Prologue

It was so dark outside, so incredibly dark. My hand wasn’t visible to my face, yet, I felt as if I were glowing. Looking at walls and windows as I passed, there was a ghastly blue light cast upon them as if I actually were. Down Red Street and across the little quaint bridge that led to the Loughley Neighborhood. It was as if I was sleep walking but I was awake. Fully, wide awake. Aware of my surroundings.

Loughley was on the other side of Furrow Creek, a small little river that sometimes flooded and ran straight through Tomlinburg. There were two sides to our small Minnesota town: the rich Loughley and the poor Graysmoore. I had never been over to Loughley, having lived in the ‘Moore my whole life. People rarely moved over and even though it is the twenty-first century, the Furrow still separates the rich and poor.

My hair was long that night as I crossed the Furrow into Loughley. Long and white and just as it always has been. But I felt empowered by something, something otherworldly. I felt as if I could sing and wail and be beautiful. I also felt incredibly sad. There was a heavy feeling on my heart and my body as I walked, my mind sinking into a deep anguish. What was I sad for? The fact that I could never live in Loughley and be someone in my life? No. There was something else, something deep down, something I did not know.

The houses glowed against me, welcoming me into a neighborhood where, during the daylight, I was anything but welcome. I was still glowing. This must be a dream. People do not glow, no matter how rich the neighborhood is and how elated they are to be strolling through it. The stars were laughing at me, telling me that I was so new to this. But what was I new to? What was I doing? I felt tired and asleep and sad and empowered but why was I walking in the first place? What is my purpose?

Fridays were party nights in Loughley for those kids whose parents were on vacation in Hawaii. On this particular night, I could hear the bass thumping from down the street and immediately saw the Buicks and other nice cars. I felt hurt at first because I knew they were my classmates. But I quickly got over it and realized what I was doing. What was I doing?

“Lacey! Lacey, wait, don’t get into that car,” someone yelled.

Lacey O’Hare, one of the richest people in Tomlinburg, was heading towards a maroon Mercedes, stumbling and laughing with another one of her friends. The person that yelled was her brother, Jack. I found myself with a strange feeling towards him and his family all of a sudden. Was it sadness? Remorse? Grief? Why did I feel that feel that way?

An image flashed through my mind: wreckage, twisted metal like petals of a flower, smoldering, smoking, crackling like a bon fire. And instantly I was back on Red Street, watching Lacey get into the driver’s side of the Mercedes. Was I still glowing? Surely someone had seen me standing in the middle of the road, glowing like an iridescent opal. This was a dream. I knew it was. It had to be.

Lacey’s green eyes were bloodshot and I could see it even from where I was standing. She started the car, laughing, crying, being a teenager. It was clear that she was under some influence, of what kind I couldn’t tell. Her red hair was straightened and looked beautiful, even in her state. As pale as her face was, it was still lit up with incredible carelessness and beauty. I stared as she started down the street.

That was when I heard the wail.

It was a piercing, haunting, yet beautiful cry that was almost anguished. Immediately I felt the pang of hurt and sadness course through my veins and body. I knew at that instant that Lacey O’Hare was going to die that night. As soon as I saw the Mercedes leave the neighborhood, I felt her death in my body. More cries sounded and it was almost like an eerie refrain.

The singing was coming from my mouth.

I felt my hair fly around my face, though there was no wind. I seemed to glide along the street towards the path that Lacey took only a few minutes before. I was swifting through the street like a ghost, singing, crying, feeling terrible about her death impending.

There was a loud crash, followed by an explosion.

Lacey had driven her car into a transformer on the other side of Furrow Creek, next to my apartment complex.

I physically felt her pain and I cried out even more so that everyone could hear my sorrowful singing. I felt her drift off and off and off into the blackness, the darkness, the inky, permanent death that awaited her.

I know why I was there.

And suddenly I was back at the O’Hare house, the music thumping loudly and permeating the silence that no one even knew about. Jack was sitting on the porch steps, head in hands on his knees. I started to sing to him. Lacey was dead and he would soon know. I was warning him. I tried to do it before, before she drove off down the street. Maybe he knew. Is that why he looked forlorn?

I sang to him, even after the party was over and everyone had gone home. No one knew that just across the creek, there were ambulances, firefighters, and policemen who were struggling to put the fire out and retrieve Lacey, who was too far gone to save. Jack didn’t know. But I knew he soon would.

And so I sang to him, a sad song of death and remorse and grief. His heart would soon be heavy and he would feel the sorrow I had experienced all night. He would soon be somber and even more regretful. It was my job to him to try and take it away, if only for one night.

And so I sang him through the night. 

Author's Note

Not sure why the font is big on the last line. Other than that, please let me know your opinions! I plan on turning this into a full-blown story.