Chloe's World

My name is Chloe Margaret Banks. I am sixteen years old.

But just because I am sixteen years old doesn't mean that I am your typical high school teenager whose main problem in life is worrying that her crush will see her passed out drunk at a party or whatever. My life is a little bit more complicated than that.

Actually it's a lot more complicated than that. I'm an orphan.

I wasn't always an orphan. I knew my parents. In fact, a few months ago my mom and I were arguing over my curfew. My dad and I were sitting on the couch while we watched in agony as the Oriels were getting destroyed by the Yankees.

 A few months ago my life was normal.

But after the car crash my life was flipped upside down.

I remember the day like it was yesterday, Every moment. Every detail. It was a Friday, May 11th. I had cereal for breakfast. My teacher gave me detention for being late for the third time that marking period. And I bought lunch but immediately threw it out because it gave off a strange odor. The clouds  loomed over our heads all day long but they never started crying until our car was lying flat on its back.

That night, my parents and I were heading over to a restaurant. Some seafood place with a fancy name. I was grounded so I couldn't go out with my friends that night.

Now, I couldn't remember why I had been grounded. Was it because of the weed that my dad had found hiding under my bed? Or was it the naked boy my mom had found lying on my bed? Either way, I had earned a full two weeks of prison time.

But I never got to complete that time locked in my house. Because on that night my dad followed all of the rules of driving. He used his blinkers. He looked both ways. He even wore his seat belt.

But when the light turned green my dad drove when he was suppose to. Nobody was at the  intersection. It looked like a ghost town.

My mom asked my dad what he was getting. With a smile on his face he said, "lots and lots of beer." My mom and I both laughed at that.

We laughed right up to the moment that the other car  slammed into ours.

I  saw the headlights first. I didn't even have time to scream out. Looking back, I'm glad that  time had cut my scream off short. My scream wouldn't have done anything. It would have just sent panic through my parents. Without my scream my parents were able to die with joy running through their veins, not terror. At least I could sleep at night knowing that they had never suffered. It was quick for them. They didn't have to watch everything flash before their eyes. And I got to see them for the last time the way that I wanted to see them, with light in their eyes and smiles painted on their faces.

I was found on the floor of the backseat. My legs were wedged underneath the driver's seat. Shards of glass were up and down my arm. And the whole side of my back was soaked in blood.

I spent two months in the hospital. Two weeks were spent locked away in a coma, depending on a machine to keep me alive. When I woke up I still couldn't leave the bed. People came in and visited me all of the time. Eventually I just stopped asking for visitors. Only my grandma was allowed in.

The doctors called it a miracle. After that horrible car wreck I had only come out with two shattered legs and a long scar running down my back, which by the way is still there.

But I don't like to call it a miracle. If it was truly a miracle my parents would still be alive. And I would be happy.

I like to compare my parent's death to a lightning bolt. At first everything is peaceful. Sure, there may be rain coming from the clouds and wind carrying things away but everyone is still at ease. Nobody is worrying. But all of the sudden that crooked line of electricity lights up the sky. It happens in a blink of an eye. You only see it for a moment before it evaporates into thin air. It's gone in the same second that it appeared. And everything looks the same.

But everything isn't the same. You can feel it around you. Fear has surrounded the atmosphere, suffocating you. Nothing is the same.

And when I had woken up in the hospital I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same.

I was right about that. Everything changed for me. For one, I didn't have parents. That was a big difference. The house was a lot quieter. Not in a good way. There was an emptiness that haunted me. It was like I was missing a tooth. Every time I sucked in a breath I was reminded of the vacant spot. My tongue would run over the spot to check if it had magically come back. Of course it had not.

I went through a few stages of my depression. At first, I was angry all of the time. I even tore my room to shreds, smashing picture frames and ripping apart pillows. My grandma finally called a doctor when my fist shattered my mirror. My grandma wouldn't let me take it down. The broken pieces splattered with blood reminded me to never lose my temper.

Then I just got sad. I couldn't stop crying. No matter what was happening there was always a tear slipping down my face. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't sleep. I wouldn't talk to anyone. My grandma called somebody for that too.

I started taking pills. They didn't help. I started talking to some people. They didn't help either. Nobody was able to help me.

And then I entered stage three. The crying had stopped. The screaming had stopped. I was coming out of my room. I was eating food. My grandma didn't need to watch me twenty four seven.

But I wasn't the same. That hole in my heart was still there and it was only getting deeper and more impossible to climb out of. My clothes were getting darker. My temper was shorter. My personality was as dry as the desert and my soul was as dark as the night sky. I can't even remember the last time a smile visited my face.

And even as I packed up all of my things to move to my aunt's house in New Jersey, I was still stuck in stage three.