Mine, Hers, Theirs, Our Story

Sophie's Painting

It's so cold. Drip. Drip. Wet. A white-hot burning is shooting through my hand. I cannot move it. Darkness is closing in around me again. Momma, I'm scared! Throbbing pain spreads across my body. Momma! It hurts so much! Where are you!

My vision clears. It's raining. I'm on my side surrounded by glass. My hand is on fire! I look to find it partially pinned down by what appears to be a car door frame. Unfortunately, the part that is not pinned by the frame, my palm, has a large shard of glass jetting out of its center. I watch as the blood pools in my hand and trickles down onto the dark surface beneath it. The road. I try to shift closer to my hand to pull the glass out. I couldn't move my legs. Glancing down at them I see why. My legs have been clamped down by a chair and what seemed to be broken bits of a tree. I'm trapped! I can't move! Momma, please help me!

"Sophie."

"Momma?" I slowly begin to turn my gaze upwards. No! No, don't look! The voice in my head yells at me. I don't listen; I want to see her. My eyes land on her. She is still strapped to her car seat. Her brown hair fell from her face to sweep the ground. Her eyes closed as if she were sleeping.

"Momma?" No. Her eyes shoot open. They are staring blankly down at me. A trail of blood slides down her chin from the corner of her mouth.

"It's time to go, Sophie."

NO!

"No!" I push against the arms that are shaking me.

"Sweetheart, wake up. It's just a dream."

Papa!

"Papa?" My eyes open to see my papa looking down at me. Worry lines crinkled his brow. Deep concern fills his eyes.

"I'm here, Soph."

A dream. No, the nightmare. The look in Papa's eyes tells me that he already knows. I pushed myself up further on the sofa where I had fallen asleep.

"Are you all right, sweetheart?" Papa moves to sit next to me, using one of his strong arms, he pulled me into a hug. "Listen, I know I pushed for you to do this, but I will understand if you would rather stay here."

A tingling sensation hums through my right hand. I look down at the scar running across my palm as my other hand comes up to cradle it. Ten years later and it still feels like it did after the accident. I hear the rain patting away on the side of the house. It had been raining back then too. The night momma and I had driven home late from her art studio. It hadn't been heavy rain, but it had been a drunk driver and a sixteen-wheeler.

I remember how it felt as if the world were falling away as our car rolled down the street before coming to a stop at the roadside. The drunk driver had woken up the next morning with a few bumps and bruises. Momma had been telling me that it was going to be alright. That she knew it hurt; that someone was going to come and help us. We were on a back road, but she was right. Someone did eventually come to help us. Only is after Momma had drifted to sleep...and they couldn't wake her up.

"No, I'll go." I finally reply. Papa opens his mouth to speak. "Doctor Ming is right. This could help me." My gaze drifts down to my scar. "And I want to do it for Momma."

"Alright, sweetheart, if you're sure you will be okay. Then it's time to go."

Walking out to the car, I forced myself to breathe normally. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I got the nightmare again. It always comes on the anniversary of Momma's death. Buckle your belt. Still, it doesn't make the nightmare any easier. Tighten the strap. Breath. The rain doesn't help either. I watched the droplets on the window roll down in the rivets as houses passed by.