A Skye To Remember Me By

Challenge FOUR

Third Challenge: September 9: *Challenge is to "shock" the reader*

*Based loosely on a true story, I didn't witness it though.*

Not only was the weather not on our side that day, we were already weary to the bone and increasingly careless. Pathetic fallacy if there ever was a such thing. Each of us in the freshman class Student Council trudged in time to the now obnoxiously upbeat hip-hop music pulsating from the speakers on our float, trying not to step on the paper streamers. Ten minutes into the parade, the freshman and sophomores began to gripe. “How come the juniors and seniors get to ride a float and not us?” “My feet hurt! I’m tired!” “How much farther?!” I cast short, deprecating glares in their directions to silence them; it put everyone in a bad mood when only one person complained, we were supposed to be peppy and cheerful representatives of student council with an overabundance of school spirit. The only thing in over abundance was the horse manure in the road in front of us from the FFA Clubbers.

I was probably the most quiet of the walkers: mainly since I don’t like to voice my complaints if there’s really nothing I or anyone else can do about them. My duties as freshman vice president in student council consisted of walking next to our float, smiling, and waving endlessly to the kiddies and their parents on the sidewalks. Only upperclassmen had the immense privilege and responsibility to toss Tootsie Rolls to the crowd.

The Saturday before this one was our work day. All the officers met at the front of the school with a complete arsenal of supplies. It seemed like it was just the underclassmen doing the grunt work while the juniors and seniors “supervised,” as they put it. This other girl, the freshman treasurer whose name was Kendal, and I were assigned to laminate and cut about fifty billion green and white streamers for our float. My hands still have blisters.

Anyway, I guess it was at the corner of Second and Washington street that it happened. Of course no one saw it coming so there was no way to prevent it. Some could call it negligence or carelessness, but that’s not the mental picture I have printed forever in my memory. I remember vaguely the smiling and waving spectators on the side before hearing the scream. At first I just thought someone had tripped. I snapped my head in that direction, where, right next to me, Kendal Freeman’s knees collapsed as she fell to the concrete. Instinctively, I thrust out my arms to catch her but only caught the edge of her t-shirt. I don’t quite remember all the details of what happened next, but they say her dress got caught on the trailer, which was why she fell, and when she did her foot slipped between the double trailer wheels, dragging her beneath them. I was the first to notice what was happening, and the last one to see the look of sheer terror on her young face before she died.

The truck pulling our trailed stopped. The trucks and trailers behind us stopped. Police and teachers and students crowded the area. I was shoved backwards until I was on the very outer rim of the circle of people trying to see if she was alright. I knew she was dead. I had watched it happen. I think that’s been the hardest part to deal with. Accepting that there wasn’t anything I could have done.

I remember the scream, long and loud… and then silent. And blood, thick red blood staining the concrete. A mangled little body, a tiny little freshman girl. Whose dress was ripped and bloodstained and whose scream was silenced the same time fragile life was torn from her. I remember the scene, seared into my memory, remember wringing my hands, too numb to cry, remember Kendal Freeman, freshman class treasurer.

Skye
~*resident
campfire
queen*~

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