Pickles

Everything in my body is burning.  Every limb is feeble, my legs are shaking.  I drop to my knees.  Is this death?

It's not even my death.  But as I peer at the marble stone in the ground before me, every piece of me feels twisted and rotten. 

"Ashley Cardowa, beloved daughter and friend," is carved into the headstone, the "A" written with a swooping stroke that underlines the name.  As my eyes scan over it, my heart is punctured, each letter strips the nerves from my body, knotting my blood vessels.  This pain, it rips and tears and shreds in a way so potent, I can't breathe. 

Ashley Cardowa is dead in the ground, right under my breaking legs.  The fresh dirt is flooded by my tears as they flow hot from my cheeks, pouring into the ground drops of anguished fire. 

I clutch my breast, heaving sobs as I cling desperately to my blouse and bra, trying to pull it away as if it will free the monster within me, the monster that crushes my heart and shatters my bones. 

Breathless, I start mumbling to Ashley, whether or not she can hear me from above.  Every word is broken as I speak, so silent that the breeze spins each word away before it can leave my lips.  Nonetheless, I need to say something, so I narrate to my invisible audience:

I met Ashley Cardowa in first grade.  It must have been around December, because the first time I went over to her house, her mother had given us each a snowman cookie.  The cookies had been formed with a simple cookie cutter, I saw it laying in the sink, covered with flour.  Ashley's mom had topped them with a sweet buttercream, dazzling them with mini chocolate chips for the face and buttons. 

Ashley and I bonded in our first grade classroom, sitting at the reading rug.  Ashley was reading a book out loud, stumbling over the harder words like "cookie" and "oven".  She was incredible to me, each word hitting my ears snapping my attention to her.  I wobbled over to her, sitting near as she read the book.  Something about making cookies and sharing with friends, if my memory holds. 

She read to me for a decent amount of time, and we continued our ritual each day since.  I sucked at reading, but Ashley was two levels ahead.  Though, just spending time with her improved my skills, and we started reading the books together.  By second grade, we were both reading simple chapter books to each other, and we even wrote a story about two princesses.  The princesses each got a magic penguin, and went to the sun to play a restaurant game.

The last of my simple words fades away, and the monster inside feels lulled.  It is still raking his claws against my chest, but it is slower, and has spared me the strength to stand.

I'm the last person here, the rest of the funeral party left an hour ago.  I knew I wouldn't be able to compose myself, so I delayed seeing her actual grave until everyone else had paid their respects.  I think it almost doesn't matter though, I shed more fiery tears than her own parents at the service. 

I reach a hand out to the head stone, running my fingers across the marble as I shakily turn away.  I shudder, Ashley never felt so cold.  Then again, she wasn't a slab of marble.  The Ashley I knew never left my side when I needed her, and I walk towards the parking lot as my mind torments me with old joys. 

I open my car and get into the backseat, stretching out across the stained seats.  My mind is conjuring so many memories, I stare at the roof of my car and speak:

When I was a freshman, I slipped down the stairs at the high school.  Ashley walked next to me, even sticking out her hand as I tripped, though her fingers only brushed my shirt.

I fell down fourteen feet of stairs, finally hitting the ground with such an impact that I fractured my spine.  Ashley called my name as she ran dow, pushing people away as they crowded around me.

Another student ran for a teacher, and Ashley plunked her backpack on the ground and sat next to me.  I mumbled something to her about my back, though the waves of pain that pounded through my body probably distorted my words.  But Ashley understood everything, brushing loose hairs from my face as a teacher found us in the staircase. 

Ashley refused to leave until the ambulance arrived, even telling the paramedics about my injuries.  She saw me again the moment they let her, and told me how relieved she was.  I was too high on painkillers to properly thank her, but she was too saintly to have accepted it anyways. 

My spine is healed now.  It wasn't a smooth recovery, but I had Ashley.  As I lay on my back, I focus my eyes on the roof of my car.  My chest is throbbing, like my heart has leaked out inside my body, beating all the same.  My chest feels deep too, a weight is being pressed between my ribs, leaving everything hollow and sore.

I send my arms behind my head, folding them for support.  I cross my legs, and press my eyes shut.  I'm beyond the stage of just seeing black, they're tight enough for all kinds of hypnotic colors to squirm in my vision.

I don't even open my mouth to speak this time, but I can hear the voice in my head all the same:

We couldn't have been more than ten.  Fourth, fifth grade maybe.  Ashley's family went camping with mine over spring break.  We went to a state park, and booked two campsites. 

When we pulled up, Ashley's family was already there, and I popped out of the car to hug her.  We practically burst with laughter as we played with sticks and leaves, shoving them in our hair and building fairy homes.  We played until our parents had pitched the tents, and they told us about a special surprise. 

They guided us past the two family tents, leading us to a third, slightly smaller tent.  Our tent, they told us. 

Ashley and I shrieked with joy, thanking our parents a thousand times over before setting up shop.  We crawled inside our tent, marveling at the way the light shone through the thin blue material, zipping and unzipping every window at least three times.  We chose spots for our sleeping bags, and introduced our favorite stuffed animals.  Ashley had a small, blue rabbit named Pickles, who I swiftly introduced to my purple squirrel, Peanut Butter.  It took us all of three seconds to realize that Peanut Butter had enough room on his back for Pickles to sit on, and we must have spent hours parading them around our tent. 

We made s'mores together, sneaking around the picnic table and snatching marshmallows with our little hands.  Our parents definitely knew we were doing it, but they played their part in our fantasy, leaving us to sneak off and consume our treasures out of sight.

When we were finally ushered to bed, we stayed awake for hours, jumping from one sleeping bag to the other, playing clapping games, and tossing our stuffed animals back and forth. 

We stayed for three nights, each day passing as gleeful as the first.  We blew bubbles into each others faces, made dandelion wishes, and hunted through the fields for four-leaf clovers.

Every night, every day was teeming with joy, the kind that rushes through your body and won't let you stop smiling, the joy that makes everything funny and your body feel weightless.

I open my eyes again, blinking the stars away.  I try to sit up, but I feel lightheaded, as if my body will crumble away with the slightest tap.  I can't stay in this parking lot forever. 

I only live a ten minute walk away, and I almost want to abandon my car.  Something inside me feels so weak, and even driving here I knew I wasn't in the right head space to drive safely.  I should have walked. 

I sit up again, this time succeeding, clambering out of the backseat and towards the passenger side door.  I open it, staring for  a moment at the driver's seat, at the wheel.  My stomach turns at the sight, a new wave of sick washes over me.  Ashley died in her car's driver seat.  Ashley, a twenty-four year old girl, died in that accident.  She's gone, and as I grab the cardboard box from the seat, I want to fold in on myself. 

I close the door and lock my car, I'll get it tomorrow morning.  I'm taking a sick day from work anyways, and the cemetery won't fine me for leaving it tonight. 

On shaking legs, I stumble half a mile home.  When I finally fall into my apartment, I drag my body and the box to my bedroom, letting myself crumple on my unmade bed.  I pull my comforter tightly around my body, reaching towards my pillow for Peanut Butter.  My purple squirrel friend has seen some rough times, but he's resilient, bearing the scars of my childhood on his matted and missing fur. 

I hold him tight to my chest as my body begins to sting, every internal wound reopening.  I open the box, a gift from Ashley's mother.  She'd said it was a collection of her things they thought I should have. 

The top is lined with framed pictures of us, cushioned by loose photos and cards.  Ashley'd framed a picture of us at the beach in middle school, our high school graduation, and even one from that camping trip so long ago. 

My body burns as I touch each picture, spiraling into each memory.  I shake my blanket off, quickly pulling it back over myself as chills ravage my body instead. 

I pull all the pictures onto my bed, and turn a shaky hand back to the box.  I close my eyes and grab something soft, and I gasp as I reveal it to myself.

It's Pickles.  The little blue bunny is floppy in my hands, the stuffing worn down and his fur sparse and worn.  But it's Pickles.

Something in me explodes, and I cry out in a way I didn't know I could.  It's not ringing loud in my ears, but every part of it feels animal.  I feel animal, savage and desperate, a wounded beast alone in the woods.  I clutch Pickles to my body, holding him close to my squirrel as my eyes stream with hot tears. 

Pickles is my proof.  Ashley is gone.  My friend, my oldest and dearest friend, is lost.  The biggest piece of my childhood, no, my childhood is dead.  Those days of glee are buried in the ground, their life ensnared only in my memory. 

I set Peanut Butter down, and place Pickles on his back.  Pickles is riding Peanut Butter. 

I sob.