If I Stay (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter Two

We all pile into our silver Chrysler Grand Voyager. My parents offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad eventually sits behind the wheel. Apparently he likes to drive now? He'd always refused to get a drivers license for years as he would always insist on riding his bike everywhere. When mum was pregnant with me, she'd put her foot down. Enough, she said. Dad finally understood that something has changed and that he had to get a drivers licence.

Dad had to turn the key in the ignition a few times before the old thing finally started up. Of course, there is a battle for radio dominance. Mum wants the news, dad wants the Rolling Stones, Gemma wants the 1975 and I want a classic fm but seeing as I'm the only classical fan, I am reluctantly willing to compromise.

"Seeing as you're missing school today, we should listen to the news first, then classic fm. Gemma, we will definitely not torture you with that so you'll have to listen to your own music from your iPhone or something" dad instructed. Once the music selections have been decided, we are off. The dark grey roads have small patches of snow on them but it's mostly just wet. But this is England. The roads are always wet at this time of the year.

I lean my head against the blacked out window, watching the tall buildings and the River Thames flash by. I let out a breath of air against the cold window and draw a smiley face in the condensation. When the news is over (finally) we turn to classic fm. My favourite. I hear the first few notes of Beethoven's Cello Sonata no. 3, which was the exact piece I was supposed to be working on this afternoon. I concentrate very hard on the notes as I imagine myself playing, feeling grateful for this chance to practise and happy to be in a warm car with my family. I slowly close my weary eyes.

*CRASH*

You wouldn't expect the radio to still be playing Beethoven. But it is. The impact of a three-ton lorry going sixty miles an hour plowing straight into the drivers side had the same force of an atomic bomb. It tore off the doors, sent the front side drivers seat through the passenger's side window. The impact flipped the Chrysler, bouncing across the road. It tossed wheels and hubcaps deep into trees on the side of the snowy road. There was so much noise. A symphony of grinding, a chorus of popping, an aria of exploding, and finally, the sad clapping of hard metal cutting into soft trees. Then it went completely silent except for Beethoven still playing.

I soon figure that I am fine. I can hear Beethoven as well as I could before the accident and not to mention the fact that I am standing upright in this soggy ditch. When I look down, the black skinny jeans, the plaid shirt and my white vest are in pristine condition - exactly the same as when I first put them on my now, quivering body.

I see mum first - even from several feet away. I could never mistake her perfectly straight brown hair which contradicts with my curls. "Mum!" I yell but as I walk towards her body, I trip over parts belonging to the so called 'car'.

I find dad next. There's almost no blood on him but his lips are a ghostly pale blue and the whites of his eyes are red - just like a ghoul from a low-budget movie. He seems totally unreal. A dull pang springs to my chest and a lump forms in my throat. I can't help but question if he's alive or dead.

'I need to find Gemma! Where is she?' I spin around suddenly frantic, just like the time when we got separated in a supermarket once. I started thinking such dreadful things and she might have done the same. Of course, it turned out that she had wondered down the music aisle. When I found her, I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted to hug her or yell at her. I am extremely overprotective of my sister, even though there is a three year age gap and I am younger. We've grown up to be really close. We tell each other everything from boys to music. I hate to think about anything bad happening to her.

I run back to the ditch I came from, mindful of the fact everything laying on the floor could potentially harm me. I see a hand sticking out. "Gemma! I'm here" I call out. "Reach up. I'll pull you out" but when I get closer, I can see the metal glint of a silver bracelet with a small cello and guitar attached to the front of it. Louis gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday. It's my bracelet. I was wearing it this morning and I am wearing it on my person right now.

I edge closer and now I know that it's not Gemma lying there. It's me. The blood from my chest has seeped through onto my clean white vest under my plaid shirt and is now pooling onto the virgin snow. My eyes are closed and my dark brown curls are wet and rusty with blood.

I spin away. This isn't right. This cannot be happening. We're a family who were going for a quite drive out to the countryside. I must've fallen asleep in the car. 'No! Stop, please! Wake up Harry! Wake up!' I scream into the cold winter's air. My warm breath should mix with the air and create 'smoke'. But it doesn't. I stare down at my wrist, the one that looks fine, untouched by all the blood and gore, I pinch as hard as I can. Nothing. I am completely numb.

Then I hear something. It's the music. I can still hear the music. So I concentrate on that - I finger the notes of Beethoven's sonata with my hands, just as often as I do when I listen to pieces I am working on. Louis calls it 'air cello'. He's always asking me if one day we can play a duet, him on air guitar, me on air cello. "When we're done, we can smash our air instruments" he jokes. "You know you want to". I play - solely focussing on that until the last bit of life in the car dies and the music goes with it.

It isn't long after that I can hear faint sirens coming closer.