Chapter 7
October 22nd

Christmas Day wore on with these memories. I finally noticed, toward evening, that it had begun to snow and it filled me with such sorrow that I had to pull closed the curtains. I couldn’t stand another memory of Amy.

That night I was hungry. There was no food left in the kitchen, so, I figured, I would have to go out and buy a few things. I got in the car, started the engine, and fishtailed out of the parking lot. My car wasn’t exactly the best in the snow.

The grocery store was empty. It was Christmas Day and everyone was at home with family, friends, or something of the kind. I didn’t even have a loved one anymore. I didn’t have anything. I looked through a few shelves of canned goods and grabbed some Campbell soups. They’d be good in the cold. From the next aisle I took a bag of chips and some popcorn, then some hotdogs and buns from the meat and bread sections. It should be enough to last me the week, considering I barely ate anything as it was. I paid with my debit card at the register, knowing I was already in debt, and I went home. The snow melted on the windshield and the wipers were too loud. Every time I saw a snowflake disappear, I grew sadder.

This weather reminded me so much of Amy. She loved being outside, whether it was snow, rain, or shine, hot or cold. But more than that, the night’s weather reminded me of Amy’s death. I unlocked the door to the apartment and went in to begin unloading the bag of groceries in the kitchen. Then my mind drifted back to unheard of places.

“I’m running late honey. Can I just drop you off at the curb? I’m really sorry!”

“It’s okay.” She smiled sweetly and slipped on her jacket. I’ll see you later tonight. Take care and drive safe.” She slammed the car door behind her and I watched her get out her keys and walk up to the door. Then I drove off to class. When I came home, she was dead.

There had been lots of possibilities and I was turning all of them over in my head constantly. First, I thought, was suicide. She up and killed herself for no apparent reason. Or maybe there had been a reason, I just didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t treat her as well as I should have. But no, the police informed me, there had been no signs of a suicide. What happened was much worst.

I remembered coming home to flashing lights. “What the . . .?” I gasped and jumped out of the car. I jogged up onto the grass and was stopped by a police officer.

“You can’t go back there.”

“But I live here!” I spat angrily. “What’s going on?” Before he had the chance to answer, I pushed past him and ran up to the front of the apartment building. I shoved my way through the cars, crowds, and caution tape, and, regretfully, the paramedics. Stopping in my tracks, I looked down at the sidewalk and turned pale as a ghost.

There was blood. Everywhere. I had never seen so much in one place before. It was spattered over the white front door of the building, the windows, the grass, everywhere. It took me a minute to realize I was standing in it. It took me another minute to realize I was looking at my fiancée.

I don’t know to this day how I knew it was her. Her head was a twisted mess and her body covered in blood. Someone had shot her. I started to scream, and I couldn’t stop.

Now I slammed one of the bags of chips into a drawer angrily. That scene from October 22nd had haunted me every night since then. At the moment, I wanted to destroy our apartment, our car, our bed, our garden, our EVERYTHING. I was tired of looking at it all, tired of waking up and dealing with her memories. I needed to either get a life or kill myself. This could not go on.