{ I haven't written in a while, so let me know what you think. I'm a little out of practice but I believe it's good. Sorry for any fluency issues or spelling mistakes. I typed this up when I was half asleep. I will correct it some time later but for now I'm too lazy. Enjoy. }

An Autumn Breeze...

PART ONE: THE ACCIDENT

Chapter One

An autumn breeze is a sneaky thing. It allows you to falsely believe there might be a whisper of warmth in it's shiver of movement. That perhaps it might waft up a delicious smell, something like fresh bread. As it's nearly imperceptible current eerily drafts toward you, you hope that unlike the colder winter breezes to come in the following months, this one might splash you with just a hint of warmth and soul. But no. It only clutches you in it's cold, eerie grasp. Almost like fingers, clawing at your skin. Of course, the immediate reaction is to cover your skin and smother the frigid grasp. But what if the cold won't go away... What then?

And what more of autumn than not the smells of the season? Fresh bread being made. Fruits and vegetables by the plenty. And not only foods. The smell of an oak tree as all of it's once vibrant green leaves crinkle and fade to a cascade of shivering hues of browns, reds, and yellows. These colors paint the world in an essence of elegance with ease. The simplicity of these small touches on the scenery make the world come to a calm and seem to be more friendly and welcoming than ever.

And among these faded yet tasteful colors in a small town called Cherry Wood, was none other than miss Rosemary Parks. She was a fair-skinned young woman of 17. She had very light red hair that looked nearly orange in most light, and sparkling green eyes that could take your breath away. She was, by far, the prettiest woman in all of the surrounding cities. But gorgeous as she was, she was also modest, selfless, and extremely caring. She was always around to lend a helping hand to someone who needed it, no matter who they might be. She didn't judge people by their skin tone, their ethnicity, or by how they dressed. No. She judged people on character and their values. Though she might have not entirely liked a person, she never had a bad word to say about them. Most people in the town liked her, and she got along well with just about everyone. She was quiet, and in a town like Cherry Wood, that was well respected.

However, on this day in late November, she happened to be walking down the sidewalk in her signature black petticoat, when a truck came barreling down the avenue. The driver of the truck was a tall, dark-skinned man with even darker hair. He was in a rush to get to the shipping plant downtown where he worked. He didn't see miss Parks when he tried to make a sharp turn just as Rosemary was arriving at the corner to cross the street. The driver of the truck slammed on his breaks, but was too late as his Chevy barreled into miss Parks. And then, for Rosemary, everything went black...

3 Weeks Earlier

Miss Rosemary Judith Parks, age 17, awoke early on this fine November day. November 3rd to be exact. She rose slowly from her bed, which was draped in a thick quilt her grandmother had made for her. The quilt was decorated with an assortment of patches, with some of the patches bearing the shapes of pumpkins, others oak leaves, and still others with little apples. The quilt was nothing more than a seasonal thing. Miss Rosemary had a quilt for nearly every season. All except for summer, when she had no need of a thick quilt, and simply slept under a thin red blanket and her sheets. Each of these quilts had been made by her grandmother, Lucile Parks. Lucile had a quilt shop downtown in Cherry Wood, and often made quilts for the homeless and needy. Every year, she would sew three large ones in winter, and take them to the children's orphanage in a neighboring town of Rockville. Her skills were widely admired, and she was considered to be the best seamstress in five neighboring counties.

Rosemary often expressed her love of her grandmother, and spent a lot of her spare time with her. She often said that her grandmother was more like a mother to her than her own mom had been. You see, Rosemary's mother abandoned her when she was 16 and left her with her twin, 13-year-old younger brothers, Mitchel and Michael. Soon after she left, the boys both became very sick. The doctor diagnosed them with Swine Flu, and told Rosemary that neither of them would likely recover. That was when they had moved in with their uncle, (for their father died when the twins were both very young), and Rosemary had quit her part-time job to take care of them. The boys shared a room in the back of the house. It was well insulated and kept out the cold. Rosemary sat at their bedsides for days on end and read to them, sang to them, fed them, and cried with them. She watched over them while they slept, and barely slept herself. She quit school while taking care of the boys even though she knew she'd have to make up for it when the time came. She didn't care. These were her brothers, and they needed her.

They fought the sickness for 4 long months of harsh winter, (the harshest they'd had in at least 25 years, some of the elder women of the community had said), which seemed to match the mood in the Parks house quite well. Despite her best efforts, and the efforts of the family's doctor, Mitchel died on March 13th, 2007, at the age of 13. His brother, Michael, had survived the winter and had made a miracle of a recovery in the month after his brother's death.

The death of a Parks boy had depressed the entire community. The Parks were a well-respected and much-loved family of Cherry Wood. Their ancestors in fact had been some of the first to help build the town, and make a civilization rise from the dirt on which they now stood. News of the tragedy spread quickly, and soon cards and flowers were arriving on their uncle's doorstep. More than once, the elder women of the community would show up at their door with a home-cooked meal completely prepared and ready for eating. The community did their best to help the Parks family through the rough first months after Mitchel's death. This made Rosemary only appreciate this quaint little town more and more. Eventually, Rosemary went back to work, and her and Michael went back to school. Everything seemed to go back to normal. Everyone quieted down about Mitchel's death, and no one ever ventured into that back room again...

But now, nearly 8 months after Mitchel's death, Rosemary found herself thinking of that horrible day in early March. How he'd simply closed his eyes, and stopped breathing. It had been something of a peaceful death. He'd suffered illness, but she did not believe he suffered pain. And that day, as he took his final breath, he muttered something barely able to be heard as a mumble. Rosemary had not been able to comprehend it, but she knew he'd spoke. Perhaps that's what triggered her curiosity this morning. She wondered, as but only a single tear fell from her eye, what he'd said. What he'd spoke in his last, dying breath. What he'd wanted her to hear, but she hadn't. And this thought sprung more tears. He'd wanted to tell her something, but she'd been too busy caught up in her own thoughts to hear him. She'd often wondered what he'd said, and perhaps if Michael had heard it. She'd wanted to ask her surviving younger brother about it, to see if he knew, but it was too soon, too early to ask. Michael had been in something of a delicate state ever since Mitchel's death. The doctor said it was perhaps because he'd been so sick, and stayed sick. But Rosemary knew that wasn't the case. She knew that he was strong enough to make a full recovery from the illness. She was sure that only emotional scars remained. What she assumed was the cause of his delicacy, was the fear. The fear, that he'd been just as sick as Mitchel. The fear, and the knowing that it could have just as easily been him.

And so, she sat and wept on this early November day. She wept until she was sure she could cry no more, and she looked out of her window in her second story, attic of a room. The clouds were what she saw. Dark and low hanging, as if the memory of Mitchel's death had made them sad too. And, just as Rosemary looked up, they began to weep as well. They cried soft droplets of rain to the ground where they puddled and formed small streams through the grass and across sidewalks and down roads. The clouds cried and thunder rumbled like sobs that choked their airy throats. No lightning struck, for their was to be no light whatsoever on this day. The clouds blocked out the sun, and they seemed to want to keep it that way.

Slowly, slowly Rosemary stood from where she had collapsed on the floor when the memories had taken her past her breaking point. She slowly forced her feet to move, to take her down the stairs. She grabbed her coat from the hook by the door, wrapped it around herself, and stepped onto the back porch.

A thin patch of cement lead from the porch steps to the gravel alley behind the house. It's cold tongue licked out through the grass on either side and served as a sidewalk that lead through the large backyard of the Parks house. The back porch, much like the front, was covered by an overhanging set of wood and shingles. It kept the place dry and was held up by white pillars. To the left side of the sidewalk was a small "forest". It consisted of perhaps forty or fifty trees that Rosemary had played in when she and the boys were little. Most were lilac trees, some birch, a few pine, and a tall, old oak tree. From a branch on the oak tree hung an old tire swing. It had hung their for as long as Rosemary could remember. And somewhere, buried deep in the heart of this small "forest" lie a dog named Bolt. He'd been a German Shepard, and the only dog their uncle had ever owned. He'd died before the boys were born, but Rosemary remembered him vaguely. She often ventured out to his resting place where he'd been buried, and talked to him. From the few
fond memories she had of him, she remembered always running her fingers through his golden-brown fur and kissing his nose. She sometimes asked her uncle why he'd never gotten a dog to replace Bolt, and he would simply smile, tears glittering somewhere just behind his eyes, and tell her that, "Bolt is irreplaceable."

On this cold, rainy November morning, rain sparkled across the sidewalk, and splashed as Rosemary walked down the cement path. It was cold, and Rosemary hadn't had any sense to put on shoes, but she walked despite the tingling feeling the bitter cold was leaving on her toes. As she walked, as she had many times in the past, she fell calm to the routine of this short journey. She'd walk on the cement for the first twenty or thirty yards, past the small meadow of grass in front of the trees, and then, venture off of the path. She'd walk through the forest of trees and smell the lilacs. By now, they'd all turned yellow and mostly all fallen from their branches, but she could still smell them, though she wasn't sure if it was simply by memory alone. She walked probably another twenty yards towards the heart of the forest. There, standing amidst the trees, mud, and fallen leaves, under the thick oak tree that stood in the center of the forest, was a small wooden cross. It was painted white and on it hung a choker chain, and on one of the metal loops of the collar was a dog tag that read "Bolt". This is where her short journey ended.

Rosemary collapsed in the mud, which splashed up around her as she fell to her knees. The pants of her PJ bottoms were now drenched in brown and her cheeks were stained with tears. She clutched the coat to herself and wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to smother the cold that nipped at her skin. But that did not help. The cold was inside of her. Pulsing through her chest with every beat of her heart. She sat, sobbing for a while. Finally, she dried her eyes as best she could and lifted out a hand to touch the collar on the cross. She'd often talked to Bolt when she needed guidance. He would always listen. He was good at that, she could somehow feel. When she could clear her throat of the sob that was hanging just behind her tongue, she tried to speak. At first, no words would come. Then, she took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

"Why Bolt? Why? Why does this world have to be such a cruel place? Why do bad things happen to good people? Can't we all just live until we're ninety and be happy old people in rocking chairs watching the sun set over games of chess? Can't we all live happy lives and have good fortune and watch the sun smile down on us? Why does it always have to be so painful? Can't we just be happy?" She spoke quietly to the dog as she clutched the collar. She thought painfully of Mitchel, and her grandfather, whom had died only months before the boys became sick. She compared the two. Her grandfather had been nearly seventy, where as Mitch had been barely even thirteen! It just wasn't fair. She was happy her grandfather had lived a long life, but why should such a young boy be taken? Perhaps it was God's will, but it didn't change the fact that it wasn't fair... "It's not fair."

"No. It's not." A voice spoke behind her. Startled, she turned around to see her neighbor, Austin Fellon. He was wearing a thick black rain coat and carrying an umbrella. His blue eyes sparkled down at her but his expression was of that of someone who had seen enough of his own sorrow, and was in a painful agreement with her. His lips formed a hard line and his brows furrowed. His thin nose complimented his expression and his emotions played on his face. Still, in this concerned state, he looked as gorgeous as ever. Not that this was a thought of Rosemary's at the time of course. She looked up at him and more tears threatened to fall. She looked away so he wouldn't see them slip from her eyes. She let go of the collar and he crouched beside her, a gloved hand on her back. "The world isn't fair." He spoke carefully, as to not upset her. "But, it doesn't change the fact that it is where we live, and we must struggle through the bad to find happiness. Things may seem bad now, but I promise they will get better real soon." At this point, she turned and looked at him.

"Really?" She asked, almost hopefully. "Are you sure?"

He smiled when she asked this. "Well, no. I'm not completely certain, but I do know," He said as he stood up and offered her a gloved hand to help her to her feet. "that if you stay out here much longer, you'll catch a cold. And we can't have that now can we?"

She took his hand and gradually stood. She tried to smile back but she barely managed to not burst into tears again. He's a really great person. She thought. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as she shiveredand led her back to the house...

{Tell me what you thought!}