Danny: The Beginning

I've been hesitant to post anything about this story - just because it's one of those I started writing like, 12 years ago and put on the back burner. When I came across it again years later, I was so disgusted by how crappy a story it was that I didn't even want to look at it. But then I started working on it, eventually, and giving it a new direction, and thought it would be a nice little experiment. If you haven't been able to tell by now, I hate writing in first person - it's too constricting. When I first started writing stories way back in elementary school, first person was all I wrote in, until I finally discovered the joys and wonders of being able to look at things from multiple angles. So when I found this story again, I thought, hey, why not go with it. And this has been the result.

A little blurb before the intro? Well, I'll let the intro give you a little guess into what this story might be about. To get you started, Danny - Daniel Wilde - is a teenager who's life revolves around sports, being active, and having plans. Everything is always so nicely scheduled and mapped out, whether he likes it that way or not. But life hardly ever turns out how one expects it, for good or for worse, and plans almost always get broken.

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It’s easy to judge when you weren’t apart of it. It’s easy to make assumptions and come to false conclusions when you weren’t there, didn’t see it with your own eyes, or weren’t around to witness the pieces slowly falling apart, realizing no matter what you did, you couldn’t keep the walls from crumbling. But I was – maybe not from the beginning, but I was still there. And it’s still a part of me.

That day stands out so vividly in my head, more than a lot of others, when it really shouldn’t have. It was just another typical, busy day. Busy. Demanding. Hectic. Tiring. Those were just the words that described my day-to-day life. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had a day with nothing to do, a day where all I got to do was sleep in, shove potato chips in my mouth and watch television. I think I remember learning in health class that teenagers are supposed to get around ten hours of sleep a night, and that getting enough sleep is one of the most important determinants of health. If that’s true, than I don’t know how I managed my teenage years without catching more than a common cold because I never got that much sleep. Not even close.

And that day was no different. At least to start with. There was an ugly rain and windstorm, which only grew more powerful as the day went on until it finally flexed its muscles and knocked the power out of half the town, including the skate rink. There were backup generators, but practice was canceled for the day anyway. Maybe that should have been a sign.

Because I was home earlier than usual, I was around as my mom prepared dinner. Our side of town still had electricity, and by around five that evening, the wind had started to show signs of weakness. As I watched her for a moment, I could remember standing on one of the kitchen chairs in our old house as a kid, watching with fascination as she chopped, mixed, fried, seared, and baked, wondering what kind of exciting task she’d have me help her with.

“Can I help, Mom?” I offered. The memories still fresh in my head.

She paused to look over at me with surprise, but than smiled. “It’s so rare of an occasion that I have company home around this time. You can start on those onions over there,” she said, pointing with her dishtowel to the cutting board on the counter near the fridge. “It’s my least favorite job.”

I grinned. “I know.” I peered over her shoulder as I made my way to the sink to wash my hands. “Pasta?”

“Yeah, with some pesto, chicken, veggies, and a salad.”

My mother loved to cook, and make things from scratch if time would allow. My dad and I were never disappointed with any of her meals.

Just as I was picking up the knife to start slicing and dicing, the telephone rang. Mom tossed the towel on the counter.

“I’ll get it,” she said, already heading toward the device mounted on the wall. “Oh, hi little lady,” she said happily after she answered, and then after a moment of listening, “Are you okay?”

I looked over at her then, and she met my gaze.

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

As she handed me the phone, her eyes narrowed slightly with concern.

“What’s up?”

She smiled lightly. “She doesn’t sound so good.”

I knew it had to be Amanda. After I took the phone, I made my way into the living room, noting that Mom’s eyes were following after me.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said into the phone.

She was quiet for a moment, but I could hear her inhale deeply. Maybe she was pissed off at me. After all, I never called her back and we hadn’t talked in weeks.
But then again, if Amanda was pissed off at me, I would have gotten my ear chewed off already.

No, something was definitely bothering her.

“I tried calling you earlier. And texting you.”

Her voice was quiet, and different.

“Oh.” I was always forgetting about my phone. “Sorry. My phone’s been in my bag all day.”

She took a deep breath. “Danny . . . I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I said slowly.

I didn’t like how this talk was starting out. Amanda, someone I’ve known my whole life, hardly ever sounded like this. Not unless she was really upset.

“God, I hate having to do this over the phone.”

Her voice broke. She was really starting to freak me out. Amanda never cried, at least not in front of others, or on the phone with them.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

She took another deep breath. “I’m okay. But . . .”

“But what?” I asked when she didn’t continue.

“It’s Brandon.”

Brandon Sorenson. A name I knew well. He had been one of my best friends since I was a kid. Even after I moved away we kept in contact, and I saw him when I spent summers there. His text just the day before was one I actually bothered to return.

Just saw a girl on the beach eating a hot dog.

It made me laugh when I saw it because it was an inside joke between us – that girls in bikinis should never eat hot dogs. I know it doesn’t sound funny now, but it was just one of those things where you had to be there. It actually has a real dirty connotation that I won’t even try to go into.

But there was nothing humorous about Amanda’s tone.

“Brandon? What, why?” I asked, not knowing what to think, and growing more and more confused and worried.

I heard her breath in deeply again, but it did not calm her, and she broke down completely and sobbed uncontrollably into the phone. I didn’t realize it then, but my mom was standing next to me, watching and listening very carefully.

“Amanda, what is it?” Though I wasn't sure I wanted to know, and was afraid of what she might say.

There was a pause that seemed to last longer than any awful halftime show I’ve had to sit through. A cloudy silence engulfed my head and seemed to block out every other sound and image. Though I could feel it deep within the pit of my gut, I was not prepared to hear the following words.

“He’s dead, Danny.”

I tried swallowing, but my mouth and throat were completely dry. “What does that mean?” was all I could muster to say.

Amanda had not been prepared for that response, and stammered for a minute in between sobs. “It means he’s dead.”

My eyes squeezed shut. “But I don’t understand. I just talked to him yesterday. How can he be dead?”

She quietly recomposed herself. “He was shot,” she whispered.

I suddenly exploded. “What?”

Amanda sniffed. “It was an accident.”

“An accident? How does someone accidentally get shot? And dies! How? When? Why!”

“Oh, Danny, I’m so sorry.” And then she started sobbing again.

Everything in me was numb. I didn’t even feel my mom’s hand on me. “Amanda,” I said, but nothing else came out. I could feel something in me dissolving, but I did not know what it was, or what it meant.

“He was in the South Side, and was just in the wrong place. He just got caught in the crossfire, and now he’s dead. For standing there. I just saw him this morning, and now he’s gone.”

I couldn’t listen to her anymore. The phone slid out of my hand and dropped somewhere by my feet. I don’t quite remember, but I think my mom called after me as I numbly retreated to my room.

How could someone be there one minute, and gone the next? How could something like that happen to someone so young, so full of potential? How could he just be dead? Dead! At sixteen! And what the hell was he doing on the South Side?

None of this made sense to me. Not that the South Side was crawling with gang activity or drug deals, but it wasn’t the best part of the city our town bordered, and my friends and I just had no business heading down there. There was nothing there for a teenager. So what the hell was Brandon doing?

And that seemed to be the mystery. No one knew why Brandon had gone to the South Side that afternoon, by himself. Either that or no one was talking. Every question and scenario I could think of just ate away at me, until I was finally forced to continue with my regularly scheduled life. But I never forgot, and I never stopped questioning.

The thing is, when you start asking questions and prying for answers, you start getting them – even after you realize it’ll change things for you forever, or get you involved in shit you never wanted to be involved in.

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For your pleasure, The Doors - Riders on the Storm