Heal

the glass

You were taught that car crashes happened. You were taught that people died. You were taught that your family was more important than anyone else.

But you were never taught what to when if your family dies in a car crash.

My mom was pronounced dead at the scene. My brother is still in a coma- my dad says he’s gone already and there’s no point. My dad stays home all day, using up all our money and futures, watching old home videos.

“If only she had been driving that day.” He would say.

“If only you had been your usual self and not been ready.” He would say.

“If only you had sat the other side of the car.” He would say.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

That one hurt, I guess. I asked myself the same question. All I got was a fractured ankle and a broken collar bone, nothing un-curable. My dad is suffering from severe depression, and my brother might as well be dead.

I am the only one that got out without consequence. My doctors called it luck, I called it bad luck. I wanted to hurt. I wanted to feel at least sadness, or gratefulness. But nothing. Nothing ever. No tears ever came. Not at the funeral, not now.

It was like my body had disconnected all its nerves from the heart. The only emotion I felt was nostalgia, and even that didn’t come on very strong at times.

I felt like a girl who was mildly stressed over exams, not a girl that had seen her family break in ten seconds.

And how does that make you feel? They’d ask. They’d scratch their heads and they’d write down in their little black books. I don’t know, I’d say. They’d frown, they’d loosen their ties and they’d tell me that I didn’t need to repress my emotions. I’m not, I’d tell them. Then they’d pat me on the back and tell me to come back when I felt ready.

I’m ready! Tell me what’s wrong with me! But I’d never say that. Their vacant stares, the way they told me that it mattered when they ever so clearly didn’t mean it, it made me feel vacant.

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 part 2

It was a Saturday night and I had heard too much of my dad’s whimpers and seen too little of my brother. It was that night I decided to go to the local bar.

As soon as I walked in, the bald drunk men stared. I looked like a sad little preppy girl.

I asked for a drink, the bartender asked for ID. I gave it him and watched in victory as he made me a drink. I’d asked for anything, and I was pretty sure he was going to give me lemonade.

“Listen, love, I don’t think this is your place.” He said, handing me the beverage.

I rolled my eyes, taking my drink to a corner table. And there I drank. I ordered more and more until I was barely conscious of my own thoughts.

Then, a drink was slammed down on the table. It looked like water to me. I didn’t bother to look up, instead gulping down my latest alcohol.

“You might want to calm down a little.” The voice said. It sounded fairly young, against the old potbellied men gargling away. I glanced up to see a boy in a hoodie, staring down at me with a shine in his eyes I didn’t understand. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”