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After: Be There


Ashley

"Get up!" I shrieked at Chris. He was staring at the TV, shock written all over his face. I had a feeling my face looked very similar. "GET UP!" I cried.

Chris blinked away the devastation his face, "Fuck," he whispered.

"GET UP!"

"Why?" he looked at me. "What good is getting up gonna do?" he demanded.

Instead of answering him, I started sobbing. "I don't know!" I cried, "I don't know. Fucking hell, Chris... We need to - to - to help or - or to - to --" I was shaking. I felt like every organ in my body had been ripped out. The TV was still flashing pictures of the plane, the dark black billowing smoke rolling out of its crushed engine like something from a movie as firemen worked to hose it down. Ambulances, police vehicles, fire trucks, you name it, they surrounded the scene. There were people everywhere, rushing around behind the news anchor, a woman whose two piece skirt suit was a vivid color of plum that matched her lipstick perfectly. Among the passangers was Nick Carter of Backstreet Boys fame, she'd said, showing a picture of Nick taken the year before for the NKOTBSB promotion.

Just that simply. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Shit Ashley, how the hell are we supposed to help?" Chris asked, looking frustrated as I felt.

"I don't know," I sobbed.

Chris stood up and stepped over to me. He pulled me into him and I just let it happen. I pressed my face into his chest. "I wanted him to be hiding here," I sobbed.

"I know," Chris said. He rubbed my back. "I told you, he ain't though."

"I wanted you guys to be smoking pot in the basement," I cried.

"We don't do that anymore, you know that," Chris said.

"But it was better than him being hurt," I pressed my face into his chest.

Chris didn't reply. He was very still.

"We need to go to the hospital," I gasped. I pulled back. "Chris, we need to go to the hospital."

"They're not going to let us in, Ash," he said, "We aren't his family."

"Oh fuck his family," I choked. "They aren't here for him, as usual. I'm here for him. I'm his family."

Chris sighed, "Ash, they won't let you in."

"But he needs me," I said thickly, "I need him."

"They didn't... they didn't say he's okay," Chris said quietly.

I looked up at him, "That's why we need to go to the hospital," I said.

"No... Ashley, you don't get what I'm saying." Chris looked pale. "They would've said it if he was okay."

"What?"

"If Nick was okay. They would've said something like nobody was hurt or something."

I stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Chris hesitated.

I realized what he was saying. I shoved back from him like shrapnel. "Shut the fuck up," I said. Then, louder, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Ashley, I just --"

"SHUT UP!" I yelled. I felt like I was going to throw up. "Chris," I said, "He can't. He can't. No. I need to get there. I need to talk to him. He has to be okay. I told him a lie last night. He needs to hear the truth."

"What?"

"Chris, please. I just need to be there."




Nick

I only vaguely remember when they found me. I couldn't remember being dead yet at that point. It was part of the foggy past. It wasn't until later that I remembered my talk with Leslie. When they found me, I was drowning in confusion, unsure where I was or what was going on other than the wavering, flashing lights and the fact that I needed to hear Ashley again. Some part of me worried that I'd been abducted by aliens or something, that's how foreign and strange everything seemed. So when these guys in hazmat suits came in and started cutting away the seatbelt from me, I fought them. I struggled to escape. No words would come out of me, I was that scared, so I just tried to shake them off silently, desperately.

"It's okay son, we're here to help," came a muffled, yelling voice.

The next thing I knew I was being moved forcibly to another table, strapped down again, still struggling. It wasn't until I could no longer move and got a good look around that I realized that I wasn't being abducted. I was on the plane, I remembered. I was staring up at the rounded ceiling, lined by two rows of storage compartments, broken open and spilling out their guts of luggage all over the place. I rolled my head to the side and saw the dark blue flesh of the seats, and the tiny porthole windows. There was an orange glow outside the window.

I looked up at the guys with the hazmat suits as they moved. I could see the beads of sweat on their brows. They wore looks of fearful, focused determination. Heroes, I thought, They're heroes. And I stopped struggling.

They moved me out of the plane, and the wreckage became apparent to me as they carried me quickly away. The nose of the plane was smashed into the ground like a bent paper cup and one of the wings was missing. The tail stuck up in the air, the windows were shattered. Fire was consuming the ground around the plane, which sat in the center of a suburban neighborhood. A mailbox stood less than ten feet away from what used to be the cockpit.

I looked up at the hazmat guys. They were pulling off their helmets and talking rapidly in loud voices to guys in blue scrubs as they put me down on a gurney, which I was again strapped down to. Like I was gonna go anywhere. And the guy in scrubs leaned over me and he shouted, "My name is Dave. Can you tell me your name?"

My mouth floundered for words, my lips quivered. "Nick," I gasped out the word.

"Okay, Nick. We're gonna get you feeling better, okay?" Dave's eyes were boring into mine.

I struggled to nod.

Dave started touching my arms and legs, "Can you feel my hand, Nick?" he asked, "Can you feel this?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay. What hurts, Nick?"

I didn't know how to answer him.

"Tell me Nick what hurts the most right now?" he asked again. I felt like I was being lifted into the air, and the ceiling of the ambulance came into view beyond Dave's face, but he never went away.

"Ashley," I answered.

"What was that?" Dave asked, bending closer.

"Ashley," I repeated.

Dave looked back at the hazmat guys. "Was there someone with him?" he shouted.

"I need Ashley," I gasped.

Dave looked back at me, "Where was Ashley seated?" he asked.

"Home," I answered.

"She isn't with you?" Dave asked.

"No," I said.

"How about you tell me about Ashley, while I start getting you fixed up, okay?" Dave suggested. "Tell me about her. Is she your girlfriend?"

"No."

A woman in scrubs reached over for my arm and stuck a needle in me. I felt the burning sensation of drugs entering my system.

"She's a good girl," I whispered, "She loves her mama. Loves Jesus, and America too. She's a good girl, crazy about Elvis. She loves horses..."

Dave gave me a funny look.

"I'm a bad boy for breaking her heart."

"Is he singing that Tom Petty song?" the woman with the needle asked.

"I think so," Dave said.

"I'm a bad boy for breaking her heart," I repeated, and I closed my eyes.