Countdown

"It was taken twenty-four hours before her crash."

Written by: Chance Brown

Three years after the crash he still had it.

It was just a box.

An old shoebox with a Sketchers logo on one side and a faded sticker that once read “Size 11 ½”.

It was underneath a pile of old clothes. The clothes and the box were then inside of a navy blue trunk with golden accents and a large gold lock. The lock had a combination of eleven digits necessary to open it, and the entire trunk, lock, box and clothes set was hidden underneath a bed; behind an old comforter.

Robert kept few trinkets of his old life, but the ones he did keep were inside the shoebox, so cleverly hidden that it was so inconvenient to get to, so that when he did, it was only when necessary. The shoebox had only 12 objects, 12 objects for the twelve years he spent in East Cardinal Valley, NC. Twelve years he’d put behind him.

The first was a picture, one on flimsy paper and uneven edges because it had been torn out of a yearbook. Taken Two years before the crash, it was black and white, and not even the size of a 4x6, but special nonetheless. There were 11 students, and 2 teachers in the photo. The caption above read “ECVH Japan Club”. Megan, Dawn, Nikki, Thuy, Adam, Steve, Joseph, Kelly, Kyle, Jenny, Mitchell, Tanaka-Sensei, Johnson-Sensei, and Robert himself smiled at the viewer, their hands all in a trademark peace sign. It was the only group Robert ever felt he truly belonged to, the only one that didn’t secretly say things behind his back, or revel in the days he was absent from their activities.

The second and third were tickets, two of them, to some movie that he couldn’t really remember seeing in the first place, probably about a year and a half before the crash. Even though the movie was pointless the company certainly was not. Michelle Bartko, she had short blond hair with bright blue eyes that made the sky jealous. Skin so soft that Charmin tried to hire her as a spokes model and a voice so angelic the Vatican should’ve made her their public relations representative. Her demeanor was meaningful, purposefully playful and pandemic of pleasure; anything you needed at the time; she was. She conformed to your mood and then brought you to a whole new level and her middle name had to be parachute because she always left you on cloud nine.

Number four was an empty bottle of Hypnotiq; a type of alcohol. It was emptied by himself twenty six hours before the crash. He’d never touch the stuff again in his life, and if he ever needed a reminder, the empty bottle was it.

Number five was tangible regret. A crudely crafted construction paper contraption shaped like a foldable heart. It was supposed to open up and allow Robert to open up, its insides said “Be my Valentine” with three N’s in Valentine and backwards E’s. The handmade card was created a decade before the crash, and still never made it to its intended recipient. Robert never mustered to the courage to give it to Michelle.

Number six was strawberry shortcake lip balm, purchased one week before the crash. The tube was half used and several years old, but it was the tube that Michelle had used right before their first kiss. The strawberry taste was nowhere near as strong as its smell, but nevertheless he loved it. The sweetness seemed natural, as if her skin secreted sugar. It made sense, if he believed anything his parents had told him, it would be that girls were made of sugar, spice and everything nice, at least one was.

Numbers seven through ten were roses. Each one pressed and dried with a tag dating it. Every rose was a year older than the last, and they all came from the same place; Rosetta’s Floral Shop on 43rd St and St Clair Boulevard. Each one was vibrant red, the freshest flower from the place when he bought them. Underneath the date on every rose, there was a message, “To Michelle, It’s almost as beautiful as you, Thomas.” Every year he bought one to give to her at prom, every year he chickened out.

He used to be Thomas, before he moved away. Before he left his old identity and before he lost the most wonderful girl in the world. The eleventh item in the box was a key. A plain, golden key that had no special markings or unique qualities by itself, but it opened the most important door in the world. It opened the door to a mausoleum in Cardinal Valley Cemetery that held Michelle Bartko’s grave. It was a grave Robert had been to on the same day every year, when he went back to North Carolina on Michelle’s birthday.

The final item was a picture, in a frame with loopy handwriting scrawled in red marker on it. It was a picture of the two of them, lips locked, in a basement at a house party.

It was taken twenty-four hours before her crash.

Fourteen hours before her crash they were arguing on the phone, one adamantly claiming the other was afraid of her feelings and the other adamantly claiming that staying friends would be best. Ten hours before her crash Robert was pacing his room. Four hours before her crash they were on the phone apologizing. One hour before her crash Thomas received a text message telling him that Michelle had something for him and they needed to meet in an hour. 59 minutes before her crash Thomas asked her to meet at their old elementary school, it was late and dark so nobody would be there, they could have some privacy. 58 minutes before her crash he received a text message saying that she didn’t want to get on the highway on a Saturday night, she wasn’t s strong driver. 57 minutes before her crash he promised her she’d be fine.

2 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 5 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 6 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 10 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 11 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 12 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 13 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 14 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. 15 minutes after her crash she didn’t pick up the phone. Nineteen minutes after her crash Thomas barely hit the brake as he leapt out of his car rushing to the scene. Twenty-four minutes after her crash the paramedics had done all they could do. Thirty two minutes after her crash, police lead an ambulance with a drunk and injured 17-year old to the hospital. Thirty four minutes after her crash Thomas found a gift bag with his name on it near the car. He opened it and pulled out the frame, somehow still intact after the wreckage. He swiped it from the crash site before the police confiscated it as evidence.

It said “You were right, I love you”.

Three years after her crash, he still wasn’t over her.