Brooklyn stood in the rain, waiting for the bus.  Her pale, white complexion was in complete contrast of her black outfit.  I trudged in the rain towards the bus stop with my umbrella.  I offered Brook protection from the rain.  She looked at me and for the first time, I saw so very much pain in her eyes.  Brook ducked under my umbrella and turned towards the empty, puddle-filled street.  There we stood silently until the bus came, minutes later.

                Brooklyn climbed onto the bus as I closed my umbrella and followed.  Brooklyn sat in an empty seat towards the back of the bus.  I sat with her.  Since we met in kindergarten, I always sat with her.  That was just the way it was.  We hadn't spoken to each other in years, but we always sat together.  We acted as if we were still best friends, the way we had in elementary school.  I'm ashamed of how we behaved.  I'm ashamed that we grew apart the way we had.  We lived in silence. 

                We had no reason to dislike each other, yet I couldn't find a reason to like her.  We seemed exactly the same on the outside.  We were both about the same size and we both had the same proportions; we wore the some type of clothes and had almost identical hairstyles.  When Brook and I were younger, we discovered the similarities between us and were in awe.  As we grew older, I hardly noticed how similar we were and how we changed together. 

                I'd never forget that day.  Later that day, I was listening to music in my room, I felt sharps pains stab into my back and began to suffocate.  Then, as quickly as these feelings arrived, they disappeared.  I had a sudden urge to go to the bridge overlooking the Mississippi.  I flew out of my room, grabbed my black leather coat and my mother's keys and I got in her car.

                The ignition flared and I pull out of my apartment complex onto the main road.  I drove for what seemed like hours until I came to the bridge.  I didn't even bother to pull my car over; I just got out.  I climbed down to the water, yards below.  I could see a body that almost looked crushed, on the sharp rocks below.  My pace quickly turned to a wary run.

                Before I had even left the apartment, I had known what had happened, but I'd refused to believe it.  Now, there was no denying it; the body on the rocks was Brooklyn.  I sobbed.  I cried more than I'd ever cried in my life.  I collapsed on my knees, tearing my skirt on the whetted rocks.  I couldn't tell if she was dead yet.  I'd hoped she was dead; she didn't deserve the pain that I knew, in my heart, she brought on herself.

                I sat there, crying, for what seemed like days, but when I looked at my watch, I saw that I had left the house only twenty minutes ago. I thought, Maybe she's still alive.  Maybe I can save her. So I picked her up and carried her limp body to my mother's car and placed it gently in the back seat.  I knew she was dead, for a part of me had died with her, but I got in the car and drove.  I drove straight to the hospital, though the tears in my eyes blurred my vision and my thoughts.  I pulled into the small hospital's parking lot and carried Brooklyn into the hospital.