If I Had Another Chance

by TheLoneReed

Sometimes life passes us by, and with it goes opportunites. There are certain words that we often speak when we come to grips with this, certain words that only take effect once in a lifetime. And you think, what would you do...if you had another chance?

There she was. The bane of my very existence. The girl who feels it's her personal duty to make my life a living hell.

Her name is Randy Peterson. She confuses me.

See...I'll be thinking about how much I hate her, how I grimace at her very being, how my stomach churns when I see her horrifying face...and then I start thinking about the way the sun makes her hair shine and look so utterly warm I just want to walk up behind her and slip my arms around her slim waist, pull her body close against mine and nestle my face into that hair, drinking in the sweet, fruity aroma of her shampoo and enjoying the sensation of her gentle hairs tickling my face. I think about how on the rare occasions when she graces the world with a genuine smile, her whole face seems to light up and she's filled with this amazing glow. Her eyes awaken from a long sleep and begin to dance; tiny and lively sparkles dash around those glassy orbs with an unmistakable vivacity, catching my gaze and hooking me to her in a mesmerizing trance, causing me to positively swoon.

It's disgusting, really.

And there she was, hanging up multi-colored fliers for some new self defense class she was probably teaching, making sure every girl she came in contact with knew just how to kick a guy in the crotch just right, something she happens to be very skilled in...and yes, I would know.

Her

long, velvety, honey golden hair with those delectable chocolate highlights hung to just about her mid back. The ends of her hair swung a little at an angle as she sighed in exasperation and reached her arm up further to smack the flier onto the pole securely. She stepped back a few feet to admire her work with a grin and an approving nod. She brushed a few long strands of champagne colored hairs that framed her slim face out of her eyes absent mindedly, bending down to pick up the high stack of papers left unpublicized.

I smirked and tried to look like a casual bystander just observing the concrete sidewalk as I noticed the way her baggy, black jeans hugged her perfectly shaped legs as she stooped down to pile the papers into her arms. I noticed how her faded black Ramone's tee shirt rode up just enough on her back to show a peek at her spine. My eyes caught on how she scuffed her thick black army boots on the sidewalk after straightening up, running her delicate fingers through her hair smoothly and organizing the papers into a recognizable pile. OK...so....I'd rate her personality a flat out zero...but I'd rate her body at least an eight. Hey...I said she was a horrible person...I didn't say she was horrible looking. Well maybe I did but I didn't mean it.

Anyway...then came the part that confuses me most of all.

I wanted to talk to her. That's right; I wanted to talk to her. No...I needed to talk to her. Maybe it's just because I've grown rather fond of our little "battles of wit" we often have, but all I wanted right then was to speak to her, to hear her voice, to watch her eyes flash up and meet mine.

So I did.

"Need some help, shorty?" I called out in a mocking voice, approaching her with a cocky stroll and looking at her as though she was a piece of fresh meat.

She looked up and her electric blue eyes connected with my stormy gray ones and for a second I could have sworn she looked happy to see me.

But that didn't last long.

She rolled her eyes and tucked the packet of papers under her arm and looked at me with a scowl that I had grown to enjoy. "You're one to talk, midget." she shot back with an amused smirk, straightening up and looking at me, awaiting the usual comeback.

I chuckled lightly and shook my head at her like a parent who is shaking their head at a child who just can't understand such grown up things. "Oh my dear Fighter," I began, using the nickname most people at our school used for her...and for good reason. "Don't you know what they say about short guys? The shorter...the bigger..." I said in a seductive voice, giving her a pelvic thrust and winking at her.

She gave me a look like she was about to gag and rolled her eyes at me, sighing lightly. "Oh my dear Spot," she said in the same mock tone that I had used. "Nobody says that." she gave a short laugh and flipped some hair over her shoulder, turning around to begin searching the area to place more of those stupid fliers.

I laughed lightly and took a few long strides to catch up with her, turning towards her casually. "Need some help with those fliers?" I asked with a smirk, reaching out to take them from under her arm.

She shook her head and twisted her arm away from me. "That's ok, Conlon, I'm fine." she said assuredly, rolling her eyes and walking out onto the crossroad slowly, looking down at her papers and trying to keep them from shifting under her arm.

I made an exasperated sound and caught up with her. "Oh come on." I said, grabbing the papers and tugging at them. "Just let me help."

"No!" she said firmly, grabbing the other end of the papers and pulling them back in her direction just as hard.

We battled with the papers for a few moments before I grinned evilly and let go of my end smoothly. Fighter landed hard on her butt on the street and little colored papers flew everywhere around us in a shower of moronic and unwanted advertisements.

"Freak!" she yelled, standing up quickly and brushing herself off. She sighed heavily and looked around at the papers scattered all over the street. "Thanks a lot, Conlon." she muttered angrily, beginning to slowly walk towards the fallen papers and collect them.

I smirked and watched from the other side of the sidewalk, thinking that maybe I should help...but then that wouldn't look good, would it? I rolled my eyes and sighed casually in amusement, watching her stride across the empty street to scoop up paper after paper with an angry glare.

And then I looked up.

There was a car. It was going way too fast and it was definitely coming in Fighter's direction. I seemed to be in shock and my voice wouldn't work, my eyes darting nervously from Fighter to the car. She had left the safety of the crossroad and was crouched down in the street, in the middle of placing a paper in her forming stack. This was bad. "MOVE!" I finally yelled.

But it was too late.

She looked up just in time to see the car's bumper in front of her face. She didn't even have time to scream.

I felt a gurgled sort of cry escape my throat as with a thump the car slammed into her huddled form and crushed her beneath its tremendous weight.

Then it was over.

No sound came from my parted lips; no movement was shown from my stiffened bones; no emotion showed in my wide eyes except for one: fear. I didn't budge my eyes away from Fighter to see but I could hear the muffled sound of the car stopping with a screech and the door opening. A man in a scraggly brown coat came into my line of vision and rushed over to Fighter with a look of bewilderment and petrifaction strewn on his face.

I saw him bend down next to her lifeless form and suddenly something clicked in my mind. I never wanted that feeling again. I went from pure and numbing shock to the realization that she was dead. She had to be dead...she...she just got hit by a car.

Oh God don't let her be dead.

My legs kicked into gear and I found myself running to her side. I could feel the man's gaze hot upon the back of my neck but nothing else had chosen to register in my mind except for the fact that Fighter had just gotten hit by a car.

I grabbed her limp wrist urgently and my fingers raced across her skin, finding the point I needed and cutting off my harsh breathing, trying to feel what had to be there...it had to be!

It wasn't.

I shook my head in disbelief and placed two fingers at her neck, thinking there must be something horribly wrong with her wrist. I could feel my heart rate speed up as no pulsating thrum of blood reached my fingers from beneath her creamy skin.

Fighter's body wasn't horribly mangled, there was no gush of blood, there was nothing...except the most...gruesome gash I have ever seen in my life at the top of her forehead, blood trickling down from it and winding its way to her mouth, the harsh crimson stream startling against the natural, soft pink of her cushioned lips.

I bent my ear down to her cold lips and I couldn't hear a sound. In fact, it was so deathly quiet it scared me more than anything else. I closed my eyes and sat up, looking at the man with an eerie calmness. "She's not breathing." I muttered in a low voice.

The man nodded slowly and looked down at her. Things were moving too sluggishly, too lethargically. We sat there, silent and unmoving while Fighter just lay there. Then...I knew what to do...or at least I thought I did. "Call 911." I said with a nod towards the man. He gave me a blank look and didn't move a muscle. "Call 911!" I repeated in a louder and more urgent voice. He suddenly nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a grungy looking cell phone and dialed those three dreaded digits one wants never to have to press.

I looked down at Fighter and nodded, thanking the God above for that stupid, summer life-guard job I had only taken to look good in my bathing suit in front of the girls. I smoothed her beautiful hair out of her face, the strands near the top of her head sticky and matted with dripping blood. My fingers gently gripped her soft lips and I didn't relish in what I had often dreamt of feeling. I pulled her lips apart for a moment before placing my palms flat out on her stomach, pressing hard down multiple times and counting with each thrust. I nodded and moved my lips to hers, our mouths sliding together quickly and I blew air into her mouth smoothly before pulling back and repeating the process over and over, sometimes putting my ear to her mouth to listen for what never appeared.

I could hear the man behind me nervously telling the person at the other end of the line what had happened, where we were, and what was going on.

About five minutes later an ambulance arrived and my CPR job was quickly taken over by a paramedic. I was ushered away by a police officer along with the man from the car and I didn't say a word as the police officers gently led me away from Fighter who still lay there lifelessly as a crowd of professionals tried to save her precious life.

I sat in the police car wordlessly as the vehicle rushed to the police station. The car smelt of sweat and dried leather. The seats were uncomfortable and when I shifted in them small squeaks would emerge from the fabric. I looked over at the man in the large coat who stared blankly out the window.

His life was coming to an end and he knew it. He had hit a child and he may have killed her. He didn't have anything to back him up. Fighter had been on a neighborhood street with a very slow speed limit, and I was a reliable witness.

And that's when in struck me. Like death itself it socked me hard in the body, winding me and leaving me searching for breath.

Fighter had been on the crosswalk, walking towards the other side of the road innocently when I chose to wrestle with her for the papers. I was the one who decided to be a jerk by purposefully letting go and causing everything to go flying. I was the one that made Fighter not only leave that crossroad but take a much longer time to get to the other side of the street. I was the one who didn't help her with the papers, who watched her slowly collect them in her arms.. If she was dead...

I killed her.

My chair was stiff and uncomfortable. The back was padded with a ripped, black leather cushion. The chair bottom was hard wood along with the arms and legs. When you sat down in it you slid forward slightly and had to push down on the arms to keep yourself upright.

The police officer sat in the same kind of chair across from me, only it didn't look as though he was having half the hard time I was staying up. He stared at me intently as he had been doing for what felt like hours but was probably only about 2 minutes. I raised an eyebrow at him and waited for him to start speaking, because I didn't know if I was going to be able to find my voice until it was prodded.

He finally took a deep breath and tapped the clipboard resting on his lap with his pen. The pen was navy blue with one of those push end things that I liked to play with in class when I was bored, annoying the teacher with the little "click" sound it would make when I pushed it over and over.

I heard that "click" and was jolted back to reality. The pen was out and poised diligently above the clip board, ready to scribble away. The police officer looked up at me finally and furrowed his brow. He had thinning brown hair and oily, pot marked skin. His lips were ugly and thin and above them rested a dirty and grimy brown mustache, thick and twisted upwards at the ends. The glinting silver badge on his uniform read "Officer Mark" and I was forced to assume that was his name. He leaned back in his chair comfortably and looked at me for a moment more before finally breaking that horrible silence.

"So, it's Spot Conlon, right?" he asked smoothly, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

I was prepared to answer him with a yes but only nodded quickly, my eyes darting down and noticing that my fingers were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly the tips of them were white. I bit my lip and loosened my hold a bit on the chair, buckling to the almighty slippery chair and sliding down a centimeter or two, waiting for the man's next question.

He looked at me and tapped the pen on his cheek lightly. "Did you see exactly what happened to Miss," he glanced down at the clipboard slowly before looking back at me. "Miss Peterson?"

I glared at him and slowly nodded, still not saying a word. How could this man sit there so calmly while Fighter....while something so tragic had happened?

The man frowned at me and sighed heavily. "Could you please tell me what happened?" he asked as though it were incredibly obvious that was what he wanted.

I sighed and bit my lip, nodding at him. I tried to remember every little detail of what had happened, but when I did I instinctively reached a finger up to my eye and pulled it away, the tip moist. I scowled and squared my shoulders; no way in hell was I going to cry in front of him.

I took a deep breath and began to explain in a shaky voice. "Fi-...I mean Randy was...had dropped her papers and she was picking them up." I started, noticing this was a lot harder than I had imagined it. For one thing, with each word I saw the accident happening play by play. And secondly, I wasn't telling the whole truth. I didn't say a word about how I caused Fighter to drop the papers...I just...I just couldn't.

Officer Mark nodded at me in encouragement to go on, so I did. "And...and then she left the crosswalk...because her papers went everywhere." I mumbled, sighing heavily and trying to regain my calm air even though this was killing me. "Then...then the car came...and...he....he was going really fast..." my voice was getting higher and my words going faster.

Officer Mark nodded and looked at me knowingly. He probably saw a lot of this in his work, people coming in and blubbering about some tragedy while he just sat there and took notes on that bloody clipboard with that stupid pen.

I took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, trying desperately to calm my nerves and keep my emotions under control. I looked at him in a more serene state and continued. "And I...I was in shock. I mean...I tried to tell her...but it just happened so fast! I know I should've moved faster but I didn't know what to do and nothing would move and I was in shock and I already said that and-"

"Son!"

My head shot up and I realized that I had been rambling while staring earnestly at the floor, trying to explain why it wasn't my fault.

I mumbled a quick apology and sighed, locking eyes with him again and seeing just a hint of sympathy in his beady little pupils. "And then she was hit." I finally blurted out, sighing in relief that I was done and telling myself I never wanted to do that again. I felt drained of so much more than a short story, like my whole body had been sucked and I was just an empty carcass sitting there in that damned chair.

Officer Mark nodded and asked me a few more questions about how I knew Fighter and then that was it. He stood up and held his hand out to me. "Thank you, son, your mother will be right over." he said with a nod.

I nodded back at him and shook his hand limply, standing up and walking back into the lobby, sitting in the chair farthest to the corner and picking at the fabric absent mindedly. I plucked out a piece of the inner material and twirled it into a little foam ball, rolling it around in my fingers dumbly and watching it move with such ease. The foam ball kept getting smaller and smaller until it suddenly disappeared and I didn't bother to find it.

I deafly heard the annoyingly merry bell on the door jingle as it opened and I didn't bother to look up. I sighed heavily and closed my eyes, putting my head in my hands and trying to clear my mind. I had blocked myself from any relevant thoughts hours ago, but right now they were threatening to return.

"Gabe?" My tense shoulders tensed at the sound of my mother's voice. I nodded and looked up, seeing her strained and worried face staring at me.

"Gabe, thank goodness you're alright!" she cried, rushing over to me and enveloping me in a hug. You see, my mother has this thing with treating me like the biggest baby in the world. It doesn't matter that I'm 16 years old or that I'm known as one of the toughest guys around or that everyone in the world has become accustomed to my nickname, Spot. She still treats me like a three year old, assumes me innocent as a lamb, and insists on calling me Gabe, short for my real name, Gabriel.

I guess it's because when my father walked out on us when I was a baby, but she just refuses to accept that fact that I've grown up. She always tried so hard to give me the best she could, even as a single parent with a cruddy job. It's like...the worse my life got...the better she tried to make it. I don't know...she's a great mom...but sometimes she's a bit too much.

Like now.

My mother's shoulder length brown hair framed her face as she knelt down in front of my chair, taking my hands in her own softly and shaking her head at my appearance. I was wearing a pair of loose blue jeans, a gray tee shirt, an open buttoned checkered shirt over top, and my old, faded black cons. It had all looked nice and clean with just the right amount of grime when I pulled it on this morning, but by this time the outfit looked as tired as I was. My pants were torn and dirty from kneeling on the ground beside Fighter, my shirt had all kinds of things all over it, and everything looked as though it were dying for a hot shower...including me.

I looked at my mother sadly and felt my shoulders slump even lower, fatigue suddenly overtaking me and letting me know sleep was a necessary activity. "Mom," I said softly. "can we just go home?" I looked at her hopefully and prayed she wouldn't offer to take me out for ice cream, her remedy for everything.

She bit her lip and slowly nodded, sliding a protective arm around my shoulders and gently pulling me up from my seat. "Of course, honey." she whispered in my ear, giving me a kiss on the cheek and most likely leaving a "Native Red" lip print on my skin.

You know how in the most dire of situations...you have the weirdest thoughts...and then you want to kick yourself for having them? Well...right then, when I didn't know if Fighter was dead or alive, I found myself glad none of my "cool kid" friends at school had been here to see my mother kiss me on the cheek.

How stupid is that?!?

I sighed heavily and slumped against my mother's forest green, wool jacket, allowing her to lead me out to our 1989 Chevy that I'm almost positive was used for transporting bones or something in the prehistoric age. I climbed in and collapsed onto the soft, brown seats, leaning my head against the slightly torn, but all the same comforting, head rest, closing my eyes and simply listening to the sound of my mother slide into the drivers seat, buckle her seat belt slowly, close the door, look over at me for a moment, stick her keys in the ignition, look over at me again, and then start the car.

It's funny but while I observed these easily recognizable sounds, there was nothing else going through my brain. My thoughts were void of anything else but that petty little game I had created.

I opened my eyes when I realized we hadn't turned out of the parking lot yet and remained stationary in our car. I raised an eyebrow and turned towards my mother who was looking at me with a sad expression on her painted face. For the first time that night I allowed myself to smell the familiar fragrance of her perfume that so willingly wafted over to me and strangely enough made me calmer than ever.

My mother sighed and looked down at the floor for a moment before looking back up at me with a worried glint in her eyes. "Gabe...are you going to be ok?" she asked me quietly, her hand coming over to rest on my arm in a supportive way.

I know it's crazy...but just those words, those seven little words struck me right in the heart and suddenly it was impossible for me to not think about the accident, not think about her condition, not think about how all of this was my fault.

It was impossible.

I opened my mouth to tell her I would be just fine but I guess that's when my body decided to rid me of all speaking abilities as well, I couldn't even communicate with shaking my head. I just sat there, staring at her, my mouth slightly parted and I was sure I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

She nodded and patted my arm lightly, showing me she understood. With that she turned back to the steering wheel and began to pull out of the police parking lot, not saying a word as we began to make our way down route 15 towards our small yet homey condo.

All I could do was turn and stare out the window blankly, everything that had happened today playing over and over in my mind like a broken record. And you know what? I made a decision. Now...maybe it was rash but I made it and I was sticking to it. If Fighter died...well...she couldn't die. I said it and that's final. I kept trying to picture my life if Fighter died and each time I did it I felt horrible, like this empty space inside of me had been hollowed out to the very maximum.

I know it's totally stupid to even say that because Fighter and I have always hated each other. Every single day of our lives we've regarded one another with the utmost loathing. If Fighter died...she can't die.

I sighed heavily and watched as we pulled into the condo/apartment complex, sliding into a parking space and staying motionless in our car for a moment before my mother turned to me. "We're home." she said, as if I didn't already know that.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and nodded, unbuckling my seat belt and climbing out of the car slowly, stuffing my hands in my pockets and slamming the car door shut, knowing it was killing my mother to keep from scolding me for it. I watched the way my cons brushed tiny bits and pieces of pebbles and dirt away from my cement pathway as I tediously walked to our door, noticing with distaste the tacky "fruit wreath" which hung above the small golden plate stating our condo number with the word "Conlon" stamped underneath on the grungy white door.

I sighed and leaned against the wall and thanked God that we lived on the ground and I didn't have to drag my tired body up any stairs. I watched my mother's key slide into the lock smoothly and turn to the left, the door unlocking with a soft "click" and sliding open to reveal our small, two bedroom apartment.

The carpet was dull beige with years of dirt ground into the miniscule threads. The kitchen was connected to our living room/dining room, but there was a blinding white tile in the kitchen that glittered even without a light on from my mother's insistence on adding "mopping" to my seemingly endless list of chores. Our furniture was limited but my mother had done the best she could with what we had. A white couch with tiny pink flowers embroidered all over it that we had most likely gotten from some garage sale was placed at the corner of our living room next to a bookshelf filled with old baby books, cook books, and a few library books with fines that could probably end world hunger.

The rest of the living room was filled with a few uncomfortable sofa chairs here and there, some ugly paintings of California beaches, and a small TV that was perched on the ledge of our entertainment system that consisted of the TV, a radio, and a VCR. Some entertainment system.

My mother patted me on the shoulder lightly and I turned to face her, sighing heavily. "The hospital said they would call as soon as....they...knew." she said softly, staring into my eyes anxiously as though worried I might keel over right there. "Since it's a weekend...I suppose you can stay up and wait for the call with me." she said approvingly with a nod. Hah...like I'd be able to sleep at all anyway.

I nodded and slunk into my room slowly, closing the door as soon as I entered and locked the small knob securely, turning around and leaning against my door with a heavy sigh, closing my eyes in exhaustion. I opened my eyes to see my same, tiny room, just as I had left it this morning. My double bed with it's white cotton sheets and faded black comforter was unmade and messy, the covers hanging off of it and touching the floor, the pillow strewn somewhere near the middle of the mattress. My clothes from who knows how long ago were thrown across the floor messily and my pajamas hung, tittering from the corner of my desk. My slower than molasses on a cold winter's night computer rested on the desk, the screen a picture of Cameron Diaz, just as I had set it a couple of weeks ago. My closet sliding door was half open from where I peeked inside to look for my cons the other day, later finding them hidden underneath the bed. There was still that tainted splotch of red on the dull, white wall where I had once chucked my slice of pizza at when I was angry about who knows what...maybe Fighter.

I sighed heavily and closed my eyes, just not moving for a moment and feeling the buzz of my body calm me before slowly opening my eyes and walking towards my bed, flopping down on it and listening to the springs creak and feeling the mattress shift slightly beneath me. What I felt then was one of the oddest things ever to befall me. It was like I had the realization that everything was moving too fast and yet everything was going achingly slow. Using logic, those two things should cancel each other out and leave me with nothing, right? But in reality it just left me with this weird dizziness in my mind and I wanted right then to just fall into this endless sleep. But I didn't. I just lay there, staring up at my blank white ceiling and wondering how my life even got like this.

I mean, this stuff happened to other people. You hear about it and you give those accursed and fake words that come out automatically, "I'm sorry." I was never even close to Fighter, never liked her, never had a single good thought about her, right? Or...or....or just fuck it all.

I lay there for who knows how long, hanging in that odd position between reality and a slanted vision of the world. I don't remember what time it was when I heard the phone ring, but it scared me so bad my senses were electrocuted and I shot off my bed and darted towards the door. And then it was like a movie where my movements dramatically slowed and I paused in front of my door, my hand hovering above the golden handle and my ear straining towards the muffled sound of my mother's voice.

I wrinkled my brow as I couldn't hear much and I very slowly opened my door just a crack in a tentative and almost scared way, as though if I were spotted it would be the end of me.

"So....how is she?"

I cringed as I heard my mother's worried voice echo into the phone. I wondered why my mother even cared, why they even thought to call me. I guess it was because I was the one who sat there giving her CPR and the one who friggin' broke down in the police station.

"Oh..."

Her word was long and drawn out, slowly fading away as her face fell. I felt my heart seize up and I shook my head in disbelief, knowing this couldn't be happening; it had to be a mistake.

"Oh! So she...oh...I see...."

I almost growled in frustration as my mother's fluctuation in voice levels made my moods swing dramatically from one to the next in a mere matter of seconds. She what? What do you see? Ugh!

"Oh...do they know how long-....oh, I see...."

My eyes widened as I tried to piece together the small snippets of the puzzle I was getting from my end of the conversation. How long for what? For her life? I sighed heavily and leaned against the wall, knowing that if I continued to try and figure out what the hell was going on without really knowing, I would kill myself...or at least develop an ulcer.

"Yes....yes, of course. No, no I understand....Oh? Oh, alright...thank you so much. Oh...he's doing alright, awfully worried though. Yes, I'll be sure to tell him. You have a nice night, too.....bye now."

I heard the click of the phone being delivered into the receiver and the sound of my mother's heels clacking across the tile of the kitchen and then the deafened thud of her footsteps across the carpet as I stood with baited breath, waiting for her to reach me and share with me the news for which I was anxiously waiting...dreading.

"Gabe, sweety?" I looked up to see my mother standing there, watching me with a small smile and a weary look in her eyes. It struck me then what this day must have been like for her, getting a phone call and hearing, "Miss Conlon, there's been an accident involving your son." I sighed and shrugged lightly, giving her the 'OK' to proceed.

She put her hand on my shoulder and I could smell the heavy fumes of her perfume drifting into my nostrils and making me feel horribly lethargic and as though it was a struggle to stay standing with the weight of her thin hand on my shoulder.

"She's alive."

I felt a wave of relief crash over me and I sighed heavily, letting go of the breath I hadn't known I'd been holding in. I nodded at my mother and fought my smile down. It was OK. She was alright; she was going to be just fine. Everything was going to be just fine.

"She's in a coma."

The smell of chemicals and anti-bacterial cleaning solution consumed me as my old and tired sneakers scuffed down the hospital hallway. Door after door passed by, each holding a small white number plastered on a tiny scarlet sign, none of which displayed the code to my destination. Some doors were open to reveal a sleeping patient and one other bed barely visible from behind the curtain that divided he room into two parts. Some showed family members grouped around the bed, sharing normal conversations with their loved ones and pretending that the situation was complete neutral. Some doors were closed. But still I made my way slowly down that blazing white linoleum, listening to the squeaking of my shoes as I slowly made progress. The hall was practically empty, only the occasional doctor or family member would slowly walk by, giving me a nod of recognition before walking on. Door after door, number after number, pretty soon they all just started to blur together and I felt like I would be walking forever.

D535.

There it was. The ugly white door with chips of paint on it and the glaring numbers that seemed to jump out at me. I couldn't get away. I didn't want to go in and I didn't want to leave so I just stood there in front of the door, arms at my side with a large, brown paper bag clenched in one hand and the other sweaty from nerves. My eyes stared straight ahead at the egg white paint as if to penetrate a hole into the door, to do the job of seeing inside for me because I wasn't sure if I would be able to do it myself.

After a few minutes my body went all numb and I got that kind of feeling where for a moment, you can hear yourself buzz...and then you can practically feel the blood pumping through your fingertips. My eyes stung painfully as I hadn't blinked once in those few minutes and I was finally forced to shake myself back into reality, my empty hand reaching toward the door and gripping the handle. It was cold, a silvery metal. It wasn't in the shape of a knob...but a long, glinting handle that needed a grand push of power to move it, or so it seemed, before it finally gave a "click" and the door swung open.

I didn't move a muscle to cross over that black rubber strip into the room, only stared at the scene laid out before me that I wasn't sure I had been ready for. Fighter's side of the room was the left, closest to the door, and all that showed of her roommate was the end of the bed jutting out past the thin curtain. For some reason it angered me that she was on the left, that the other patient got all the privacy. I mean, you'd think someone in a coma could get a single room or at least not have to be stared at as the first thing seen when you walk into the room...but I guess people have no sense of decency anymore. The floor tile was the same as in the hallway, white with speckles of all different colors that seemed to shine in the most annoying way against the fake, jeering glare of the ceiling lights. The walls were white and the material of everything that needed to be fabricated was a sickening mint green with odd sorts of multicolored shapes dancing all over it. Contrary to popular belief, there was only a faint smell of sterilization chemicals and a looming something. The room rather held the aroma of a fake sense of reality, of tension, of something I couldn't put my finger on lurking behind the cover of generic brand bathroom cleaner.

Then, my eyes swiveled to Fighter and it seemed as if my whole body drooped despairingly and I didn't bother to pick it up. There she was, lying beneath the thin fabric of her three sets of covers. Her back was propped up on a few pillows with those crisp, blue covers made of that cheap material. Her head was resting upon the top pillow gently to keep it from lolling to the side and her golden tresses were strewn around the fabric, some delicately curling across her face and it made me smile to think of how when Fighter's hair always fell in her face she would brush it away roughly with an exasperated sigh, only to have it drop right back in her eyes again. I never minded, I personally always wanted to run my fingers through her hair and smooth it away from her face myself, but hey, that's just me.

Her body was limp against the white mattress cover and the blankets were tucked up to her waist, leaving her arms to rest comfortably in a pose across her stomach. Her face seemed softer than it had ever been before, yet there was still this frightened look about it, as if it had frozen at the very moment she looked up to see the car coming at her and stayed that way. On her forehead, overtop where I had seen the jagged gash just three months before, was a white gauze wrapping that went around her head a few times and made her look like one of those war heroes you see in the movies. Beside her bed was all sorts of medical equipment and monitors and machines, most of which I had no idea of their purpose. There was one of those pumps in those canisters that helped force breath into her lungs and looked like a brown, mini child's play tunnel that collapsed when you pushed on it...if you have any idea what I'm talking about. And then there was a screen with three different lines on it, each moving at a slow but steady pace across the screen into an endless abyss of spiking, blinding green lights that go on forever...or at least you hope they do.

The worst part was that her eyes were closed. Now, I know it may not seem like much and it's not as if I was expecting differently...but if you haven't seen her eyes then there is no way you could possibly understand. Those electric blue flashing eyes throw flames of ice when she gets angry, cloud up and show so much when she is confused, slam up their own personal gates and freeze over when she's hurt...but when she smiles...God, I love it when she smiles. When she smiles her eyes seem to deepen their color and power and sparkle so much it's almost painful to look at her it's so beautiful. Life is so confusing...one day I'm hating her guts and the next I'm babbling on and on about her eyes to you like some mushy loser.

I clenched my hand a bit tighter around the curled top of the paper bag and it made a crinkling sound that seemed entirely too loud in the eerie silence of the room. My eyes shifted around the room and landed on a chair that was pushed up into a small table in the corner. I shot her a nervous glance as though if I moved she might shoot up in bed and curse me out or something. Finally I strode over towards the chair and gripped the top of it with my free hand, dragging it towards her bed. The legs of the chair were capped with those little rubber tops and they squeaked across the tile on the floor until finally I let the chair fall back into place beside Fighter's bed. I slid onto the seat and dropped the paper bag next to me awkwardly, watching it sag a bit before scrolling my eyes up towards Fighter, still in the very same position with the very same expression as before....only maybe it was just me, but she seemed kind of like she was waiting for me to say something, to talk to her for once.

So I did.

I took a deep breath and raked my fingers through my sandy blonde hair, moving my hand down to rub the back of my neck before saying my very first words to someone in a coma...boy...what a moment to remember, no? I knew I had to make it good.

"Hi..." Well...it's a start. I gave her a weak smile and let out the long breath I had been holding in, letting out all the nervous feelings inside of me, knowing that I had waited 16 years to actually be honest with a person and I was getting a little tired of waiting, not being the most patient person in the world. "I'm sorry that I haven't come sooner...I guess I could give you some excuse about school being really busy or home being hard....but the truth is I was just a little...I dunno...scared." With each word that made me sound more and more like an idiot, I felt more and more comfortable. This talking with no response thing wasn't so bad.

"I mean I know there was nothing to be afraid of...but I just felt like I didn't deserve to talk to you, ya know? I mean...I'm the one who...who did this to you." I sighed and lowered my head a bit, holding up my hand as if to stop her from protesting. "Now don't try and deny it because you know it's true. Being the asshole I am I made you drop those stupid papers...and....well you know the rest, right?" I gave a sad smile and lowered my hand to the bed, playing with the odd fabric of the blanket. "So I guess that brings me to the first part of why I'm here....God I'm so sorry." I felt the urgency enter my voice and I tamed my words, knowing there was so much more to say and begging never got you anywhere with Fighter.

"I know that there's nothing I can do to make it up to you...but I don't know what else to say besides I'm sorry. I can say that it's something I'll never forget and if...if anything happens to you then I'll never be able to forgive myself....but I'll get to that later, right?" I chuckled nervously and took another deep breath, rubbing my forehead awkwardly. "So...how are you?" I gave that same stupid chuckle and nearly kicked myself, feeling like I was on a date and just told my date that I had an Aretha Franklin CD or something....my mom gave it to me, ok?

I stroked the covers slowly and my fingers crawled over towards Fighter's arm, my pointer reaching out and touching her skin which was uncommonly warm for some reason. I smile and bit and hooked a finger over her arm gently, my eyes drifting up towards her face again. "Things at school have been ok...but I must say some kids are running around screaming about being rich for keeping their lunch money for so long." I joked, smirking at her. "It isn't the same without you, I gotta say. Teacher's having nervous breakdowns, kids suffering from separation anxiety, it's all hell, I swear." I laughed again and rubbed her arm slowly with my one finger, my eyes softening in a way I never knew they could.

She would never know how different school had been, never know what a hell it really been. Maybe teachers weren't having breakdowns and kids weren't curling up into little balls and shaking, but school had never been so hard for me. I would just sit there in class while the teacher droned on and on and kids went on with their normal days, staring at her empty desk unblinking for the longest time, as though telepathically forcing her to be there...but she never came. Sometimes I would imagine her striding into class ten minutes late and worming her way out of it with some story about how she saved a nympho baby from sneaking into a gay bar where he planned to get stoned and shag J Lo. She always gave the cockiest smiles to the class and once she was done with her new story for the day she would give this exaggerated bow, graciously kneeling before the teacher and kissing their hand before grabbing the detention slip and saying something like, "Never before have I been bestowed such an honor...except for yesterday." And then hop up and plop into her seat with her smile still strewn across her face.

I lived for those mornings.

I would walk home from school, thinking how usually I would walk about ten feet behind Fighter, then speed up so I was only about five feet behind her, then move up more until finally I was about ten centimeters behind her and I was practically inhaling her ponytail. I swear it drove her to the brink of insanity. She would whip around and for a second we would be so close our noses touched and our eyes flashed together, cocky stormy blue gray and infuriated electric blue meeting for a fleeting moment before she shoved me away and an argument ensued.

I shook myself back into reality and the rough and gravely sidewalk vanished, transferring into the hospital room again with the bed and odd blanket, Fighter's glaring face sliding into her now peaceful one. I smiled again and gripped her arm a bit tighter, a small sign that I was still here. "Oh! And uh, there was this whole big assembly thing for you...you would've loved it....probably drop one thousand water balloons on everyone." I chuckled and blinked a few times to fully leave the past behind for the time being. "Anyway, all the classes made a whole bunch of cards for you, I brought them. Here, I'll uh...I'll read you some." I reached my other hand down and gripped the paper bag once again, tugging it up onto my lap slowly. Reluctantly I unhooked my finger from her arm, pulling it towards the bag.

I smiled awkwardly and pulled open the edges of the paper bag, leaning it over and shaking the contents out onto her bed slowly with a small shrug. "Lesse...this one says..." I reached down a shaky hand and picked one up. "Get well soon, Fighter. Don't worry..." I stopped and opened the card, my eyes skimming over the lines as I read them slowly. "The bruises are healing nicely...." I gave a nervous chuckle and tossed that one aside quickly. "Let's do another." I said quickly, grabbing a card anxiously. "Oh look! This one's from Kiki...y'know...that girl in third hour with the multi-colored Mohawk. Yeah, her."

I was talking to Fighter as if she could understand every word I said and was talking right back to me. And ya know what? I liked it. I grinned and looked down at the card. "Hey girl," I read the cover and then flipped it open. "You know there are just too many kids without black eyes walking around here, get well now!" I laughed and looked at Fighter, still in the same serene, peaceful state as if she'd heard nothing at all.

Maybe she had, maybe she hadn't.

I shoveled the cards back into the bag and placed it on her side table, reaching a hand forward and patting her arm slowly. "I'll just leave those for you to read later." I smiled and squeezed her arm gently, keeping my hand there and sighing, looking down at the blanket. It was now or never. I knew I should have said it before, but I had been so confident, confident that she would be there waiting for me each and every day until I would tell her. "Look...Fighter...." I sighed heavily and gripped her arm tenderly for support, moving my head up to meet her lidded gaze that was definitely there.

"What I guess I should say...what I need to say...is that you've gotta pull out of this. You've gotta get through this whole thing and wake up, ok? Because...well because I need ya. We all need ya, and we always will. I know I should have said it so many times before and you've gotta give me some slack here because I wont accept the fact that it's too late. I..." This was it; I was going to say it. Maybe I was dumb for saying it and maybe I didn't truly understand what I was feeling, but I had waited long enough. People don't remember life for what they missed out on, but for the chances they took.

"I love you." Some people expect fireworks when they first say those words. They expect balloons floating down from the sky and money bursting from a conveniently placed fountain, but I'll tell you I got something I never expected from saying that. I got nothing. Nothing burst, or popped, or yelped, or shouted....but I'll tell you what...for the first time ever, I felt that I had done something right. The words were honest and there and had found a home whether she liked it or not. I meant it, I didn't need any money fountains to tell me that....but having one wouldn't be so bad, I must admit.

My lips curved into a small smile once I had said it and I rubbed her arm up and down. "You gotta wake up because...well ya just gotta. Because I swear to you, once you wake up, and I know you will, I am going to stop letting my jackass ways mess up my life and I'm going to smother you with so much love you choke on it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before and I understand you must be in a bit of shock right now." I leaned forward and hovered my face above hers gently, shaking my head. "But it's ok...you don't have to say a word." I slowly lowered my lips and placed a gentle kiss on her lips, letting my eyes flutter closed as my mouth lingered on hers for a moment before I pulled back, still smiling but with so much feeling in it now it hurt. "Please wake up...." I said softly, staring down at her.

"Because you have no idea what I could do...if I had another chance....."

I am Spot Conlon. I will never get mushy over a girl or count every single kiss that we share or change myself just to please her. I will never be a different person just to have someone like me or take gush lessons from Davey on how to act. So what I'll do, what I've done, is just find someone where that isn't necessary.

And I think I did a darn good job.

....Five months later....

Eight months since the accident, five since my first visit to the hospital, though there have been many since. Sometimes I would just sit and stare at her, and sometimes I would talk to her for hours about nothing in particular. It's funny, but after you break the ice with a person who doesn't say anything back, it gets easier and easier to talk to them about anything at all.

I walked home from school slowly but with a smile on my face, thinking I might go see Fighter today, tell her about how I got a B on my math test thanks to our studying session. As I neared our apartment and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans and realized that if Fighter didn't make it out of her situation, something I had now forced myself to think about, I would never find anyone like her, that was a given. But I just couldn't imagine cursing out any other girl, or holding another girl's hand for so long, or having the best silences in the world with her. It was weird, some may say pathetic, but who cares anymore?

I pushed the door open and froze, because there was my mother, home from work early...which she was never home from work early...unless something had happened. I closed the door with a kick of my foot and dropped my backpack in the foyer, slowly walking towards her as I watched her jot down a few more things on a pad of paper before looking up at me. She was smiling, but I can never be too sure with her. She walked towards me and ruffled my hair in the way that I hate, her smile spreading.

"Gabe, honey...." her honey eyes were sparkling and I felt like a little kid being denied of this grand surprise. "She's awake."

My insides froze as well as my body, my heart seizing up in my chest. This was impossible. After eight long months it had actually happen. She wasn't dead or getting worse...she was awake! That was all I needed to know.

Before my mother could stop me I turned around and ran out of the door, my feet putting on a burst of speed as I raced towards the hospital. My clenched fists chugged up and down and my feet pumped one after the other as I passed person after person, blinding them in a blur as only one thought was lodged in my mind. She was awake. I ran by building after building and pushed through crowds hurriedly, not bothering to mumble apologies. Finally, after what seemed like ages, my feet slowed in the parking lot of the hospital. The hospital I had grown to know so much and the hospital that Fighter was in right then, sitting up in bed, reading a card from someone in our class and laughing.

And then it hit me.

What if she hadn't heard me? All those times that I talked to her about everything in my life, all the times I had joked to her and spilled secrets I would never tell anyone else, when I told her I loved her...what if she hadn't heard it? What if when I walked into the room she yelled for me to get out, remembering how I had caused the whole thing? What if she hated me now, if those five months had gone to waste? They say that people in comas can hear you, even though it doesn't seem like it....but I mean what about that movie "While You Were Sleeping"? They talked to him about everything and all about the girl who he had never met, about how she loved him...and then he wakes up and doesn't remember a thing.

My already heavy breathing seemed to be a bit more ragged than usual and my legs didn't seem to be working very well. But I would never know if I didn't try, I would never know if I didn't go and see her. Very slowly but with a determined face I walked into the hospital and towards the receptionist. "Excuse me, but is Randy Peterson still in the same room?" I asked, although her head was still bent over some papers.

She looked up at me with a small smile. Her lips were coated in cherry red lipstick and her cheeks had a little too much blush, in my opinion. "I'll check, are you a family member?" I was about to say no, but then I remembered if I wasn't there was no way I was getting in.

"Uh, yes. I'm her brother." I answered with a nod, giving her a reassuring smile and running my fingers through my hair.

She nodded and clacked her fake fingernails on the keyboard of the computer for a few minutes before looking back up at me with the same smile. "No, she's now on the fourth floor, room G86."

"Thanks." I gave her a warm smile before shoving my hands in my pockets and heading off towards the elevator. However, there were a lot of sick people that day and the small boxes were jammed to the max. I shrugged and moved towards the stairs, my movements casual despite how jittery I was feeling inside. I pushed open the heavy door and started up the long row of flights of stairs, finally reaching the fourth floor with my breathing a bit hitched. I thought us teenagers were supposed to be fit?

I stepped back into the flashing white of the hospital halls and squeaked my cons along the linoleum once again, but this time was different. This time I wasn't going to visit someone in a seemingly endless sleep. This time she was awake. I passed door after door and with each letter and number combination my anxiety grew.

G84.

I was getting so much closer to her; in fact the next door would be my destination. I clenched and unclenched my fists as I stepped up to the closed door marked G86 and grit my teeth, preparing me for what was inside. I gripped that metal handle and pushed it down, pressing forward on the door and releasing the handle to watch the heavy door swing open slowly with a slow creak.

There she was. Sitting up in bed with her foster mother by her side and a cup of uneaten jello on the tray in front of her. Her hair was pulled up into a pony tail and her dressing gown seemed fresh and cleaner than usual. She rolled her eyes as her foster mother tried to get her to eat the jello and then for the first time in eight months I heard her voice.

"Mother, I have just woken up from the longest sleep of my life and I don't feel a bit rested. Give up on the jello if you don't want to see me get ugly."

I snorted with laughter and the attention was brought towards me. I gave a shy smile and watched Fighter's face, watched for any sign of recognition or possibly hatred. Her eyes met mine and those glossy orbs lit up like I had never seen before. Her lips curved into a small smile but she still showed no sign of having seen me almost every day for the past 5 months. Her head turned and her pony tail swished as she gave her mother a look that plainly said "get the heck out of here". Her mother grumbled a bit but bustled out of the room, leaving Fighter and I alone in our little partitioned haven.

I stepped over to her bed and her eyes watched me silently, eyes that I had missed so much, yearned to see again. I raked my fingers through my hair nervously and looked at her. "Um...hi...." The greeting was awkward but the look in my eyes was questioning. I wanted to know if she had heard me spill my guts, had heard me gush about new school romances and recent fights. I needed to know.

"Hi." was all she said, but her smile didn't fade. It wasn't her usual smart ass smirk or a sneer or anything, but just a regular old smile. That regular old smile could keep my satisfied for months, I'm telling you.

I rubbed the back of my neck with my hand and shifted my weight to the other foot, lowering my eyes to the ground before scanning them back up to hers. And then I did what I always do after a slightly uncomfortable silence. I blurted. "Look I really don't know if you remember at all but I've been coming to the hospital for the past 5 months and I know you don't really know what I said but-"

"Spot." She cut off my mindless ramble with one word and in a second her hand was out and reaching for mine. I slowly took her fingers in my grip and her smile grew. This was it. She had to have heard me, right? Oh God please let her have heard me. Give me some sign that she heard me!

"I love you, too."