07.14.02
faded memories

life is so fragile. it just takes my breath away to think about it. its difficult for me to deal with, honestly, as i usually wind up crying when dwelling on it or discussing it. however, it is something that is very important to realize and to face. i get so tired, thinking about death, but im glad that i do. without that realization, life would be so shallow. so cheap. but now, i know that its not.

i remember it being hot. very hot. i remember that my seat-belt was tight. i was sitting in the middle seat of our mini-van...a ford windstar. or were they arrowstars back then? i dont recall very well. i think it was an arrow star. it was maroon, with dark grey interior. the windows slid to the side, instead of opening by pushing or pulling. every time i see one of those vans, my stomach ties in a knot. i was alone in my seat, matt was lying down in the back, and david was riding in the front passanger seat. i had my two pillows which i loved. big, and old. you see...big was big, and old was old, and i was only 6 years old at the time, 4 years old when someone mentioned to me that i might want to name my pillows. i tucked big between myself and the seatbelt. it felt tight to me. i was drawing, and i believe i was drawing my hand. i always thought i had pretty hands. i have long, slender fingers and nice fingernails, even if they tend to grow out shaped more like a square than an oval. i was very laborius in my sketching, though for all my efforts, it was nothing remarkable. i was looking down when the van lurched. it skidded to the left. i can still hear the tires sometimes. i remember matt sitting up behind me, and my head snapped up as we swerved right just as suddenly as we had gone left. back and forth we went, into and out of oncoming traffic on I-44. mom was panicked. she hadnt done anything wrong, but suddenly the van was out of control. then it happened. i dont remember much specifically. crunching sounds, shattering glass. everything looked red, it was because i had blood in my eyes. i wonder if it was mine. i was afraid to scream, i thought i might get glass in my mouth. it was an odd thought for someone who was supposed to start the first grade the next day, but i remember it very clearly. the world was spinning, and i was suspended in the middle of all the red, shattering madness. and then it stopped.

i landed on, what had been the roof of the van. i was still inside. david's seat had fallen on my left foot, and i couldnt move. i was laying on my stomach, looking to the left, my right cheek pressed against the tattered and sticky apolstry. i had a clear view of a field through what had been the passanger side window. all of I-44 is lined with fields, it seems like. i must have blacked out i suppose. or i just dont remember exactly what happened next. i wasnt in pain. i was still alive. both things shocked me to some degree. when i had been younger, i had often thought of killing myself, just to know what it was like to be dead. i didnt realize that suicide was bad at the time. i didnt know what death was like. i was so young. and so innocent. i didnt mean it in a dark or self-destructive way. i was just curious. the asphalt was coated in blood. my blood, and the blood of my family. except my dad. he had to stay in joplin so he could preach a sermon that suday. he had preached on not being guaranteed tomorrow. its odd, the way life works out sometimes. and death. all the little pockets that make asphalt so rough were filled to the brim with red liquid. and it was so hot. i looked at my hand. my pretty right hand. i stared at it for a long time, arguing with myself. "that is my skin...no, i think that's my bone...but your not supposed to be able to see your bones, so it must be my skin...but my skin isnt white like that, it must be my bone..." my middle finger on my right hand had been sliced neatly open along the side. i started screaming after a while. not really because i hurt, or even really because i was that scared, it just seemed like the right thing to do. i screamed that i was going to die. thats all i really remember, repeating "im going to die, im going to die". the men who brought the crow-bar to free my foot from my brother's seat tried to tell me that i wasnt going to die, but i kept screaming anyway. i finally stopped. i still didnt hurt, not really. they managed to move the seat, and i was pulled out onto the road-side. i saw a woman having her arm bandaged, and later i found out that she had stopped, and been struck by flying glass. she tried to console me, but i was in shock. at least i think i was. the highway patrol was there, they gave me a teddy-bear. he was light brown with a black nose and eyes, wearing a red and white t-shirt. i hugged him, and the nice man said that "we're going to put a neck-brace on you, just like you see on tv". i remember i had seen an episode of "amen" where someone had a neck-brace, so i knew what he was talking about. he told me not to look around. he made that sound very important. i wanted to, though. i wanted to see my family. all the sudden i realized that i was alone. or at least i felt like i was. but once the brace was on me, and lying on my back as i was, i didnt really have a choice. police men asked me all kinds of questions. what my name was, who were my parents, what was my address, my phone number? it was a good thing they taught me all this stuff the year before in kindergarten. i dont know how long i laid there, but it didnt seem long. they put me on a bed, when the ambulance arrived, and wheeled me into the back of the truck. or van. i dunno really what those vehichles are. david was in the same one with me. i asked the nurse-rescue-dispatch-guy next to my bed if they had ever been in a car accident before. i was a little nervous. i started talking to david, asking him all kinds of questions. he kinda groaned responces, and the man back there with us, explained that he couldnt talk, he was wearing an oxygen mask. i dont remember much else about the ride. the next thing i remember, they were cutting my favorite brite yellow shirt off my body, but it was just as well i found out later, because it was covered in blood. and then they started giving me shots. ive traced my hatred for needles back to this memory. shot after shot after shot. oh my, i thought they'd never stop. i remember i asked the nurse if i could cry. and i did. i looked over at my left arm, and saw a terrible gash that made my stomach clinch. now its just a large scar below my elbow. they let me go see my mom. they rolled my bed into the room she was in, and she told me that she had broken her hand. her left hand. i told her i thought i had broken my right hand, and that my arm hurt too. it was so nice to hear her voice. i dont think i realized how scared i was, until i realized how relieved she made me. they took me to x-rays, and i dont think i realized that my hand really hurt until i got in there, they wanted a picture or the middle finger on my right hand, and had to use a metal rod to shove it backwards into the position that they wanted. i remember the dr in there yelling at me. perhaps he didnt really, but its what i remember. i did not like the man, needless to say. and then, after that, they took me into another room. they were going to give me stitches. they put a mask on my face and told me to breath deeply. for some reason, i wanted to see if i could stay awake despite the gas, but it didnt really work. the last thing i remember is the squeeze of the blood-pressure cuff on my arm. it made me jump, and the nurse gently explained what it was. then i slipped off. i woke up in a new room. it was nice and white, and it was sunny outside. i dont remember who was in there with me at the time, perhaps it was grandpa. i could never stay awake for very long, it seemed like. i know now that's probably because of pain medication i was on. both of my middle fingers on my right hand were bandaged up, as well as my pointer finger on the left. it was very awkward, and i couldnt move my hand on my own. every time i would fall asleep, i would wake up with someone new in the room with me. sometimes it was grammy. sometimes it was grandpa. i remember waking up and one of the ministers from the church was in there with me. he said some things to me that i didnt really understand at the time, but i understood later. and once, when i woke up, there were several people in my room. my dad was kneeling over the left side of my bed, his hand was on my arm. i could tell that something was wrong, but i didnt know what. i was so innocent. he had a mustache then, i remember that clearly. i had watched him grow it out, and trim it. it startled me, years later, when he shaved it off, though now im glad he did. he looked me in the eyes, and told me he needed to tell me something. i was worried, but i didnt really know why. "abby," he said. "matt has gone to be with the lord." i remember the way his chin quivered just before tears started running down his face. i remember the first thought in my head was "but we're always with the lord." oh, how i didnt want to believe him. but i knew it was true. and i cried. and i cried and i cried and i cried. it seemed so unreal. i didnt really understand how i could go home, and he wouldnt. why i could go see mom and david, but i couldnt see him. it was so sudden and so final. but i knew. i had questions about death, but nothing i asked just then. all i could do then was cry. i remember going home and going into his room, and seeing his things, and not seeing him. i saw his clothes, and i could still smell him. i remember how i forgot his voice. that was the first thing i lost. it killed me as it left, but it was gone. and eventually, other things went to. i never saw him again. my parents thought it would be too hard for me to see his body, and so i never did. it kills me sometimes, it kills me that there was no closure. that i couldnt see his face once more. maybe then i could remember it. maybe...

time moved on though, and so did i. its such a part of me, sometimes i fail to see the tragedy of it all. but i do. i see it too well. he was only 15. the next day, he would have begun his sophomore year of highschool. and now im 18, and have lived more life than he ever had the chance to live. and i struggled for so long, i wanted so badly to hate the people who could remember him, people outside of our family, when i...his little sister...couldnt even recall his voice. it ate away at me. it eats away at me. all i have now are photos and video clips, and this strong desire to be a better person. i want him to be proud of me. and i fail so badly sometimes. but i never stop trying. because if i were to stop trying, then what would i have? nothing but memories of death, and a vision of brown eyes.

i miss you so much sometimes...

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