Letters to J

August 15, 2017

August 15, 2017

To,

"J"

I don't know the whole story of how it happened, why it happened and if it was mine or your fault. All I know is however, that it happened and it altered us into the people we are today. You are still unconscious and I'm still at guilt. I can't even bring myself to recount what happened. I got bits and scraps from Mark and Rebecca but I still don't know the side of your story. All I know is that when I had left, you had caused a ruckus and then what had followed was total and utter chaos.

You had snatched your dad's car keys and had gotten into the car, fully intoxicated with no sense of direction and no idea where I was. Mark and the others tried to stop you but you were always known for being stubborn. Stubborn and reckless!You didn't care for your life and look where that got you. Mark and Rebecca had requested someone to borrow their car and followed you hot on your trail. You drove like a maniac and when you had found me you threw the car door open without turning off the ignition. You were calling to me but I was too enveloped in myself to listen. You were faltering, slipping on the road but kept reaching out to me. My friends begging you to get out of the way of the fast approaching 14- wheeler but you didn't care. Why J? Why?

The 14 wheeler took you down with it and your body was thrown to the other side a fair distance away. The driver ran away and my friends called for the ambulance. I turned around just in time to see your body being thrown on the road like a rag doll and my heart sunk. I felt like I had lost you, for real this time. I thought you were dead and in that moment I wanted to be dead too. My heavily drugged body was already teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown and the moment I saw your body hit the road, my knees gave out from under me and I collapsed. And that's all I know that happened. The next thing I remember is I woke up in a hospital room surrounded by the worried faces of my friends and the livid ones of my parents who were unable to comprehend the fact that their daughter had her stomach washed for substance abuse. The look on my friends confirmed the fear in my chest. You were gone. I began to cry out your name and my parents left the room still angry at my irresponsibleness.

Rebecca then reassured me that you were, in fact alive but hanging by a thread. I had to stay overnight in this hospital and I absolutely hated it but now that it has become a home of sorts I don't actually mind. It's sort of a meeting in the middle. Beginnings and endings take place here. It's a medium. The in between of birth and death. It's life in the most chaotic of forms.

I've become acquainted with everyone here. Even your mum graces me with a smile or two. I think she has accepted that I won't leave no matter what. I wish I would have met her before this happened. She seems a wonderful mother, protective but wonderful. There are more people like us, all in the same boat, waiting, waiting and waiting. The man who sits by the door of the waiting room always on edge is here for his 12 year old daughter, his only child and only family after the death of his wife. His daughter and he were in a car accident two weeks ago. He survived without a scratch but her life hangs in the balance. The woman who knits all day is here for her ex-husband. He was in a ski accident on his honeymoon with his new wife. His new wife fled when his condition deteriorated but she stayed. She says love doesn't end after the end of a marriage and I've realized it really doesn't. Then there are the three siblings whose mom was beaten into oblivion by their dad and then took a bullet in the arm, which was aimed for the heart of her son. These are the permanent residents. Others come and go, some happy and relieved and some with sobs wracking their bodies. I don't know which one am I.

 Yesterday, your mom brought me coffee and we talked. She told me about all your hobbies, your childhood shenanigans and showed me all your childhood pictures she had in her bag. We both wept in each other's arms until your dad came in the room and we both went quite. She asked me what I was writing and I told her writing helps me cope. She didn't ask any more.