Chapter One: Pilot.

Whenever I think back to that night I came back from Brandon Lanchester's party during the second year of senior high school, I could only think of four words;

I don't regret it.

From drinking my tenth cup of gin and vodka mixed punch from the kitchen of Brandon's apartment and making the decision to drive myself home, I don't regret one bit. Now, saying that would seem like I did want that black Ford truck to ram into the driver side of my Audi, because heck- that was the scariest thing in my life. You may be wondering how in the hell I went from senior basketball player to random dude at school with only one and a half working legs.

I don't know where to start, honestly; maybe I should kick it off with a normal "the beaming laser lights illuminated the room with such a youthful, teenager gleam as the thick smell of alcohol hovered over the dancing shadows and figures of JFK high school", or maybe you'd like to know about the moment I didn't see the rapid movement of a car in my blindside on the bustling highway after deciding to (being the stupid teenager I was) drive myself home.

Now save me the "you're supposed to know better" bogus, because I've heard that enough times in my life to last me my entire existence, so try driving home after downing half a dozen cups of alcohol while trying to pay attention to the roads and the cars, and not the black, green and red spots dancing around your head like tweety birds.

From the moment the hard impact of the truck's hood collided with my small car, I couldn't comprehend anything else other than the shock of pain, washing through my entire body and the sound of blood rushing to my head as me and my vehicle tumbled thrice- I know, who even counts when they're literally flying across the road like tumbleweed?

The next thing I knew, I was on the hardest bed I've ever slept on with a soft, white blanket covering me.

You must be thinking; "poor Clayton, he must have not handled his leg fracture and totally desolated life well". Hell yeah. At that moment, I thought that maybe, just maybe, karma was coming after me; that karma had this plan to wipe out my life and take everything I've ever loved away from me. Basketball, school, friends, everything. It really did seem like that at the moment, but truthfully, I couldn't have been more thankful.

And it really all started with day one of therapy at St. John Hospital.

Day one; the day I started to believe angels existed.

You must really be getting "Me, Earl and the Dying Girl" vibes- with the title, the storyline and etcetera. Trust me, I already feel like Greg Gaines as I write this book for you, like how he wrote an essay about Rachel after she died. But again, the girl in my book (unlike Rachel) really doesn't die in the end. Really.

"Clayton." Dr. Hawkes (my therapist) was scribbling down notes about my behavior as I watched a clock on the wall click with every second that passed, a pair of thin glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, making him look a bit older than forty-eight. I could feel his eyes skim over me, watching my every move as I anxiously tapped the floor with my space jam sneakers. If you were to ask me, his name served him right.

"Say, doctor Hawkes, do you happen to have a sister named Sparrow? Cause' I gotta swear I saw her in a tree when I was on my way here." now I know, that was even as lame as an oompa loompa skydiving with Wonka. Don't ask me about the reference; I'm just trying to be humorous.

"Don't stall with me Mr. Deluca. Answer the question so we can rid of this torture that both of us know won't help you." his tone was stern, but still hiding his comfort and concern for me. At the time this moment happened, I was infuriated that a middle-aged man that looked old enough to be a guest at The Last Supper (okay, that was an overreach) would say that to me, but looking back now, I think I'd rather have him say that to me instead of lying to my face and say "you'll be okay". Because (spoiler alert, my friends-) I was never okay.

I sighed.

"What was the question again?" doctor Hawkes (or Christopher) took off the glasses from his nose, closed it and settled it right beside him on the black leather couch. I'm not sure if I was laying down the entire time, but I remember at that moment, sitting up from my position to slump in my seat, the movement causing a shrill of pain to wash through my entire right leg.

"Have you tried talking to someone?" that question earned a bitter laugh from me, like that laugh you force out when somebody says an insult about you that you already know is true. "Isn't that what I'm doing right now? Talking to someone?" my arms crossed over the chest as my eyebrows quirked upwards.

"I meant to a friend. A close friend?" I don't have any friends, I wanted to tell him. I lost them the week before, the same day I lost myself.

"I thought we were friends? I thought we were close friends?" I placed a hand on my chest dramatically, leaning back the slightest as if a thunderbolt ricocheted off my body.

"Clayton." doctor Hawkes sighed, rubbing his temples with annoyance. I slumped further in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable spot before deciding to finally stand up and just walk around. Of course, my legs didn't magically start working at that time, so I had to use the horrible clutches- at least only one to settle under my right arm.

On Christopher's desk were tons of picture frames of a little girl; she was short, maybe three or four years old. Her dark auburn hair (though she didn't have much) was in a ponytail on one photo; her bright, youthful smile showed not only the contentment she was captivated in, but the one missing tooth on the front of her smile.

Then I came across another photo; one that could have killed me on the spot.

She looked much older- much more gorgeous than one could comprehend; her hair was a slightly brighter red cut a bit shorter, up to her neckline.

The many strands were wavy and curled to the finest, making her look so wild-in a good way. And her eyes...gosh, her eyes were piercing blue, grey and all the colors that filled the sky. Freckles dusted around her face and around those icy orbs of hers. They were like oceans within a blazing inferno, at the time I feared that if I were to look at them much longer, I'd drown. The thing is, I didn't think I'd want to come out for air.

"Are you done going through my life?" Hawkes appeared beside me, his eyes intently scorching through every frame of the little girl. "Who is she?" I asked, still skimming over the most recent photo of her. Well, it wasn't very recent, but she was older; she looked at least seventeen.

"My daughter." I caught the smile on his face; Hawkes looked a lot more alive and more happier when he talked about her.

"How old is she now?"

"Wait- this is a therapy for you, not for old men like me." Hawkes sighed, rubbed his face with both his hands and returned to his seat, leaving me there, admiring the beauty in a frame.

"Before we close off the session for today, I suggest you talk to someone. Besides me. Talk to your grandmother or something." I scoffed, walking off to the couch to pick up my bags. Earlier that session, I told Christopher about my dad who (as cliché as it sounds) was too busy to ask how his son's academics were. Needless to say, his condition.

I bet you're thinking it's the usual Wattpad story about a bad boy who's parents were business addicts and didn't care about their son, therefore influences happened, yadda yadda, abandonment and depression.

In a sense, I guess that would have been pretty relatable to my case during the time but, it was just my dad in general- I mean, he's no business man, but he travels a lot and was just too carefree about his family.

Even if I was the only family he had.

"Sure, I'll talk to my grandmother. If she ever comes back to life." hauling my bag over my shoulder, I made my way to the exit, not wanting to say "goodbye" or "thanks for the session", because;

I don't like my therapist. And,

I don't like my therapist.

"Your grandmother is in a coma Clayton. She isn't dead. She can still hear people."

I laughed.

"No she can't- she's seventy-nine for pete's sake!" I threw my left arm in the air with desperation, a sour and wry smile fading from my face. Christopher sighed and looked over to me.

Two months before that day, my grandmother had a stroke that was so serious, it put her in a coma and even though she was old, fragile and not going to survive longer, her caretaker wouldn't let the doctors take her off life support. So, the old lady's heart kept beating for that time being. I thought it was a miracle- how she had a stroke, died for five minutes and slept for months but still survived. My mom said I had a heart like her, which I never believed.

"Clayton, just talk to anyone. Please? Otherwise, your dad will sue me." he joked as I went for the office door. "Nice to know you care about me." were my last words before taking my leave, passing a secretary on the way.

"Have a nice day Mr. Deluca." the middle-aged woman waved me off with a smile, a hidden glint of sympathy gathered in her eyes. Right, pity. The look I hated the most that entire year.

As soon as I pushed the exit door open, an instant rush of air pushed against my skin and the smell of winter's start was thick in the cold air. I sighed, a puff of white clouds forming centimeters from my face and fading no less than three seconds later.

Now the rest of that day is just a faded memory of the regiment I was given no choice but to follow; go home, study, eat, try to forget, then sleep.

It was what I did every day since the accident, and really it just felt as if I was repeating a day over and over without actually living. Like when we watch our favorite movie and repeat one scene until we get tired of it- that's exactly how I felt. My life was repeating and I was getting tired of it. Weeks before that, I was a regular kid with friends and reasons to live. After the crash, I was just a regular kid labeled as a one-legged freak.

Everything felt like a scene on repeat, until the moment I actually felt my heart stop. I actually felt drawn towards someone in a way that made me so angry- the fact that I thought I had everything, but I was missing her and the feeling I felt when I first laid my eyes on her. I mean, not physically- I only saw her picture frame, but despite that, the sudden urge to throw away my old thoughts and replace them with thoughts of her overtook me.

And truthfully, it would be the worst lie I'd ever had to tell if I said I didn't want it to.