Destination is a very strange thing to call the place I was going because I long to be anywhere but there. As I continued, I glanced at the numerous gravestones--Kasey, died 1989, whose gravestone had "loving friend and mother of two" etched in it; Warbrick, died 1995, of whom had the Lord's Prayer written upon it--until I spotted a new one with a fresh mound of dirt that belonged to Cynthia Jordan.
Cynthia's gravestone was adorned with hyacinths and marigolds despite her quiet distaste for flowers. As if I had been guided by some higher, mystical presence, I moved closer to the place that had haunted my dreams for a month.
Tenderly, I caressed the cold, slippery surface of the gravestone. A blinding flash of lightning streaked through the sky, but I did not seem to notice it; I was far too lost in the memories, lost in a time when I could smile and laugh and was not cumbersomely burdened with pain.
The crash of thunder transported me to my third grade classroom. Mrs. Varta, our teacher, was teaching us our multiplication tables--well, most of us. I, on the other hand, was scribbling a crude picture of a jade butterfly--green had always been my favorite color. My head was pressing against the smooth exterior of the desk, and occasionally I would have to flick away a cumbersome flaxen curl. As soon as I started to draw the wings, the recess bell rang. Ah, recess.
Recess was the one thing that I enjoyed most in school; no teachers, no lectures, just pure and simple fun. The April sun seemed to fill me with infinite energy as I whittled away the precious few minutes remaining in recess on the jungle gym. The whimsical sound of laughter, singing, and frolicking rang throughout the playground accopanied by a sudden shriek of pain; I had fallen off of the monkey bars.
Of course I cried--I was just a little girl, and such pain was a foreign sensation to me. My face was adorned with cuts and my arm was already beginning to bruise. I bawled my little cerulean eyes out. Despite all the vehement noise I was making, no one seemed to notice me. One girl's screams would never be heard over the squally sea of playground voices.
Suddenly, an older girl wearing a shirt with a pink teddy bear on it came running toward me (after the ordeal I discovered that it was a pink cat, but when one's eyes are blurred with tears the difference between a pink teddy bear and a pink cat are miniscule). I was surprised that someone had bothered to come over, but what had really startled me was the worried countenence that was painted on her face. The world seemed to start anew as she helped me to my feet and accompanied me to the nurse's office.
"Are you going to be okay?" said that scarlet-faced girl.
"Y-ye-ye-yes, I-I think so," I replied.
"It's okay, don't worry; we're almost there. By the way, I'm Cynthia. And you would be...?"
"Miranda."
Although I was merely a third-grader, I could see the quiet resolve and determination that Cynthia possessed. Beyond her mysterious gray eyes there lies a soulful and compassionate mind. Somehow, whether through a premonition or simply fate, I knew that this raven-haired girl would play a major role in my life. We weren't at all the same--she was an outgoing, brilliant-minded fifth grader, while I was a secluded, mediocre eight-year-old--but we made the perfect team.
Cynthia and I became better friends with every year that passed. We shared everything from our greatest aspirations to our darkest, most painful hour. Hardly a moment passed when we were not together.
Everything was perfect; Cynthia, now a senior, was preparing to go to her last prom. I was going, too, of course, with an eleventh-grader I met earlier in the fall. Now March had arrived, and we realized that we were running out of time to get our dresses.
We had decided to go to the mall in Perrysville due to its renowned stock and selection of prom dresses. The mall was surprisingly busy, and it was difficult for Cynthia and I to keep track of each other. So, for a few minutes, we got separated. A few short minutes may seem insignificant, but it turned out to be the difference between life and death.
It seemed like I had searched the entire store twice when I, at last, found her talking to a tall man with bleached blond hair. At the time, I found the situation to be quite peculiar because Cynthia was not the type to just walk up to a guy and flirt with him. Realizing that there was still a substantial distance between us, I attempted to part the massive crowd that lay ahead of me. Then, I saw it, perhaps the most haunting and frigtening vision that I had ever seen in my life--the blond-haired stranger pursued Cynthia out the door with a gun.
No one seemed to notice her disappearance, just as no one noticed me when I fell off the monkey bars so many years ago. Time seemed to slow down and for what seemed like hours I was a motionless statue, unable to do anything but stand back and stare. Then, reality rushed back to me and all I could do was scream.
I ran to the cash register to tell them what had happened. Immediately, they alerted security, but in my mind, I knew that it was already too late. I ran to the exit and barged the door open, ignoring everyone's precautions. As soon as I burst out the door, I saw a battered, old Chevy pull out of the parking lot. I knew that this was the car, and I looked, one last time, into my best friend's gray eyes. I gazed at the stormy eyes that were once filled with compassion and understanding, but now those eyes were foreign with apprehension and horror.
I immediately fell to the ground and sobbed, for I was unable to do anything more, both physically and emotionally. I looked up at the sky and wanted to rip the blazing sun out of it. A day like this was not meant to be sunny; a day like this should become a tempest to reflect the emotion that lay under the pale blue sky, with a great wind, to blow the pain and memories far from here.
For a duration of nearly three weeks--nineteen days, to be exact--the search for Cynthia continued. On that final day, they found her in that same Chevrolet, which just happened to be stolen. But now her eyes were not filled with fear, but rather glazed over, an empty shell of what she once was. Her face, memorable for that wonderful smile she would often flash, was now gashed and bruised, her body, now raped. And her life, now, dwells within the memories.
A few short days later, the police ended up finding the murderer, going by the name of John Sampers, in a shack, killed by an overdose of cocaine. For the longest time I hated him, but I eventually realized that it was all part of God's Divine Plan, though I despised it.
I have had unbelievable nightmares and hallucinations in the days that followed. I was tempted to do away with my own life, but I knew that was not what Cynthia would have wanted. But like her, I too, am an empty shell, a walking corpse of what I once was, and I will never be the same.
I cannot help but to feel responsible for what happened; there were so many things that I could have done to save her life. But God did not want it that way; maybe he thought that, though she was only seventeen, she was completely deserving of heaven. That is what I tell myself over and over again as I stare at her lonesome gravestone. The storm is subsiding, and now the thunder is distant, moaning its final cry of grief. Acknowledging Cythina's distaste of flowers, I leave a crudely drawn picture of a jade butterfly at her headstone. The picture, of course, is laminated so that it may be a constant reminder of our friendship. Death may separate us now, but one day, I will get to see her again, forever. Also, I leave both a part of my heart and a part of my grief at her grave, for I know, despite the hell that she had lived, she is in a much grander place.