The Messages that Saved my Life

           “I can’t believe this!” My friend, Taylor, holds up her iPhone, showing me the latest post from Brooklyn Online, a blog about the secrets of Brooklyn, New York. “What is it?” I ask her. 

            “This blogger wrote a derivative story that was on the news last week! That’s so unoriginal!”

             I roll my eyes. “You mean the story based on that robbery?” I ask her. 

            “Yes!”

            “Well maybe she just wanted to do a side story on it. I read a little bit of that last night, and it seemed like she was interviewing everyone who was a victim of the robbery. They didn’t interview everyone she did on the news.”

            Taylor cocks her head, thinking about that possibility. “I guess,” she says eventually.

            As a writer myself, I can understand how the blogger from Brooklyn online would want to capture a different side of the story that everyone has been talking about. Doing that honestly sounds like something I might do. Right now, though, I’m experiencing writer's block, which is by no means fun.

            Just then, my best friend Alex runs up my driveway and plops down into the chair next to me. “Look what I found!” he demands, shoving his phone into my lap. “Hi to you too,” I joke. Open on Alex’s phone is the same redundant blog entry that I’ve already seen more than once today. “Guys! It’s just a stupid article! It’s not a big deal!” I inform them. Taylor raises an eyebrow, “It’s not a big deal that she said towards the end ‘hope sometimes falls when we least expect it’?” I smirk. Taylor can be really paranoid sometimes. “Just because my name is Hope doesn’t mean that I’m going to fall or something like that. She was talking about the robbery!” I exclaim. Alex shrugs, “You never know.” 

            I get up from my patio chair to dilute my throat with water, hoping to weaken my thirst. The torrid sun is scorching in July, and burns. It doesn’t help that we’re in the middle of a drought which is having a cataclysmic, disastrous effect in Brooklyn. I guess we’ll have to just make do with the water we have for now. 

            “Anyone want some water?” I ask. “Sure,” they respond in sinc. 

THE NEXT DAY

            I climb into Alex’s brother, Luke, ‘s car. He volunteered to take us to Jonas Brothers’ concert tonight. I’m hoping that going to the concert will give me some kind of a story to write about. Maybe it will help with my writer's block.

            Luke smiles at me through the car window. I honestly think he just wants to go to the concert himself, but I won’t call him on it. 

            “Hey!” He greets me as I close the passenger door. “Hi!” I respond. “You look nice!” Alex compliments me. “Thanks! So do you!” I say with appreciation.

            One thing I love about Luke’s car is the immense, huge, enormous stash of chocolate. Luke doesn’t even seem to care if we eat any as long as we don’t leave wrappers scattered all over his car (which I don’t really understand. It’s not that I would make a mess, but his car is as neat as a trash can, so would a few wrappers make a difference?). 

            I pull up Brooklyn Online on my phone to see if there is another entry up. To my surprise, there is. It’s titled ‘Please be careful!!!’ “That’s weird,” I mumble to myself. I pull up the blog entry.

9:11 AM 

Friday, July 13, 2020

Hey Guys!

I know this is kind of soon, but I really needed to get this out there. Basically, someone I know needs help. There was a car accident that happened and my friend was stuck inside the shattered car for 23 min! She knows that something was off about the accident but she can’t place her finger on it. I have a theory though. I think that the accident wasn’t an accident. I think that there is someone out there that wants to hurt this girl. So please, if you are reading this, be careful! I’m not going to say your name, but you will know who you are soon enough if it is you. BE CAREFUL!

-Brooklyn Online going Offline

            I stare at the screen in disbelief. That sounds really scary! A staged accident?! Who does that? “Hey, Alex? Have you read the latest post from Brooklyn Online?” I ask him. 

            “You mean the one about the robbery? Yeah! Yesterday, remember?”

            “No, there is a new one. Pull it up.”

            Alex pulls out his phone and scrolls down to the latest post. “I don’t see anything.” 

            That’s odd, I think. “Here. You can read it on my phone,” I say as I hand him the device. 

            As he reads it, his eyes get huge, “Wow! I’ve never seen her post anything like this before! It looks like a warning of some kind! That’s just scary!” I nod, “I know! I wish I could do something to help!” 

            I rack my brain for ideas on how to help, and then an idea spins around my head. I look at Brooklyn’s about me page and find her email. I quickly shoot off an email asking her if there is anything I can do to help. She might not even see it, after all she has a commensurate amount of viewers to Selena Gomez (surprisingly) and their equality is definitely well known. But if she does, it would be great to know how I could help. I look at the clock. 7:14 PM

            For some reason as I look down at my email, I feel the urge to cover my head. I decide to do so. The person in danger probably isn’t me, but you can never be too careful, right? And what if I am the person in danger? 

            Just as I click send, a car swerves out of nowhere! The car smashes right into Luke’s car and flips it over! 

            Silence. My ears ring and I can feel drops of blood run down my arm from the cuts of shattered glass. I close my eyes and count to 100. That’s all I can think to do. Still nothing. No movement. No hint of life. I try to turn my head to make sure Luke and Alex are ok, but something on top of my head makes it impossible to move at all. Five minutes pass. Then ten. I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be here. I’m petrified. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m even alive. Longer and longer I wait, before I hear sirens blare around every dimension and side of the enclosed car. Within a few minutes (that felt like hours), I am laying on a stretcher and being carried into an ambulance. There is a clock on the ambulance wall. It reads 7:37 PM. I was in that car for 23 minutes. If I hadn’t been covering my head, I could have died.

            I awake in a hospital bed, not remembering going to sleep. Nurses whisper overhead and I let them think I’m still asleep. Then I remember the crash. I bolt upright, giving myself whiplash. A nurse races over to me and lays my back down. “It’s ok. Go back to sleep,” she tells me, soothingly. I close my eyes but refuse to drift off into slumber. “The driver of the other car ran away,” I hear from one of the whispering nurses. I tune in a little, eavesdropping on the conversation. “He ran away?” Another nurse asks. “Yes,” the first nurse responds, “And all that he left was a note saying that he/she would be back.” What? Who would do such a thing? Who would deign themself enough to be so cruel?! 

            23. 23. 23. That number floods my head. Then, I remember why. I was in that car for 23 minutes. 23 minutes was how long Brooklyn’s friend was in a car for. A staged accident. Could I be that girl? But why would anyone want to hurt me? And what about that whole ‘hope sometimes falls when we least expect it’ thing? Yes. I am. I am that girl. Brooklyn was trying to warn me. But how did she know about this? How does she know me? Why did this happen? I want answers, and I want them soon. One thing is for sure, though: This was a staged accident, and someone is out to get me. 

            Suddenly, I bolt upright and reach into my backpack that is leaning on my hospital bed. The nurses beg me to be more careful, but I don’t listen. I have an amazing idea for a story. This story. A story about the messages that saved my life.