Through the Windshield Glass Read Online Free Page B

that she did that?” Daman asked, “If she hadn’t, would you still be alive?”
    I was taken
aback by Daman’s straightforwardness, how could he have inferred something like
that? It seemed as though he already knew my entire life story and was just
asking me questions to keep from sounding like a dead, and admittedly very
attractive, stalker.
    “No,” I said,
“I mean, yeah, I‘d still be alive, I died on the way home from her house. But
no, I’m not mad because I‘m dead, I‘m mad that she killed herself, it was
selfish and stupid. She could’ve figured it out, she had two little brothers,
and her dad was already widowed. My parents have Lacey still, and each other.
They have the support they need, soon they’ll move on and everything will go
back to normal for them. But Maria’s dad will never be the same."
    "You know
it will never be normal for them again. And what about your little
sister?" Daman responded.
    "I
know," I said, and unexpectedly tears were in my eyes. I pushed my palms
into my eyes and rubbed until my head hurt and stars flirted with my eyelids. I
hadn't wanted to die! It wasn't fair that I had to! I was only seventeen! And I
was so sick of crying! I had repressed everything for so long that my control
had finally cracked under the pressure and I was providing water works to rival
my mother’s at sappy romance movies.
    Daman sensing
my distress reached over to pat my back. The second we touched the strangest
feeling I've ever had washed over me. It wasn't like when we had shaken hands,
which had been formal and awkward; this touch was different, slightly more
intimate. Whoever or whatever was controlling the happenings of the door seemed
to understand that. The moment we touched a connection was formed that we
couldn't break.
    A rush of
images flew past my eyes, but they weren't from my own life, they were from
Daman's. I saw a little kid with a mess of dark hair and bright blue eyes
playing on a cardboard box that was sitting in a patch of dead grass. I saw
Daman at seven years old, watching from a dark hall as a man beat a frail young
woman. Daman became increasingly depressed; I watched two suicide attempts, and
many self-punishments. Followed by fights at school, fights at home with the
violent man; always ending in Daman losing, running, tail between his legs, to
lick his wounds and hate himself in privacy.
    Each day was
agony; I could feel the inhumane amounts of pressure that had been crushing
Daman since his father left him. With every blink he wished his eyes would
never open again; every sneeze left him hoping his heart would stop beating
permanently. My skin was irritated from the constant anxiety that accompanied
the show, I wanted to break away, chills raced up my back and terror prickled
the back of my skull.
    Then, finally,
I watched as Daman was sitting in a science class. No one was paying attention,
heads were down, glassy eyes stared at the chalkboard, and informative words
fell on deaf, uncaring ears.
    　 Daman was the first to see that
the kid entering the room had a gun. As if in slow motion, the gun was raised.
    "Jack,
what are you doing?" Daman asked. He stood up, arms tensed, stance firm
and demanding; ready for a fight.
    The boy with
the gun, Jack, flicked the nose of the weapon at the girl next to Daman,
"She doesn't belong here; she's worthless. Have you seen what she wears to
school, no one owns that much black without being evil. I'm saving everyone by
doing this," Jack pointed the gun at the girl once more. Daman reacted
quickly by stepping in front of her, shielding her from the danger intended for
her.
    "Daman,
move," the girl whispered. She was much shorter than he, dressed head to
foot in a high collared, floor sweeping, lacy black dress. Her nails were
black; gauges drooped from both ears, along with many other facial piercings. I
didn't want to admit it, but I would have avoided her like the plague, the
white blonde hair alone would have frightened me