If you think about the life of a typical teenage girl, it is too busy to keep track of. A fourteen-year-old girl might be caught up in school, drama, or boys. And then there is the vast minority of us who are caught up in music, time, and the rest of the world. I am one of those girls. I wake up everyday waiting for another adventure, preparing myself not for the day, but what questions I will have for the world in that short time. I have very little time from the minute I open my eyes in the morning, until I close them at night. I believe that every moment in my life should be cherished because we are human beings and we are each lucky to be alive. I also believe that every moment to my life should be accompanied with a song to be a harmony to my life, I want to be able to sing my life. Pour my heart and soul out to someone who has no idea that I exist. Keep up with the time and rhythm of my soul. I can keep time now, but not with the rhythm of my soul. It is too complicated to describe the necessities of my hormones, but I can translate it into a harmony and melody in order to tell my story, make my mark.

            A girl my age is supposed to be worried about what boys think and last nights Geometry homework, I on the other hand, am incapable of doing so. All I can think about is the meaning of life and how much time I have left.

            “Emily Thompson!” I hear a voice call out, “Are you in class today?” My Chemistry teacher yells.

            It was then when I realized I was not in my own personal thoughts, but in the dreadful chemistry class. The only thing I can process is that I am still here.

            “Yes,” I stated quietly. “I am here.” I said with a bit more confidence, but still just barely audible.

I slowly retrieve my notebook from my bag and take notes in order to force myself to pay attention to the sound of his tedious voice. Chemistry is going to be the death of me this year. I can already see the headlines of the next school newspaper: Freshman Girl Drops Dead in Chemistry, No Chemicals Involved.

 Finally, after what had seemed like ages, the bell rang. All the students rushed to their next classes, as I stood there and focused on the rhythm of their feet. I hear the soft pattern of “one foot in front of the other” starting to sound like a metronome carefully counting the pace of a lovely song. The lockers slamming starting to sound like cymbals, the tapping’s of pencils starting to sound like drums. The laughter of the other students fade away, I hear the guitar and piano start my piece off.

“This is my time,” I thought to myself. “This is my time to sing.” My thoughts were speaking to me as if it was my Jiminy Cricket.

All of my thoughts were corrupted by the sound of the second bell ringing, signaling me to speed to my next class. As I rushed into Geometry and took my seat I registered how thankful I was that the bell had rang, I would have made a complete fool of myself. I am not ready to break my shell, to share my secrets. My adolescence is not yet ready for the larger astonishments in life. Even though I was pretty sure I was ready five minutes ago, when I almost started singing in the middle of the hallway.

The rest of the day, for me, was a blur. How could I focus when I have a broken record player in my head? While I was supposed to be studying, I was thinking about segments of songs. It was like the artists were trying to send a message to only me and waiting for me to decode it. Each note on the piano, played with such delicacy, so it will not disturb my process of decoding. Each chord on the guitar carefully strummed, in order to make sure I could interpret it correctly. The Cello, Violin, and Viola, sweetly singing their part to reinsure me of the message. Then the lyrics were sung with such confidence. The lyrics hit me hard; they filled my whole body with chills and tingles. The meaning alone was more to me than a human being could ever mean to me. The song has no regret, no sorrow, and no blame.

My subconscious brings it to my attention to look at the time, 4:00pm. I threw my belongings into my bag and ran to my bus, just before it left. I was on the bus, and everyday I resume my position on the moving vehicle. I stick my headphones in my ears and contemplate life. I think about everything I have done, everything I am doing, and anything I might do in the future. I carefully think about my future more specifically because anything I do now can affect that gravely. If I do not make good grades in school now, I will not get into the school I want to, I will not be able to major in the things that I want to, and I definitely will not be able to pursue a career. My decisions now are my future, they tell the story of my future with out me knowing what is to come of it.

When I realized where the bus had stopped, I sped walked off the bus and onto the sizzling sidewalk. I looked down only to find an almost shriveled piece of paper directly at my feet. I picked it up to find a message in illegible handwriting, it looks like it was written by a kindergartener, but I was just barely able to make out the foreign words inscribed on the paper:

“Hey Emily! Meet me tomorrow in the alley behind your house.

                                -Blue Eyes”

If this doesn’t say death threat, I am not sure what does. I tore the little paper with scribbled words into a million pieces and threw it in another direction. I heard footsteps behind me soon after, I refrained from turning around out of fear. I decided to start walking a bit quicker. I made a sharp turn down an alley in which I had never been. I have heard my friend Troy call it “Death’s Trail” and he told me to not go home that way. I have been told that I am stubborn; I suppose I am now falling into that stereotype, but I also could not care less. I walk down the alley, thinking about what Troy said, as I see what looks like a bloody knife.

“Maybe I should turn back,” I thought to myself. “It doesn’t seem very safe here.” I reestablished with myself as I started to smell decay.

I observed my surroundings once again, but this time I realized I was half way to the end, so there was no point in turning back. I found myself breathing heavier, and running. I slowed myself, as I realized that this was gravel and I could very easily slip onto the broken beer bottles covering the area of the ground. I stopped myself completely at the sight of a body sprawled on the ground, there was no blood around it, and so I could not tell if this man was dead or alive. It was making me nervous, but I couldn’t just walk away. I couldn’t just leave this man lying on the ground, silently waiting for death to come and get him. I pulled my smartphone out and dialed 9-1-1.

The ambulance arrived in the next minute, and they started to question me automatically.

“Hello,” The police officer said in a friendly voice. “My name is officer Brown, and I need to ask you a few questions. First of all, what is your name?”

I looked at the officer with slight confusion, as I realized what he was asking me. When I finally assumed I was about to go through the interrogation process, I answered him.

“My name is Emily Maria Johansson,” I said quietly, but still with a hint of pride. “I suppose I should pull up my chair in preparation for the interrogation. Am I correct in thinking so?”

“Well, not quite. I just need to get your information, for the witness protection program offer,” He started to trail off. “And get your side of the story. But it isn’t that big of a deal!”

“Well, ask away. I won’t go anywhere.” I said slightly smiling.

He continued to ask me my information, such as my address, phone number, and parental contact information. Then, he asked what had happened and I had told him in all honesty.

“Well, considering you were too scared to touch the man, or turn him over to find further identity, we did it for you,” He stated calmly, with serious tone. “Do you know this man?”

I looked at the man lying on the cot in front of me. He had a breathing mask over his mouth and IVs hooked to his veins. His brown, messy hair and tan skin reminded me of my brother. His facial features look very similar as well. I snapped out of my thoughts when Officer Brown showed me the driver’s license of the man with tan skin. I read the name: ‘Scott Johansson’. I backed up, as I felt my surroundings start to close in. I looked up and the sky went black.

I woke up to a rather loud beeping noise. Where was I? I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, so the room was still darkened with sleep. I heard footsteps and a female voice that had followed them.

“Mr. Johansson?” I heard her question. “We have given your son, Scott, a heart transplant. However, he will need an abdominal brace and cast. His left lung was almost punctured, but your daughter, Emily, had called us just in time. Speaking of Emily, your daughter is perfectly fine, she only needed a few stitches.”

I heard all of this, knowing that my brother will be okay and that I was alive, made me feel much better. I thought about her last word, stitches. I cringed at that word, I was always afraid of getting them, but I suppose they are in me now, so it doesn’t really matter. I began to open my eyes to locate my father and the nurse.

“She is waking up.” I heard the nurse say to my father in a very calm and gentle voice.

“What happened to me?” I asked with confusion. “I just remember an officer showing me a card, then I don’t remember past that.”

“Well, your brother was beaten up in the ally,” She stated. “He was stabbed very near to the heart, his rib cage was crushed in as well. The broken beer bottles may have been another factor, your brother wasn’t intoxicated, but the person who did it may have been. Whatever happened, Scott was covered in broken glass. When Officer Brown showed you the ID card, you saw that it was your brother and went into shock. You then fainted and fell into the pile of broken beer bottles. The glass cut up your back, so you had to get a few stitches, you will be just fine.”

“And my son?” My dad chimed in. “He had to receive a transplant for his heart, will he be alright?”

The nurse looked at the clipboard in her hand before responding  to my father. This cannot be good.

“We hope that he will be,” She said nervously. “As long as everything goes as expected your son should be fine.”

The nurse exited the room, and my thoughts began to fly around my mind. I could not handle my life if my brother wasn’t in it. I have my parents, but outside of family, I have nothing. Nearly an hour had passed and the doctor came in with news and a sad look disguising his face. He came in and told us that the last surgery had failed, thus the death of Scott Johansson had occurred. Everyone in my life was gone now; I had no purpose for living. When I had fallen in the alley the glass had punctured my back. Slowly making its way to my heart was the one piece of glass that was not pulled out of my flesh. My heart was now failing. My life was failing. I heard doctors yelling to get me back on life support, the beeping got louder and now into a continuous rate. A full-continued beep rang in everyone’s ears and crying of my family rang through mine. I saw all of my life go by very quickly to the tune of “Lullabies” by Yuna. I am now stuck in a deep sleep, forever to be with my brother.