I missed her. I missed everything about her. Her glossy coal hair. Her bambi brown eyes hidden with a tremendous amount of warmth. That darn amazing smile. That sickly sweet voice I used to hate. The way she was way too innocent for her kind. Purely an angel. Lacey, my sweet Lacey, was dead.

I slammed my fist into the hard wall of the gloomy cave and spelled out her name a couple more times with the red speckles that trickled from my wrist. The cave I'm in was surrounded with her name. Should I tell you my story is the question. For you may begin to love Lacey as I did. I'm guessing it's worth the risk.

My name is Ryan Crane and I was once seventeen years old. That year that changed many people but me most of all.







Background history is what makes us the people we are. My mother left me and my father a while back, which made my father a depressed drinker who cared of nothing but himself. That left me to take care of myself and remind my father about the bills, rent, food and all the things in order to live. It’s like he couldn’t function without her. So I grew up without a woman in the house. Several things kept piling up so eventually I became a bitter, sarcastic sort of person. I was the rebel minus the coolness. That is, until I met Lacey.

Now I knew Lacey from elementary school. And I never particularly liked her. She was the girl who would be the only one to finish all the homework and never once boast about it. She’d literally stop traffic to help old ladies cross the road. Not once could you find her not talking or walking with someone with a smile on her face. She volunteered so much that you’d faint. Colleges practically drooled for her application to their school. I always thought she was a fake, I mean no one can be that good without a reason. It was only later that I realized how truly compassionate she was. And still is.





At the subway is where I met her. I was coming home from school and my brain was fried with the Calculus lesson we just had. The last thing I wanted was for Lacey Evans, and her sickly sweet voice, come up to me. She did though and yammered it throughout the ride home. She kept asking me how I was doing and what song I was listening to. Did I want her huge eyes bugging into me? No, I didn’t, so I told her rock. Thinking that would shut her up, she took that as a hint to keep talking. The rest of the time she chattered about the play she was in, Shakespeare’s midsummer night's dream. I was surprised in her sudden enthusiasm in me but also aggravated. I didn’t want anything to do with Little Ms. Sunshine.
The next few subways home she was there too. She kept verbalizing with me like we’ve known each other forever. After some time, even though I wanted to deny it, I looked forward to the subways home. Something about her made me just spill. Next thing you know I was letting my pent up anger about my “mother” release. It felt good; it’s been there for nearly 11 years. Was she naturally so charismatic? She made me feel so original. I could feel myself transforming when I was around her. When she talked about helping the orphanage or raising money for cancer, I wasn’t numb anymore. I could feel the hidden emotion rise and actually care. Her delicate voice softened up the hard rock inside me.

The afternoon that changed everything was April 19th. I remember everything. It all started normally. She was chatting away about a fundraiser and invited me to join her. It wasn’t something new because I’ve done it a lot with her, but I noticed a strange notebook of hers that wasn’t usually around. I pulled it out of her arms carefully and opened it with ease. Inside, I found paragraphs and paragraphs of writing. About me. She had wrote all the smallest details about me in the book. Anger filled inside me and I didn’t think after that. She used me, I remember thinking. Shocked as I was, I showed the notebook to her and I immediately saw the regret in her eyes. I remember her explaining how sorry she was and that a writing program wanted a confused character part of the story. She said she never intended to actually to send the writing in but I didn’t care. I was so senseless that I threw out insults at her like anything. I left her hanging there, pain filling her eyes, and went home a stop earlier than I usually did. I went home in a fury.






The next day I found out that the subway crashed. Lacey was in that subway. Lacey crashed. I went to the hospital only to find out that there was no hope. Lacey was dead. Denial flooded through me. It was my entire fault. As untrue as it was I thought that if hadn’t blown up she would have been alive.






It’s been 15 years now and I just now saw her. Kneeling in front of her grave I’m crying, pleading for her forgiveness. “I’m sorry Lacey”, is the only thing I can say now. I know I’m not the one who killed her but I can’t help but feel that way. Lacey was more than just the girl I loved and trusted, she helped me become the guy I’m today. With her constant patience and confidence in me, she showed me more than just what there is in life. She showed me the depths of a human heart. How far she would go just to help someone says something about her. Lacey was the miracle of my life.






Bending down to put flowers I whispered, “Goodbye Lacey, you’ll always be with me”.