~ Crash ~

There's something about road trips that puts everyone on nerve's end. Maybe it's the packing. Maybe it's the leaving. Or maybe the darkness of the road is absorbed by the car and those on it.

"Marshall, you can not just take a break from school. I simply won't allow it."

She turned around in her seat so she could see me; her daggers were flying with impeccable speed. She was notorious for attacking you more with her eyes than her mouth. She could make you feel pitiful, embarrassed, or regretful. Luckily, living with a person that has that ability really forces you to learn how to fight back.

I scowled. "Mom, I'm almost 18. You're just lucky I'm not off partying while you and Dad work all day. It's not like I have anything better to do." 

Her eyes widened in momentary realization, then quickly squinted back into position as if recognizing the ploy. She turned around furiously and crossed her arms. That's what she always did when she didn't know how to retaliate to something I'd said. 

Mom was usually gentle and peaceful, but got mad easily when it came to family disputes. She'd never really been one to have her people rebelling- she was queen, and what she said, went. Much like the graceful lionesses of the African savannas, Mom loved her children more than anything in the world. I had one brother before me who had gone off to college the year before: Michael. He always knew how to handle her; so accepting of apparent reality. Me? Not so much. But deep down, I knew Mom only had feelings of love and protection for me.

Dad reached over and put one hand in Mom's, leaving the other to take over the steering. Dad was a romantic, constantly looking for something to remind her of his affection. However, his romanticism didn't stop with Mom: Dad would make up all sorts of ways to make sure that we, his children, knew he loved us, too. When we were younger, goofy things like 'I love you more' contests kept us entertained. As we got older, we did more things together like movies and meals out. 

He was the best there was at making me feel loved.

I yanked my earphones from my left pocket where they always sat. Shoving one end into my phone and the other into my ears, I went to turn on my favorite tunes: Deadmau5. Some people think that they play music for the devil or something, but I'd learned better. Never judge a vinyl by its cover. If you were to really take in the music, their songs create feelings previously unheard of, mixing synthesizers with the drum pad to make you feel two, three, four different emotions at once. Sometimes, the whole song is one, big message, but other times it tells a story. 

I booted up the Music app on my phone. I had previously sorted most of the Deadmau5 music into three different playlists: Happy, Sad and Frustrated. I didn't believe in having playlists with descriptive or negative emotions; Deciding what general feeling existed was the first step to therapy. I opened up my Frustrated playlist and hit the shuffle button. 

Ripping through like a missile,

Ripping through my heart.

I closed my eyes to absorb the music. I was familiar with this song; it was one of my favorites, after all. The story of the epic fight visualized into war. Bombs dropping, shots fired. Crooked dictators sending their men into battles never meant to be won. That was about how I felt right then. 

Dropping your bombs now,
On all we've built.

I nodded my head to the bass. The hypnotic beat rang through my ear drums like the anger that pulsed through my heart. Sound waves reverberated through my mind, soothing my upset soul. 

Raise your weapons,

Raise your weapons...

And it's over.

...

It all happened so quickly. My earphones drowned out most of the noise, but nothing can fully drown out the scream of a terrified woman, especially not your mother. The last thing I remember was Dad grasping her hand.

Glass broke, airbags exploded, bones cracked. The world span outside my backseat window. Dark concrete, metal shavings. Blood. The odor of burning rubber filled my nostrils. I vomited at the horrendous concoction of sights and smells. My body couldn't take it anymore.

I blacked out.

Nothing could have ever prepared me for the events about to take place.

Blank, white walls stared down at me. Rain had seeped through the ceiling, causing it to sag in some places and stain in others. An old television mounted on the wall crackled with static while the vent rattled with sound of a forgotten party streamer vibrating in moving air. To one side of my bed was an old, yellowing curtain made of thin plastic, while the other side contained only a closed wooden door mounted in the corner by the bathroom.

Bandages were tightly wrapped against my forehead and my right leg lay heavy in a cast. My heart rate rose as the details of the crash began to funnel into my brain, causing the heart rate monitor to begin beeping with incredible speed. Two nurses piled into the room after a few moments of the terrifying noise. One began stroking my hair and held my arm in an attempt to calm me down while the other one started injecting fluid into my IV.

Both of them had a very recognizable look on their face. Eyebrows tilted upward towards the middle, the makeup on their foreheads glimmering as it bunched up in uniform creases. Their blue and hazel eyes looked at me as though terrified of what might happen next. "It's going to be ok" filtered out of the closest nurse's mouth in attempts to soothe me in the face of disaster.

None of it mattered, though. The look of pity can not be overseen.


...


It's been two years since the incident. I live with my aunt now– a friendly widow whom I never took the time to know before this point. We bake cookies and watch a movie on Saturdays. Sometimes we attend church on Sunday mornings. Whenever we do, I spend the majority of the time sitting in the back. Some days I pray, some days I just cry. How could I have left them like that? How could I have let their last memory be my harsh words? What if they died thinking that I didn't love them? Or worse yet, that I thought they didn't love me?

I'm at least glad that my last memory was their love for each other, hand in hand, awaiting the fate of God.

Life is short.

Make every second count.