October 1st 1994,
15 minutes since.
The pierce of my phone's ringing would have been enough to wake me up, had I have been asleep. I answer with an exaggerated annoyance to my voice, trying to convince whoever is on the other end that I'm more pissed off than I am.
“Yo, it's past midnight, who the fuck is this?”
I'm met with a familiar voice, only it's broken; half as sincere, twice as soft.
“Al? It's Sam. I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but I felt you should hear it from me now and not from the girls bathroom wall on Monday…”
I listen, half awake, and wait for my turn to speak. But when it comes, I'm speechless, so she speaks for me.
“I know it's fucked up and you must feel awful. I know how much it hurts. God. I saw her today, Al. Like five fucking hours ago. I wish I stayed with her, I knew how she was. I knew what she was going to do. God I'm such an idiot.”
I still can't speak, but neither can she. For a moment, we wait in the dark. I feel something within me twist and struggle, writhing against my stomach. Sick. Am I going to be sick?
Samantha’s crying now. I want to comfort her, but I can only breathe one word.
The downpour outside begins to slowly rise again, pushing through my walls and up close against me. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I glance at the dimly lit clock on my desk. It's 0:47. I can't speak. My friend is dead.