Member-only story
Casey wrote the story of her life on thin white napkins, pulling them again and again from the silver dispenser at the window end of the diner’s sticky table. In purple ink she spelled out tales of heartbreak and neglect, of bad boys and selfish parents. Not even halfway through her story, the Greyhound bus beckoned her to new freedom. She shoved the napkins into her hoodie pocket, dropped two dollars on the table for her sugared coffee and ran headlong across the highway.
The low front bumper of Terrence’s dad’s rusted red Mustang caught her at the knees. Stoned again, Terrence had overcorrected for the sharp right curve. The tires screeched. Too late.
Like delicate white butterflies released from a cage, Casey’s life story fluttered away across the dormant autumn fields.
Through the murky diner glass, Raquel watched the girl’s body fly through the air, landing with a crumpled crash on the dirt shoulder.
“Jesus!” came the cry from the old man at the counter.
“At least she went with the dream still real,” Raquel whispered.
The old man cocked an eyebrow. Raquel shook her head. Blowing a heavy blonde bang from the corner of her crow’s feet, she shoved Casey’s tip into her apron pocket and finished wiping the table with a damp, gray rag before calling 911.
