Reptile

Crackling fire and popping glass covered the highway. Rain fell and made the smell of ash stronger. My vision was blurry and speckled with blood and horror. To my left the wounded figure of the love of my life lay still. Sirens began to echo in my memory as my hand reached for his and before I could ever make it the roars of the Jaws of Life burned inside my ears. A helicopter was in the road, behind the tree that had fallen on us in the storm. I screamed and struggled in my last attempt to stay beside him. I knew he was gone, I knew his life had been taken from the moment I'd opened my eyes. They put me in the helicopter, and from that moment on, everything changed...

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My name is McIntosh Wehlls, the child of a well-learned mother and non-existent father, I grew up exposed to anything I felt in any way necessary. I was what my family referred to as a "cultured and brilliant mind" which I assumed meant smart. I lived my days exploring, learning, being whoever and whatever fit me for the day. However, there was one thing that never ceased to enrapture my every ounce of attention; reptiles. I didn't care what it was, what it looked like or how hard it bit if it had scales I absolutely had to examine it. Through my fascination I discovered the one thing that was impossible to get my hands on. Coming in countless shapes, sizes, breeds, colors, types, and origins, I pinned my efforts on finding a dragon. Yes, you heard me, I was obsessed by dragons, so much so they practically owned me. 

At 17 years old however, I found my vigor dulled, and my obsession forgotten. I was an athlete now, a scholar and an artist. I had little to do in the ways of extravagant dragon chasing. I kept the flame alive though, by keeping many sorts of scaled oddities such as exotic fish, snakes, and lizards. My life was in most aspects perfectly, disastrously, beautiful. And then seemingly out of nowhere I found myself shattered and scarred, torn by worlds from the love of my life, lying in a hospital bed void of speech and sound. It was the nightmare to ever alter my world. 

You could say I was a pain for the doctors, because I never spoke. They spent their visits accompanied by psychologists and neurologists begging me to just tell them what was wrong. At first I didn't speak out of hatred and spite. I was angry with them for never letting me say goodbye, and my injuries had prevented me from attending the funeral. It was easy to stay silent until they began the physical evaluations, with all their stitch pulling, wound poking, an d broken bone adjusting. The only sounds I ever allowed myself to make were in desperate protest to their poking and prodding, and in fear of my nightmares. Since every entity in a white lab coat made me bristle I allowed room for a single friendship. I reserved this toleration for just one nurse, who worked the nights for my ward. She would do her best to hold me and comfort me when I woke screaming the cries of hell caused by vivid and relentless nightmares. I relied on the beeping of machines and rasping of ventilators in neighboring rooms to keep me from my tormented sleep. How marvelous of a revelation it was to experience how fast your life can fall apart. 

My mother was constantly at my side, and constantly trying to get me to speak. I refused, however, feeling that something within me was making it impossible to create any sort of sound at all. I barely ate anything substantial, becoming thinner by the day, and appearing more an emaciated figurine than a nationally ranked athlete. I also refused to be seen except by a select group of people. Three massive scars covered my face, the largest going from right to left across my right eye, starting over my eyebrow and ending in dashes across my chin and neck. The other two were on my left cheek and right temple, making me appear as if some wretched beast had attacked me. 

My mom made the executive decision that I shouldn't return to my old school, a large public school in southern Florida, and took a high paying job in Colorado. Her new job was at a ski, surf, and outdoors company as a legal consultant and product innovator. My grandfather had bought us a huge piece of property, over two hundred acres of forest and prairie and mountains, and was building us a custom cabin. I assumed that it was his way of trying to make my life better. 

By May, we were packed and taking a plane to Colorado. I still had not uttered a sound since being discharged from the hospital. My mother and I had learned sign language, after I had finally made my point that it was no longer that I wouldn't speak, but that I couldn't. My life was loud, but my body silent. My mind however was constantly interrupted by thoughts and memories of the accident. I looked nervously around the plane and cuddled my stuffed animal closer, trying to get away from the memories.

Colorado was not very hot, and seeing my car waiting at the dealership where we had sent it was a joy. I scrambled into the drivers seat and snuggled in. My mom came up to my window and signed that she would lead me to the house, and that I should follow. The air was cool across my skin, the sounds of a creek and rustling of trees surrounded me. Our home was beautiful. I signed to my mother that I already liked it, and retrieved my things from my car. It wouldn't be long before I had to begin attending school.