AURORA

I am sitting, on the roof of the ice cream place downtown, possibly the easiest roof to get too, a small table and a pipe to pull myself up by. It's cold, and my lack of jacket has goosebumps forming on my skin. Being comfortable, isn't why I'm up here though. Surrounded by cigarette butts and the pigeon shit this is the opposite of serene, which is loud, and violent. But if it were serene, the images from the past nights would flicker through my head. I couldn't do that to myself. In my hand, the flask, which I'd somehow kept in my pocket throughout all of those events taunted me. I took a sip, the tequilla punch mix burning my throat. I wanted to spit it out, but I couldn't. I swallowed, hard. Capping the flask I sighed. 
         I'd always loved this roof, when my first boyfriend had broken up with me I had came and sat here for three hours, looking at the streetlights and watching the cars pass by. I knew from the cigarettes that other people came up here sometimes, but I was praying it was not tonight. The last thing I wanted to see was another human being. To her credit, when Hannah had come to pick me up at the police station she hadn't said anything. We'd acted in tandem as she showed me to my room in her two bedroom apartment, and placed a towel on my bed suggesting I might shower. I had, and I'd stood there watching the water swirl at my feet, feeling nothing but numb. 
         It had been three days, 72 hours, and 259200 seconds since I'd watched my childhood home burn. I'm wearing the same clothes I was then, the same jeans and plain black long sleeve. I haven't dared look in a mirror, in the past days. I'm too afraid my face will be unrecognizable. Hannah sat me down yesterday and told me, it was okay to grieve. According to Google people grieve differently, some become loud and violent and some become silent. I think in unspoken agreement both of the sisters became silent. 
          I take another swig, wincing again. My phone lights up then, I set the flask down and look at it. It's Addison my best friend. She's texted me the total of thirty times in the past three days, All of which I haven't answered. I sigh, and open it you okay? it reads. I put my phone down and tilt my head up to the sky. I wish for a minute that I fall off the roof. So I don't have to go on, and realize there will be no father to walk me down the isle, no mother to congratulate me on my first child. There will only be my sister and poor brother.
            The smell that reaches my nose is one of marijuana. I turn to look, ambling toward me is a tall figure, a man illuminated in the streetlights. I frown, he isn't familiar and you'd think in such a small town he would be.
              "Hey." His voice was deep, and breathy, like he'd just run up the stairs to the roof. In his hand, was half a joint still lit.
            "Hey?" I asked. As he approached me and the light shown more on his face, I did recognize him. Logan Miller, captain of the hockey team. He had dark brown curly hair, and soft brown eyes. He had the most athletic build of anyone I'd ever met. He came and sat beside me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing. He gave me a strange look.

"You smell like alcohol." He intoned, and I nodded.

"You smell like weed." I quipped and he smirked.

"To'uche." 

"Why are you up here?" I asked, taking another swig. In the dim lighting, I saw him raise an eyebrow. 

"I could ask you the same thing." 

"Didn't really know where else to go." I admitted. He nodded, he offered me the joint. I took it, and inhaled. I'd never smoked, and I began coughing, as I handed it back to him. He chuckled. His voice was low, and inticing. I scowled inwardly for allowing me to think that about the stranger on the roof sitting next to me.

"Me neither." He said sighing. I laughed softly. The sound of a firetruck blared in my ears and I cringed inwardly. 

"I hate that sound." I said. 

"Yeah, why?" He asked. 

"That's the sound that played when my parents died." I said.

"Shit, I'm sorry. When did that happen?" He asked softly. 

"Two days ago." 

"Holy shit, you need this more than me." He said, and passed me the joint again. This time, I took a long hit. 

"Thanks." 

"There's support groups for that shit you know." He said. I nodded. There was, groups where you sit around in a circle and talked about how traumatized you were by the death of your parents, siblings or friends. Groups where kids went before they ended up as drug addicts, or school shooters. After growing up raised by people who taught me about appearances, the likelihood I went to one of those groups was low. But, I'd always thought the 

"You never answered my question." I told him. 

"Why am I here?" He asked I nodded in response.

"I come up here to think, or when I need some space." He said.  I got that, we fell into a calm silence. I basked in the high, and tipsiness I felt. The best I'd felt for the last 48 hours. I lay on my back, my head pressed to the cold roof.