First Impressions

I'm frustrated.

No, nevermind.

I'm infuriated.

I always get like this every year. It's like a psychological disorder or something because I don't want it to happen, it just comes up so abruptly that I have to lock myself up some place so I don't mess anyone up with my anger and depression. Today is my real birthday. My real birthday means his birthday. My . . . dad's.

Mom is up in her room while I'm locked down in the garage, furiously strumming my guitar into an angered tune and letting it blare through the amplifier. I hate this day. I always reflect back on it and I hate it because it was all my fault. It was my fault because I wasn't paying any attention at all and that killed my father.

I continue strumming the guitar quickly, watching my fingers disappear into a blur. My dad taught me how to play when I was little.

I was seven years old when he died, ten years ago today. I was born on his birthday and he died on mine. All I wanted was to see a movie with him and when we would come back, Mom would have the cake and everything could just go on normally. But when I came home, he wasn't with me. He was in a body bag and I was in a cast with Mom.

I feel tears start to prickle over my eyes as I start remembering.

We were driving to the cinema and it was raining. Usually, rain isn't that bad in California, but this particular day was terrible. Dad couldn't see a thing and he was just driving slowly and I was too busy jabbering to watch out for any other cars. He suggested that we go back and see the movie some other time but I said no, it was the last day the movie would be playing. He just nodded and kept driving.

The salty drops of water pour out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

We weren't even a mile away from the theater when we saw lights coming toward us. Dad didn't react quick enough to move the car, but he let go of the steering wheel and hugged me, trying to protect me for what was going to come next. My leg got crushed under the dashboard and Dad was killed instantly from the impact. He was the only reason why I even lived, the paramedics said.

I put the guitar down and put my head between my knees, burying my hands in my hair and yanking at it, falling backwards onto the cement floor.

Mom and I were the only ones at the funeral. I have no other family because Mom and Dad are only children and my grandparents on both sides have already passed away. Mom took two weeks off from work and I didn't return to school for awhile, instead they sent someone over with homework for me so I wouldn't get behind. My friends didn't visit me because they didn't know what to do. They still had both of their parents.

I was never really the same with them after the funeral anyways. Well, I acted the same, but deep down in my gut, things had changed between us. They weren't there when I needed them most, they let me down.

I cry harder, gasping for air as the tears descend my cheeks.

I trusted them and they betrayed me. My gut just didn't feel good around them, it kept twisting into knots.

But now, with Brad and Shelby and Shale and Tash and Trev, everything feels right. My gut actually flops around with glee when I'm with them. I just hope they don't ever betray me.

I pick myself up off the floor and push my hair back with my hand, walking towards the garage door and opening it.

I walk across the green grass and onto a porch.

I knock on the door.

A black haired gray eyed boy answers it.

I smile through the tears at him.

"I need someone to talk to."