Jackson raises an eyebrow. “I get it, man. But don’t let it ruin the night. You deserve to have some fun too.”
After a few more drinks, I start to feel it. The buzz is creeping in, and I’m feeling lighter. More free. My head spins just a little, and I laugh, thinking that I’m probably being a little too cautious. Jackson comes back with a fresh beer in hand and a grin that’s as wide as ever.
“You’re still sober?” he asks, holding up his drink. “Come on, man. Live a little.”
I take another sip, laughing. “I’ve had a few. Just don’t want to get too crazy.”
Jackson shrugs and takes a gulp of his drink. “Whatever, man. But you’re missing out.”
I look at him and nod like I believe it. Getting drunk and reckless and detached is what I need. Deep down, I know this isn’t what I want. This isn’t who I want to be.
As the night wears on, I find myself a little more relaxed. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the energy of the place, but the thoughts of Kenna fade a little. I’m having fun. I’m laughing, talking with some people, and getting caught up in the chaos.
But there’s a part of me that still misses her. It’s like a dull ache that I can’t quite get rid of. I think about the last time we were together—how perfect it felt. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.
But tonight, she’s not here. And maybe I can’t help but feel a little empty because of it.
By the end of the night, I’m feeling drunker than I thought I would. But I’m still functional. My vision’s a little blurry, my thoughts are muddled, but I’m still coherent enough to drive. Jackson is out of it.
“I’m not walking home, bro,” Jackson says, stumbling over his words. “You've gotta take me back.”
I sigh, knowing I should’ve just stayed home. “Alright, man. Let’s go.”
We stumble out to the car, and I try to steady myself. I know I’ve had a lot to drink, but I don’t feel completely out of control. Still, something in the back of my mind tells me I shouldn’t be driving. I should’ve called a cab, or an Uber, or anything. But it’s too late now.
I remind myself that I’ve driven in worse conditions. I tell myself it’s just a short drive. Wanting to get home, I lie to myself since the truth is inconvenient.
Headlights cut through the shadows as we drive on dark roads. The further out we go, the more isolated it feels. It’s quiet, except for the engine and the radio’s pops and crackles.
Then, just like that, a car appears out of nowhere. It’s headingstraight for me, speeding down the wrong side of the road, and I barely have time to react. My heart races as I yank the steering wheel to the right, trying to swerve out of the way.
But it’s too late. The crash is violent. The world tilts on its axis. Metal twists, glass shatters, and I’m thrown against the window with a sickening thud. The pain comes fast, and the last thing I hear before everything goes black is the sound of my scream.
When I wake up, it’s disorienting. The harsh bright lights above me make everything feel unreal. I try to move, but I can’t. Something is restraining my arms. My body feels heavy. Panic surges through me, and I immediately try to sit up. “Jackson?” I rasp, my voice thick and weak.
No answer.
“Jackson!” I try again, my voice breaking. I reach out, but there’s nothing but emptiness. I tug at the restraints, but they’re too tight. My hands are cuffed. Why are my hands cuffed?
I don’t remember what happened. I don’t remember anything except the crash. The fear hits me like a punch to the gut. “Jackson!” I scream this time, louder, desperate.
There’s no reply. And then there’s just blackness.
I wake up to white walls surrounding me. The sterile smell of a hospital room. The beeping of a monitor beside me. But what catches my attention is the police officer standing in the doorway. His gaze is serious, and his face unreadable.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice flat. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
I blink, trying to make sense of it. “Where’s Jackson? What happened?”
The officer’s face softens for just a second, and it hits me then—something’s wrong.
“You’re the only one who survived the crash,” the officer says slowly,his voice filled with an ominous weight. “The others didn’t make it.”
My stomach drops. “Others?”
“Jackson...he didn’t survive.” The words land like a blow, and for a second, I can’t breathe. My heart feels like it’s being crushed in my chest. I try to say something, anything, but no words come.
The officer continues, “You’re being arrested for driving under the influence and vehicular manslaughter.”
