Life's Movie

A/N: This is an idea I’ve had for a long time, and I was actually saving it for… I’m not sure what… but it just feels like it needs to be written now. This chapter is very short, it’s the prologue, and others will be longer and less introductory. I know where I want to go with this, I know its middle and its end, and I am inspired to write it all.
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I would say I was a pretty normal kid. I followed the fads, wearing the baggy-pants/boxers combination and then moving onto the skinny girl jeans. I think all of that changed when, being a normal fifteen year old, I easily succumbed to the pressure of alcohol.

It’s like this. I knew everyone did it and I knew I’d look like a loser if I chickened out. I have the complex that every teenager does – the one where I’m self-conscious to the point of being a duplicate of everyone else at my school. Where was my originality? Listen here, originality lost its appeal years ago.

So I was there, skinny jeans and all. My hair, dyed a bleached blond that contrasted with the junk outlining my eyes, was matted with sweat because of the hazy atmosphere. I was apprehensive. This wasn’t my scene, the musky stench of drunken bodies and loud, overplayed radio music blaring above and around me.

Davis and Nate were party animals. They’re my best friends – were. Were. What are friends again? Definitely not potheads that ditch you in the middle of a grassy abandoned road where you just –

Wait. This part came later. I was at the party see, and I was scared shitless. The guy who invited us, his name was something adorable like Dennis … or something… it’s funny how trivial things like a cute guy’s name are now. But, he was cute and I couldn’t resist gulping down my first beer after his minute encouragement.

I didn’t know I had it in me. Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately – my entire night was caught on tape by Rebecca Jenkins. It was the hard ass evidence that got me convicted because there was no doubt that I was heavily drunk that night. I say fortunately because I needed to get busted. Even with a justice system as fucked up as ours, I think they sometimes get things right.

Like when they told my lawyer to screw off because there was no way I was getting out of this one. He was free; apparently, every criminal had the right to consult with one. Criminal. Yeah, that’s me.

I’m Patrick Darcy. You would know that already, though, seeing as how I made the front page of the Evening Journal for three weeks straight. They couldn’t release my picture, I was a youth offender, but even in confidence everyone knew. Things happen that way in a small town like mine.

Somehow, I think the worst part of it all was the fact it all happened in a small town. Probably because the guy I destroyed had a face, a name and a life; I knew who he was before my car even turned the corner.

I managed to survive. Hell, I did better than survive. I suffered a mild concussion and my arm was in a cast for about a month. My car was in worse shape. It’s kind of like a miracle – I was barely injured after smashing him with my used Toyota Corolla, but my car is being torn apart right this minute for parts. I believed in God, but this was just a fucked up way for Him to roll.

Edwin Carter was an innocent. Get this. He was actually driving to the party I was at to drop his drunk as fuck sister home. I remember stumbling out of my car, sobering up quickly, and wanting to cry. I don’t think I did because I was too afraid to cry. Crying made things real.

Instead, I dizzily made my way to his busted up car. I can’t remember what model it was – I wasn’t interested in that – but it was tiny; even more so when it was crushed like an accordion from front to middle.

I did something worse than kill Edwin. Instead of letting him bleed out, I tried to wake him and called the police. I guess I slurred over the phone because I was taken away and handcuffed not one minute after they arrived.

I put Edwin in a coma.

I think I already mentioned I was a youth offender. I didn’t go to jail for six, ten, twenty years, but it wasn’t as simple as putting forth some cash either. My dad’s a rich guy in town, he owns one of the only oil companies around, but no influence he had was going to get me out of my punishment.

Because I was underage and my only crime was truly driving under influence - I lacked the “mens rea” or some crap like that in order to get charged for attempted murder – I didn’t have to get shipped away to any weird country or enroll in military school. My mother was ecstatic but I felt my sentence was a million times worse than that.

I was sentenced to community service, but not the kind one would think. My responsibility for two years, or until Edwin woke up, was walking down to Rutherford Hospital everyday from four to seven PM and watching my victim’s face as I played the part of a neuropatient volunteer.

I dyed my hair back to its normal colour; that’s why it’s this dull brown. I figured if I had filmed this while looking like the delinquent that put Edwin in the hospital I’d not only spur stereotypes but my whole project would lose its effect. I said I knew who Edwin was, but only by stray glances in Calculus class or when he’d walk past my house with his dog tugging on his leash. I don’t think I spoke a single word to him for all of my sixteen years.

Yeah, sixteen. The trial took place a few days before my birthday. I didn’t get one birthday present, unless the sudden spike in our miniature economy for eggs – which were later thrown at my window when I was under house arrest for a few weeks – count as gifts. That’s how this idea came about.

Edwin, I’m Patrick Darcy. For my birthday, I’m going to give you a gift. I’m going to film everything about life I can until you wake up. And shit. You better wake up.

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Patrick fumbled a bit while trying to get out of his seat on his mother’s best kitchen chair. He was caught on tape for a few more seconds walking over to the camera, but with an even click, the picture of his thin body disappeared from the lens.

It was his first day leaving the house in two weeks, and it was the third week anniversary of the accident. The tragedy, that’s what they called it in the paper. He tucked his camera in his over-the-shoulder backpack along with a small notepad and his iPod. A few more things jutted out of the fabric and he zipped it with a bit of difficulty before slinging it on and staring at the door.

Finally sighing, he swung it open and heard his mother honk from his left. She was waiting for him not too patiently, seeing as how many of the neighbours were staring. Patrick swallowed uneasily before walking down the concrete steps and past a flourishing garden to the car that would take him to Edwin. That was the milestone, he later decided. That was the car ride that changed his life.