Unfinished

One

Becca was fourteen and average height, with a boyish figure , long gold-brown hair, and grey-blue eyes. Pretty, but not noticeably so. She was quiet, and liked to write. Stories, thoughts, impressions, people. It didn't really matter what, just that she had her notebook and her pens and her words. She was quiet, though, and slightly different, and that made her a target.

Soren had watched her a couple of times. They had been sort of friends. He sat with her sometimes at lunch, and asked if she'd read her words to him. She did sometimes, and not at others. They smiled at each other in the halls, and greeted each other outside of school, too. He was watching the day she died

It was stupid, the way she died. Stupid, and exactly the kind of thing Becca did.

The day was cold and breezy, the sky covered in soft gray clouds. Gusts of winds tore through coats, tore papers out of hands, and spun leaves into madly swirling columns. It wasn't the sort of day advisable for carrying around a manuscript you valued more than your life. But that's exactly what Becca was doing.

Soren watched her walk down the street, they lived two houses apart. She was flipping through pages and keeping a white knuckled grip on them in an effort to keep them from flying away. Soren wondered why she was doing all this outside where it was windy.

Then a car drove by, one Soren recognized. Samantha's clique. The popular kids at the local high school. Rich kids who were used to having their way. Bastards and bitches, the lot of them.

The car slowed next to Becca, and either she didn't notice or she ignored them. She was good at both things. The driver's side window rolled down, and Samantha's face appeared.

"Whore!" she shouted, then the car took off down the road. It wasn't as bad as Soren had expected, but it was enough to distract Becca. A sudden gust of wind tore the pages out of her hands, sending them flying into the road. They'd be destroyed out there.

Soren froze at the window, repeating in his head during the second before Becca moved, Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it. But she did.

Becca raced out into the street, snatching papers as fast as she could, grabbing some, then losing others. It was painful to watch. But Soren wasn't worried about whether the papers would get through okay, he was worried about Becca. This was an intersecton where people were known to drive too fast. He was out the door in a heartbeat, but it was one heartbeat too late.

Soren watched as the silver Toyota barreled into view, coming around a sharp curve in the road ahead. He watched as the driver saw Becca and tried to break, but it was too little too late. The car smashed into her as Soren screamed her name, a warning that he could voice only when the threat was already a forgone conclusion. He whipped out his phone and dialed 911. There might be hope, she might live. It was a very small 'might'.

Becca died shortly after she was admitted to the hospital, but Soren hadn't been allowed to go there. He had stayed at home, had worried. And he'd read the papers Becca had given to him while she lay gasping for breath on the road, blood pouring from somewhere on her body. She had not given them so much as indicated that he should take them. So he'd gathered up the papers and had rested there in the road with Becca, his almost friend. He hadn't been able to look at her, so all he did was stare at his lap and whisper "I'm sorry." over and over and over again. Then the ambulance had arrived, and the neighbors, who had previously been standing around in hushed groups, or fretting over the driver, who was sobbing by the side of the road and staring at Becca, had started to head home. Some of them helped him up and into his house, his parents both being absent that day.