During November

Chapter 4 - Isaac

Chapter 4: Ride or Die

Out of everything that occurred that night, the thing I remember most is the pain. It had felt as though someone had inserted a white-hot iron poker through my skull. My body had come alive with the searing pain, a fire that started in my heart and spread to the edges of my vision, a darkness so whole and absolute that light was a fantasy that existed only within my imagination.

The glass had sliced right through my jaw on the left side of my face. And the blood, oh god there was so much blood. I remember this panicked helpless feeling that rose inside of me as I choked on my own blood, my lack of oxygen pushing salty tears out of my eyes.

There was this vague realisation in the back of my mind that I was going to die. Even through the haziness of an alcohol induced mind the thought had occurred to me in such clarity, such precision. It shot through me, cold as ice, yet somehow burning through me with a heat so intense that my blood boiled in my veins.

Images I'd rather forget of that night, a recurring slideshow in my head. Images I wish I could reverse or erase or prevent. Images of my own blood spilling over my chin, dying, while my sister stares wide-eyed at nothing in particular, a garden of blood flowers blooming all over her body from the windshield glass.

All the while, my mind sat in the drivers seat as cameraman, clicking away at the ugly beauty of it all.

I didn't lose my life that night, but almost every waking hour of the life I'm living now is hell brought to earth. I didn't die, but I might have well, because living is no different to what awaited me after death. I attended my own funeral along with hers that day.

Andrea Rose Mathews. Sister, daughter, friend. A girl who's future once looked so bright, now just a star that lays among the many. So beautiful, yet so insignificant in a sky full of identical identities.

After five months of staring at those stars, wishing upon them that I could bring her back, I still cry myself to sleep every night only to be woken in a state of sweaty panic and choking on air that seems too thick to breathe with no one to calm me down.

At first it was this tidal wave of grief that crashed over me. That tidal wave caused a flood of anger through my body which dried up into this constant pain and anxiety that shows itself in the panic attacks, bitten nails and broken pencils.

I wish that I could say that I took away more than scars and tidal waves from the crash. More than anxiety and panic attacks that are always staring me point blank in the face. More than a mental disorder and daily doses of prescription drugs, but I can't.

I can't say that I came out swinging with a need to redeem myself, because without her, I have no one to redeem myself for. I still don't.

A mother drowning in grief for her daughter and failing at attempting to hide the pain-stricken expression that crosses her face every time she sees me. A father who left the moment his son became a disappointment and tarnished his reputation. A bunch of kids who pretend they give a shit but actually don't. There's no comfort in the people around me.

No comfort in myself.

I can't look at myself in the mirror and see the angry scar that runs the length of my cheek, from the corner of my mouth to the bottom of my ear, because that scar is the constant reminder that I'm not good enough. A failure, a disappointment, a monster, a murderer.

I am covered in scars that are never going to fade, doused in the blood of my sister, showered in the glass of broken mirrors because I refuse to look at myself knowing what I have done.

That night, I might have lost my will to live. I might have lost everything that made me human. But I did not lose my name.

Isaac Mathews may no longer be the hero of the story, but he is still a part of the story.

Even though now, the only thing that follows that name is a silence so deep, so absolute the sound of beating hearts echoes off the walls. Even though now, when I walk down the school hallways, students part like they are the sea and I am Moses. Even though now, no one will meet my eyes because they know that the pain in mine will burn through them, fill them up.

In Andrea's story, I was the hero. In my story, I am the villain. And in everyone else's stories, I am not a character so much as the problem that they're all trying to solve. They have yet to understand that I am not a problem that can be solved. Not a problem worth solving.

Salty water runs down my cheeks, hesitating on my scar before dropping down my chin. Dark circles have taken residence beneath my eyes. My pale skin seeming ghostly as it contrasts with my dark hair.

Outside of the window, the weather matches my mood. Dark grey clouds smother the sky, the pitta patter of rain on the roof's tiles a low lullaby.

I should get out of bed. But if I get out of bed then I'll have to get changed and I'll have to choose clothes that make me look as though I care and I'll have to go to school where they will stare at the scar on my face as though it holds the answers to what happened to me and my sister. And they'll ask questions. Even five months after the accident, they still ask questions.

And I don't think I have the energy to give them some bullshit answer, or choose an outfit, or get out of bed.

I don't have the energy to get out of bed only to live another predictable day.

Instead, I'll lay in bed, stone still, clicking through a slideshow of beautifully ugly images, looking for my own answers.

***
a/u
Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please vote and comment, it means a lot to me :)