Crying Over Spilt Milk

February 1, 2010
The flimsy, cardboard milk carton tipped onto its side, as if in slow motion. The creamy white liquid spread out over the granite countertop and, as it reached the edge and spilled over onto the floor, made a splattering noise, almost like that of rain on the roof of a house.

In the next second, I glanced down at the puddle on the floor, which was still growing, and began to cry. Tears began to roll down my face, dripping down my chin and into the pressed collar of my polo shirt. I staggered backwards to sit down in one of the wooden stools by the countertop and buried my face in my hands, messing up my neatly combed hair.

My sister’s tiny teacup chihuahua, Lucy, trotted over to where I was sitting and nuzzled her nose against my perfectly pressed khakis, as if to comfort me.

I looked up and stared out the window at the rising sun, wishing I had done things differently, that I had somehow been able to prevent Mike from dying after what I had done.

Mike didn’t deserve it, he’d been the best kid around. He’d had stellar grades, been star of the football team, and was probably the most popular guy too. And it wasn’t popularity like the-guy-everyone-wanted-to-be. He could name almost anyone you pointed out and be able to go over and start and conversation with them, would actually point the freshman in the right direction if they needed it, and joined each club thinking about doing something he enjoyed, not about how amazing it would look on his transcripts. Someone with such good intentions shouldn’t have had to die so young.

But the fact of the matter was that it did happen. The crash had happened, and I had lost my best friend, right when I needed him the most.

He would never experience the things I would. He wouldn’t graduate from high school and go to college, he wouldn’t get married and have a family, or live to see the beautiful sunrise that was rising right before my eyes that morning.

The last thing he would have seen before dying would have been the bright headlights of my car, speeding towards him as I blew through the red light by the cemetery, the same cemetery incidentally that he would later be buried in.

I blew through the light so fast in my friend Dan’s old Toyota Camry that I didn’t even see him coming, too drunk out of my mind to think straight. This was my fault. Everything. Mike dying, the spilt milk, what next? My life was spinning out of control and, unable to stop it, I laid my face in my hands again and simply let the tears fall.

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