Wickery Road

Hey, guys! I had the pleasure of being commissioned by the Netflix Series – 13 Reasons Why campaign to write this short story. I am so excited and happy that I have a chance to be a part of this, and I can't wait for the show to come out so I can binge-watch all of the episodes!

For those of you who don't know, there's a contest going on where you can write a 500-word short story with the hashtag #13ReasonsWhyContest and enter to win a chance for Jay Asher himself to tweet your story/profile with a special message!

Check the external link for more info about the contest! (:

Anywho, I hope you enjoy the story!

_______________________________________________________

I sit cross-legged on the sidewalk and watch cars pass over Wickery Road.

To most, this road holds no significance—it's worn cement and faded lines, just like any other. It's a place to drive over, to sprint across, to ultimately ignore as you make your way to various destinations.

It's also the place where I murdered my best friend. But no one knows, or really cares, about that.

I can still feel the horror rising in my chest as I spotted the oncoming car. Can hear myself screeching Emily's name. Can see her mangled body as I fell to the ground beside her, begging her to stay.

She didn't. And it's my fault.

If I hadn't...

I close my eyes, and I can see her—her face contorted with betrayal and rage as she spun to face me on the sidewalk—and I forget how to breathe.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

It all started when Emily found an art contest online. It was an amazing opportunity. The winner received a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship to the college of their choosing, and, since Emily and I wanted to attend art school together, this seemed like the perfect way to kick things off. And god, I needed the money. My dad had scraped what he could into a college account, but it wasn't nearly enough to save me from drowning in loans.

This desperation is what led to my downfall.

Honestly, I'm not that great at art. I love it, it's my passion, but compared to Emily, I'm shit. And as the weeks went by and my pile of failures grew, a seed of bitterness toward my best friend began to flourish. I hated that she was amazing. I hated that she didn't actually need this money, not really.

I wanted her to fail.

So I made sure she did.

On the day we mailed our entries, Emily came over to show me her final product. She was so excited and hopeful and it kills me that I hated it. But I did, and when she went to the bathroom, I switched out her entry for one of my shitty drawings from seventh grade.

The moment our entries disappeared into the street's mailbox, I wanted throw myself inside and undo my mistake. Instead, I shoved the knowledge deep inside and pretended it didn't exist.

And for a while, that worked. Until Emily found her entry in my bedroom.

I will never forget her betrayed expression or her promise to never speak to me again.

That day on Wickery Road, I was desperate for her to know that if I could take it back, I would. So even as she tried to pretend I wasn't there, I begged her to talk to me, to hear me out.

"Do you know what the worst part is?" she demanded once I was finished.

I didn't.

"I was trying to win for you."

And then she was gone. I saw the car, screamed her name, and—