fiction by Aaron Abel
The day Ethan died was the first day it snowed. None of us really knew how to feel or what to say. To be honest, I didn’t really know him that well. I stared outside my bedroom window, standing close to it and leaning my forehead against the frozen glass. The aura of fluorescent streetlight illuminated the snow, making it look more blue than white as tiny flakes rapidly fell. It was 10:45. I had just gotten off the phone with Jon; he was one of the first to find out. He was eavesdropping on his mom while she was on the phone with someone else’s mom. Jon said Ethan drank half of a bottle of wine and took a handful of whatever he could find in his parents’ bathroom. Then he lay in bed and that was the end. He fell asleep and never woke up.