in and out. After a long few seconds, she nods at Mom, who closes her eyes for a second before nodding back. She looks back at the Detective.
“We’ll watch it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my fists at my side. “What have you done, Alex?”
“I’ll stay here,” Detective Cornell says. She’s moving and opening the laptop that is on the table. When I open my eyes, the screen is on, screaming out at me. She holds the flash drive to the edge, looking up between Mom and Lennon. “If you want me to turn it off, please tell me.”
Mom reaches out, and Lennon grasps her hand so tight, both of their knuckles turn white. I can see their reflections in the window. They’re scared. It’s the most complicated simple feeling I have ever observed on someone.
The Detective inserts the flash drive and clicks on the video file. Simple as that.
On the screen is a view of the woods, darkness broken only by a dim spotlight coming from behind the camera. In view on the screen, right in the middle of the frame, is Bridget, twisting her hair back halfway, and me, myself, and I, running my hands over my flowing burgundy skirt.
“Oh my god.”
Inside my own mind, in another time, I remember it. I remember telling Bridget about Alex’s filmmaking. I know that I suggested to her that we could go work on a scene with him, help her work on her acting skills and add something to her resume since she was going to be majoring in Theatre. I organized it all with Alex, found myself in awe of the dramatic scene he had come up with. And we chose a Saturday night. We chose August 10th. Five days before mine and Bridget’s birthdays. The weekend before school started. The last weekend Alex and his family had planned to go camping. We met up out in the woods inside the park, in the spot by the new bench that I now look at on a laptop screen.
“So how long have you been making movies?”
I dig my fingernails into my arm as Bridget’s voice comes through loud and clear in the tiny room. I watch her finish her half-up do and delicately pull sections of her hair forward over her shoulders. She looks off past the camera, presumably toward Alex.
“Well, I got a camera for Christmas when I was eight, and I started filming my brother and sisters just kind of randomly. Then I started filming around town, and I would narrate them and make little short films out of them. I didn’t start writing and making scenes until about seventh grade.”
Every word that Alex speaks slices through me, sending tears slowly down my face. Two out of three people in this video are dead. How does that even happen?
“You should see this one scene he did out on the lake.” My own voice hits me, too casual and light considering the desperation I’m feeling here and now. “It’s so dark and creepy, but it’s super emotional. It literally made me cry.”
I watch my own eyes travel to Alex, a simple smile on my face. Bridget looked between us, practically daring me to ask him out right there on the spot. I would laugh about it if it weren’t so completely terrible now.
“Are you guys almost ready?” Alex asked.
Bridget stood up straight, turning to face me. “Just about. I just have to fix Presley’s hair and then go over the script one more time.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
Bridget reached forward to attempt to tame some flyaway hairs around my face. “Where do I even start, darling?”
I started swatting Bridget’s hands away, laughing with her, until Alex cursed under his breath. Bridget and I both turned to him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“I just forgot one of the mics and another light. Are you guys okay out here for a second while I go get them?”
Bridget rolled her eyes as she continued to mess with my hair. I hit her lightly in the arm before nodding over at Alex. “We’re fine. Go ahead.”
The sound of footsteps quietly emits from the computer. Alex walked away. It was quite a long way back to where his family had set up camp, and I know that no one else came out to us. Bridget and I were alone.
“Bridget?” Her name escapes me, the sudden questioning of just what it is she has done to me.
“Okay, so why don’t you just let him take you right here?”
I slapped Bridget’s shoulder with a copy of the script. “Ew, Bridget! What is wrong with you?”
“You’re completely into each other! It’s kind of adorable, honestly. I say go for it.”
“And I say keep your nose out of it. He’s my friend. That’s it.”
“Whatever you say.”
I can’t figure out how this went so wrong. Was it really Bridget? Did someone else come after us? Did Alex do it? It feels like I should be remembering the whole thing, but I’m learning this just as Mom and Lennon are as we watch.
“I’m surprised Reed didn’t want to come with you tonight,” Bridget said.
I looked up at her as I sat down on one of the larger rocks. “Why?”
Bridget shrugged. “I just figured this was kind of his thing. You know, drama and theatrics. He’s very…eccentric.”
The look on my face screamed annoyance with her. I don’t remember her ever talking about my friends like that. I’m angry with her now, and I’m wondering what my anger with her than might have led her to.
“Well, it’s not really his thing,” I said, mindlessly going over the script I held. “Besides, he’s in Indiana with his family.”
Bridget picked up the large knife we were using for the scene, testing her skill at lunging and fighting with it. I remember that the knife was real. Alex hadn’t had a chance to get a fake one made as a prop, so we just used one he had at the campsite, because we were just acting–what could happen? “Well, that’s probably a good thing, then. If Reed comes, we know who trails right after him.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my hands to my forehead. It’s there, the memory of what Bridget said, how it felt. Somewhere deep within my mind, I remember this. I still have to open my eyes to know the rest of it, to completely face it.
I looked up from my script, staring off toward the camera. I’m practically looking straight into my own eyes, picking up on the building frustration and the confusion that came from hearing Bridget talk like that.
“Are you talking about Carissa?”
She said it so casually, as if making rude comments about Carissa was some inside joke we shared, something we actually did together. I can feel the fire that it sparked within me. How did I pick someone who could so quickly turn on me?
“Don’t say something like that about her,” I said quietly, clearly trying to avoid letting this go on, keep it from turning into something we couldn’t fix.
Bridget rolled her eyes and laughed, letting the knife dangle precariously from her hand as she turned to me. “Oh come on, Pres, you know what I’m talking about. You and Reed are this powerful duo, and Carissa’s the little puppy dog that follows you around. It’s always been that way.”
“Presley, I’m just saying.” She quickly got defensive, though she maintained her attitude. “Carissa isn’t like you two. She follows you around because she wants to stay on your good side. Otherwise you would realize that she’s kind of useless and not a whole lot of fun. I am just saying.”
I got to my feet, wrinkling the script pages in my unsteady grip. “You’re ‘just saying’ a lot of really shitty things, Bridget. I don’t really like it.”
Bridget cocked her head to the side as she looked at me. There was only a slight hint of regret in her expression–mostly she just looked ready to bite back at anything I had to say. “Presley, I’m sorry to break it to you that you picked a weak bitch for a friend. It’s just the way she is, okay? It’s not a big deal, I just think you deserve someone who is as brave as you and can actually keep up with you. And that person is not Carissa.”
I threw the script off toward a tree and stomped toward Bridget. “You did not just call my best friend a bitch.”
“Presley, chill, I was just–”
I slapped her. Out of the blue, in an instant, I just reached up and hit her open-handed. It was clear that I had shocked myself, but no form of an apology left my lips.
Bridget held a hand to her face, her jaw hanging open. She looked up at me, almost on the verge of tears, before a spark of anger hit her. “What the hell, Presley?”
She shoved me, and then it just started. I shoved her back. We started pushing against each other, pulling hair and yelling insults and expletives at each other. I’m shocked with myself, fighting another girl—my friend, no less—pulling at her clothes and repeatedly hitting her across the face. It’s not me. But, of course, it seems like losing my life has also caused me to lose parts of myself.
“What are you guys doing?”
Alex’s voice cuts through, along with the sound of him dropping the equipment he just brought back. He appears in the frame, his back to the camera as he watches us clawing and swinging at each other. I watch myself stumble backward over a rock, and I watch Bridget stumble right after me. She falls on top of me, and I only now notice the problem–my problem.
She still has the knife in her hand–the real knife that we were stupid enough to use.
Bridget falls heavily forward, and the weapon is perfectly positioned to be lunged straight into my chest. It happens so swiftly, so coincidentally that it seems almost comical–in the most awful, tragic, maddening way.
Everything and everyone stops–well, everything except for this damn video. But Mom has pressed her hands to her mouth; Lennon has leaned over with her head in hands, stiff and still; Bridget has stopped with her hand on the knife that has struck me, like she has been personally paused; and I have been silenced and petrified, staring up at this person, this girl who has transformed into something I can’t even let myself identify.
“Oh god.” Bridget’s voice is broken, tear-filled and lost. Every part of her is shaking, but her grip on the knife is unwavering, as if some force will not allow her to escape what she has just done.
I watch myself there on the screen, my hands reaching toward the knife. There is deep red liquid slowly starting to spill down the white lace top of my dress in thin lines. I watch the blood spill, starting to completely cry, and knowing the feeling of wanting to be sick, even if I can’t logically feel it.
The panic washed over Bridget like a sheet being draped over her. She looked around, her hands reaching around for nothing in particular. I watch as she visibly loses all sense of logic and pulls the knife out of my chest, right from the heart. A gasp rings through the room, and I instinctively bring my hands up to my mouth.
“Oh my god.” Bridget threw the knife to the side, and she was forced to put her hands on the wound in an inevitably useless attempt to stop the bleeding. “Oh god, oh god, oh god!”
My mouth was open in a desperate, silent plea for air, though only squeaking, clogged gasps and coughs were escaping. The blood was flowing by this point, pushing out of the wound and spilling down my side, leaving spots in my hair where it was splayed out on the grass.
“Alex,” Bridget yelled in her broken voice. “Alex, help me!”
Alex has remained frozen, stuck in his spot just in front of the camera. I can’t see his face, but I can feel everything he’s feeling. I can suddenly understand his guilt, to an extent.
Bridget’s hands were covered in my blood, as she continued to try and control the bleeding, pressing hard on my chest. It wasn’t working, but nothing was alerting her to that fact just yet. She looked back and forth between me and Alex, frantic and helpless. “Alex, please, help me! Do something!”
Alex shook his head, the slightest movement in his still daze. I know his eyes are on me, and I actually feel bad as I watch my own eyes travel over to him, a desperate attempt to connect to someone else in the last second.
And it turns out it was the last second. A breath escaped me, my chest lowering and going still. The blood was still falling, my eyes were still open, but in a split second, I essentially disappeared.
Everything is silent. The woods on the screen and the cold, dark interrogation room are both coated in a tangible quiet. I look up at the Detective, if only for a split second of disconnection from the people I know. She leans over with her hands pressed firmly on the table, hanging her head. There really is no disconnection. Everyone is involved now.
On the screen, Bridget falls back, pulling herself across the ground away from me. She starts breathing heavily, practically hyperventilating, and she lifts her hands up, staring at the crimson stains covering her fingers and palms.
“Bridget,” Alex whispered into the silence. He was crying. So far, he was somewhat less guilty than Bridget, but he was just as broken. “Bridget.”
“Shut up, Alex,” Bridget choked out, her eyes still locked on her bloody hands. They’re both stunned, lost in this tangled moment that has suddenly come upon them. I am with them and I am not. I am connected to them and I am completely on my own.
“Bridget, you killed Presley.”
“Shut up, Alex!” Bridget screamed through her ongoing tears, a heart wrenching shriek to the wind. It doesn’t give me nearly enough time to process the gravity and overwhelming truth of Alex’s statement: Bridget, you killed Presley.
“It…it was an accident,” Bridget stammered, shaking her head back and forth. “I-I didn’t….mean to.”
“But you killed her, Bridget.”
There were a million emotions running rampant between Bridget and Alex. She started screaming, sobbing uncontrollably and falling against the rocks, closing in on herself. Alex stayed where he was, watching. I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t know how long we watch this deafening stillness. But eventually, Alex broke the silence, making a statement that breaks my heart in a million different ways, not one of which I can actually explain:
“We can’t leave her here.”
Detective Cornell asked Mom and Lennon if they wanted her to turn the video off. But they said no. And they watched the rest of it. And I watched it with them.
I watched as Alex stepped out of frame, leaving Bridget behind in her devastation. He came back about fifteen minutes later–with a shovel. I watched him start digging, carefully carving out a rectangular space underneath the memorial bench they had only just placed beneath an oak tree. The dirt was still there, still fresh. If he continued working like this, no one would know that it had been dug up twice.
“What are you doing?” Bridget eventually choked out, finally looking up after having had her head buried in her arms.
“Digging,” Alex said, heaving the shovel and breathing heavily. “You’re clearly not saying anything about this to anyone. Are you?”
Bridget shook her head so quickly, another sob easily escaping her. “I can’t, Alex.”
Alex nodded as he worked, not even sparing a glance toward Bridget. “Then I’m not going to let them find us out. We can hide it, but we can still give her some respect.”
Bridget made a loud sniffling sound. “Why are you helping me?”
“I’m not helping you, I’m helping Presley.” Alex’s voice was strained, coated in fear and pain. But he was also so clearly feeling guilty, and I could tell he was questioning himself even as he continued his actions. He slowed down for a moment, glancing over at my body there on the ground. He nodded slowly, coming to a realization. “And I’m helping myself.”
I continued watching, letting my eyes stay on my own lifeless body. It’s really nothing like the way it felt to look at Alex’s body in front of me, but of course, it’s still awful. I know that I was already dead there, but it is so strange to think that. How did it go so wrong so, so fast?
The video went on, the frame focused on Alex digging the hole. The Detective fast-forwarded through a lot of it, but it was about thirty minutes before he was satisfied. He then walked over to me, and a sob pushed its way out of me as I saw Alex actually lift my body and carry me over to his makeshift grave. That is the last straw for Mom and Lennon. Mom waves a heavy hand at the Detective, and she does not hesitate to shut the laptop. Lennon stands up, rushing out the door, and I sneak out immediately after her.
I run in the opposite direction, toward the lobby and the front doors. I run as fast as I can outside, until I’m sure it would be painful if I could feel it. As I move, I picture the rest of the scene in my head: Alex lowering me into the ground as well as he could; Bridget staying in her bubble, trying and failing to unchain herself from what was happening, from what she had done; Alex finally realizing that his camera was still on, that he had captured an entirely different scene than any of us had intended.
I finally stop once I catch sight of the lake, settled there ahead as I go over the hill. I plant my feet on the cold, wet ground, trying to keep myself steady. It’s starting to snow, and the thick white flakes blur in front of my eyes. I push my hair out of my face, letting my fingers run through the length of it, pulling at the ends.
Bridget killed me. It feels like the most ridiculous statement, like some joke she and I would have pulled on each other. It doesn’t feel true, even though I saw the evidence with my own eyes. And the fact that Alex was involved just throws off everything I know. These two people are hopelessly connected by me and my ending. I drove Bridget into denial; I drove Alex to his own death.
I stare out at the moon reflecting on the lake’s surface, a silver dollar on a bed of black glass. I want to go out there. I want to go to the water and walk in, step into the dark abyss and let myself stay there forever. But what’s the point? Would I even feel anything? I’m already in an abyss, done and gone. There is nothing more out in front of me. There are no more answers for me to find, right?
I spin around at the sound of my name–the first time I’ve heard it spoken directly to me since I was alive. His voice is so familiar, and it is much less tired and desperate than it was when I was listening to it in the video.
Alex stands a few feet away from me in the middle of the street, in the same jeans, dark t-shirt, and gray jacket he was wearing when I watched him jump off a cliff. He has his glasses back on, and there is no evidence of the wound that was on the side of his head the last time I saw him. He is the person I remember, just touched with sadness and loss.
I walk forward to him, unsure of what I’m doing. I close the distance between us, standing just inches away from him. I stare into his eyes, his nervous, lost pools of darkness as he looks right back at me. His eye contact hurts—he had a hand in causing me to never be able to look at anyone I know in this way again.
I reach my hand out, testing it, placing careful fingers on his shoulder. I can touch him. My contact does not go through him. In some form, he is here.
And then, it snaps. I snap. I reach my hand up and slap him hard across his cheek, open-handed and heavy. He’s turned to the side, unsurprised and hauntingly calm. The tears burst through me, suddenly streaming down my face, accompanied by quiet sobs breaking from my chest. Alex finally turns back to me, releasing a defeated sigh.
I turn away from him, holding a hand to my mouth. I can’t decide what the feeling is that just made me slap Alex across the face. I hate him, but I can’t hate him. I hate Bridget, but somehow I can’t hate her either. I hate this place, but this is home. God, I just want to be home.
There’s a scream, abrupt, sharp and so loud. It takes a moment for it to hit me that it’s mine. I scream out into the darkness, feeling the sound escape me. I let it go on for as long as I can, until it feels like I’ve actually breathed my last breath. It flows out, finishing off in a hard breath. It feels like a release, but I wish it felt better.
I turn back to Alex, inhaling and exhaling in the most calculated rhythm I can muster. He stares at me, unshaken by my outburst.
“Alex.” It feels strangely comforting to say his name to him again. Even though my voice is so broken, it still sounds so normal and right. “Alex. Are…are you okay?”
Tears quickly build up in his eyes, and he shakes his head, looking anywhere but right at me. “I don’t know. I’m just…I don’t know.”
I nod quickly, balling my dress up in my hands before wiping at my cheeks with my open palms. “Yeah. Me neither.”
The building tears start to fall, and he stares so intently into my eyes. He is tired, and he’s still so lost. Even in death, he is consumed by all that has happened. Of course, I know that feeling–but in his case, he is already painfully aware of all the answers.
“Presley, I’m sorry.” He continues shaking his head, lifting his hands for a second before letting them fall back to his sides. “I…I don’t know what to say to you. I’m just so, so sorry.”
Something within me says that I should hold on to my anger toward him. I shouldn’t be forgiving someone who was involved in the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, especially after I only just learned of it. But that worst thing pushed him to his worst thing. I’m not the only one who suffered here. And that simple scream felt like an immense, overarching release.
I shake my head, releasing a long, heavy sigh. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Alex replies almost immediately. “It’s the complete opposite of okay.”
I nod slowly, digging my thumbnail into my palm. “Yeah, I guess it’s not. But it’s over. It doesn’t…really matter anymore. It’s just over.”
Alex stares at me, calculating his breaths. He nods slowly, looking around at our surroundings. His eyes are the same soft hazel I have known for what seems like a long time, but really hasn’t been enough. I’ve got an eternity out ahead of me, and I want to just stumble into it with him, with someone I know. But I know I have to let him go. I know that the ways we ended have connected us far too tragically. It’s not good for either one of us to spend the rest of time only facing these things that ruined us. But right now, that’s all I can see in him.
He looks back at me, resigned to the situation although the tears still fall. “I’m still sorry, Presley. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done and ever seen and…I’m sorry.”
“I know,” I answer him without hesitation. “I’m sorry, too.”
He nods once, and then he moves toward me, walking right beside me as he heads forward toward the walkways to the lake and the park. I don’t turn around to him. I can’t. I want to, but I know I shouldn’t.
“Presley? Will you be okay?”
The tears continue to escape me, dripping down my face seemingly in slow motion. I still don’t look at him, but I nod slowly. “Yes. Eventually, at least. I’ll be okay.”
I hear his footsteps as he continues, leaving me alone there in the street. I look around at all of these places settled inside this one place, my hometown. It is true that I have already left my home. I exist now in this other stream of the universe somehow. I am not really here in Rising Hill. But still, it is the hardest thing to leave it. It is the hardest thing to know that there is nothing left for me to do here. I have to move on. That was the ultimate goal all along.
Bridget Rachelle Crawford, a friend, a person I knew and laughed with and trusted, killed me. Alexander James West, a person I wanted more of, buried me. Allison Renee White and Lennon Cecelia White kept up their hope in me for as long as they possibly could. Reed Nathaniel Marin and Carissa Lauren Campbell somehow found a balance between life with me and life without me. Detective Matthew Aaron Crane believed in me without even knowing me, even while keeping a dark secret. All of these people stayed beside me even when they did not know it. But I have to walk away from them. They are better off where they are…or at least they will be.
I, Presley Elaine White, may have been taken off guard. I may not have been given a fighting chance. My life may have been taken unfairly. But let the record show that I did not go down without a fight.
*Written by Chelsy Jordan, September 2017.
Images created by me on Canva.com.