A girl from my town died in a car accident a few days ago. She and her cousin, 18 and 13 respectively, were pronounced dead at the scene. The photo I saw of the car (curse my google skills) was horrific, not because it was especially mangled, but more because it was so fucking intact. There inside that hulk of metal, a thirteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old had died. Lies, graft, and corruption.
When I read the PDF of the Colfax Bulletin article my parents sent, I began to cry. I don't know exactly why. I knew her, but not well. The clearest memory I have of her is from probably five years ago when we took our cats in to get shots or something. She was at the vet, helping out; she was neighbors with the vet and loved animals. I was jealous. I loved animals. Did I get to help the vet? No. Nonetheless, I tried to be polite. I spent the entire time trying to remember her name. She was nice, I knew that, and not from the best family. I seemed to remember or sense that she had a hard life, and I wanted to be extra nice to her. Getting a grasp of her name just before we left, I awkwardly mispronounced it as I headed out the door. I always did feel bad about the whole episode. I hadn't even remembered it; I had heard the vet say it. I wish I could get it right.
Rest in peace, Chantel.