Author's Notes: This is just a really short one-shot, about drunk driving.
It's in Charlie's POV. I'd love to know what you think! Reviews
(especially constructive criticism) are always very much appreciated.
Anyway, I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Ducks; if you don't know that by now...
I've always found it somewhat ironic that it's not a stormy night or news of a tragic event that reminds me of the darkest time in my life. In fact, the thing that triggers these memories more than anything is a symbol of beauty and happiness: a butterfly. It's not all butterflies, but sometimes I'll see one so perfect that it seems like it could only be sent from Heaven. And I have to smile through the sadness, because I know that it was sent to me by my very own angel. So many people try to make anyone who dies young into some kind-of a hero, even if they weren't. I'm not going to do that. Connie Moreau wasn't perfect. She didn't make straight A's. She didn't always do the right thing. She wasn't always nice. But whatever she may or may not have been, she was my friend, and she doesn't deserve to be dead.
I'm not even sure when she and I met. It was when we were very young, for sure, because I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my life. We walked into the first day of kindergarten together. Even then, she loved butterflies. She always told me that they were magical. She loved how carefree they were. Over the years, we got through a lot together. I was there for her when her cat died; she was there for me when I got my heart broken for the first time. For as long as I can remember, it was always the two of us. Whether we were climbing trees or playing hockey or chasing butterflies, you never saw me without her, or her without me. We even had plans to go to college together.
If this were a suspense novel, I'd have you on the edge of your seat as I came up with some dramatic way that Connie died. Maybe I'd have her go on a drinking binge after her boyfriend of five years left her for our math teacher or something like that. But the truth is, Connie's death wasn't a suspense novel. It was real. And it happened because of one stupid mistake by someone that most of us wouldn't even think of when the phrase "killed by a drunk driver" is brought up: her father. They were at a family party and he'd had too much to drink, but decided to get behind the wheel anyway. I guess Connie didn't even think that her father was drunk. Or maybe she did, but didn't know how to say something to him. Either way, she got into the car. They hadn't driven more than a mile before he crashed into the tree.
Only one person died that night, but two lives were lost. Mr. Moreau isn't the same man he used to be. When we were younger, his eyes always sparkled and his laugh was ever-present. When I see him these days, I hardly even recognize him anymore. In the three years since Connie died, he seems to have become just a shell of his former life. He's so wracked with guilt that he barely functions anymore. He wasn't an alcoholic. In fact, he hardly ever drank and certainly never drove on the rare occasions that he did. But on that fateful night, he was anxious to get home. His house was only five miles away, so I guess he thought he'd be fine. Obviously he wasn't. So the next time you see a butterfly, I want you to stop and think. Think of this girl who touched so many lives, and who was taken too soon. Think about the people that you love and who love you. Think about me attending college next fall by myself, and of Mr. Moreau, who lost everything that was precious to him that night. But most importantly, don't think that it can't happen to you...because it can.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Ducks; if you don't know that by now...
I've always found it somewhat ironic that it's not a stormy night or news of a tragic event that reminds me of the darkest time in my life. In fact, the thing that triggers these memories more than anything is a symbol of beauty and happiness: a butterfly. It's not all butterflies, but sometimes I'll see one so perfect that it seems like it could only be sent from Heaven. And I have to smile through the sadness, because I know that it was sent to me by my very own angel. So many people try to make anyone who dies young into some kind-of a hero, even if they weren't. I'm not going to do that. Connie Moreau wasn't perfect. She didn't make straight A's. She didn't always do the right thing. She wasn't always nice. But whatever she may or may not have been, she was my friend, and she doesn't deserve to be dead.
I'm not even sure when she and I met. It was when we were very young, for sure, because I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my life. We walked into the first day of kindergarten together. Even then, she loved butterflies. She always told me that they were magical. She loved how carefree they were. Over the years, we got through a lot together. I was there for her when her cat died; she was there for me when I got my heart broken for the first time. For as long as I can remember, it was always the two of us. Whether we were climbing trees or playing hockey or chasing butterflies, you never saw me without her, or her without me. We even had plans to go to college together.
If this were a suspense novel, I'd have you on the edge of your seat as I came up with some dramatic way that Connie died. Maybe I'd have her go on a drinking binge after her boyfriend of five years left her for our math teacher or something like that. But the truth is, Connie's death wasn't a suspense novel. It was real. And it happened because of one stupid mistake by someone that most of us wouldn't even think of when the phrase "killed by a drunk driver" is brought up: her father. They were at a family party and he'd had too much to drink, but decided to get behind the wheel anyway. I guess Connie didn't even think that her father was drunk. Or maybe she did, but didn't know how to say something to him. Either way, she got into the car. They hadn't driven more than a mile before he crashed into the tree.
Only one person died that night, but two lives were lost. Mr. Moreau isn't the same man he used to be. When we were younger, his eyes always sparkled and his laugh was ever-present. When I see him these days, I hardly even recognize him anymore. In the three years since Connie died, he seems to have become just a shell of his former life. He's so wracked with guilt that he barely functions anymore. He wasn't an alcoholic. In fact, he hardly ever drank and certainly never drove on the rare occasions that he did. But on that fateful night, he was anxious to get home. His house was only five miles away, so I guess he thought he'd be fine. Obviously he wasn't. So the next time you see a butterfly, I want you to stop and think. Think of this girl who touched so many lives, and who was taken too soon. Think about the people that you love and who love you. Think about me attending college next fall by myself, and of Mr. Moreau, who lost everything that was precious to him that night. But most importantly, don't think that it can't happen to you...because it can.