Pretty as a Car Crash
Chapter One
Remembrance
made by wannabewriter @ the Quizilla! Forums
Carnage. Twisted metal. Darkness. Nan. The images flash in front of me, moving too fast for me to properly see them, but slowly enough for me to comprehend. The sirens go silent; the blue and red lights still flash. The scene feels like it moves in slow motion as the fire fighters pull Nanyamka out of the driver’s seat of an unfamiliar forest-green Jeep, the wind rustling through the leaves in the surrounding trees.
He checks her pulse, placing ungloved fingers on her chocolate-brown neck. The man looks up, his eyes sad, as he shakes his head. For merely a second, my sight blurs, my head spins, and the world stops. Just as quickly as the defining silence came, it went.
My body catapults to a sitting position, the action leaving my mind spinning and my lungs gasping. I look around the dark dorm room, my sight falling unto the empty bed to my right. I sigh, looking down at my moonlight washed ACDC t-shirt that is now drenched in clammy sweat.
As I pull my thick hair up into a messy bun, I drag myself out of my twin-sized bed and groggily struggle to the small bathroom where the mirror is. The face that stares back at me is foreign. It’s the face I looked at every day of last year. Silent tears are still rolling down my face, left behind by the nightmare, leaving wet stains in their wake. The haggard looking skin and the frowning worry crease have returned.
How long will this last. I mull over as I turn the faucet to cold and wait.
I splash the ice-cold water onto my face, letting it trickle off and into the snow-white sink. When I heave myself away from the marble counter to grab a towel, I glance at my reflection once more. Purple-blue bags are under my eyes. Ghost tears haunt my eyes and cheeks. The worry crease has softened-almost disappeared-but is still visible to the well trained eye.
-
After Nan’s death, my mother insisted that I go to see a psychologist. I. Detest. Psychologists. Why would I want to go to some person’s office that I don’t even know, tell them my life story, and then sit back quietly as they analyze and diagnose my every word, action, and facial expression? That’s just stupid. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge. That’s when I turned to my dad.
He has always seemed like the most sensible and realistic one, but he agreed. We moved to Manhattan, New York in an attempt to take my mind off of my best friend’s death.
It didn’t work. At all. If the move did anything, it made life harder for me. I had one month of summer break left, I was now in a different neighborhood, as well as a new city and state, and I was starting the five step process of recovery.
-
It is now 2:45 in the morning and by now; I’ve lost about an hour and a half of sleep. I yawn, stretching my hands above my head until I hear the familiar cracking sound of my spine. As I lean back against the headboard of my bed, I grab my sketch book. My pale fingers run over the protective cover of the crisp, clean, white paper that lay beneath it.
I reach for the small, rectangular bin sitting on the night stand that’s between Maria’s and my bed. Even in the pale light of the moon, I can see the mahogany wood with my gold initials, J.B., scrawled across the top. Sketching has always been my escape. No one knew that better than Nan . I open the top of the box to be greeted by more golden scrawl on the inside.
“May this box help keep your supplies, and mind, organized.
Nan ”
Tears swell up in my eyes, refusing to go away, but still not willing to fall, as I read and re-read the last message she wrote me. Her birthday presents were always my favorite, but this last one was, by far, the best. As I pull back the cover on the sketch book, and reach into the wooden box for a charcoal pencil, the yawn beside me breaks my building concentration. I turn to face Maria, who is leaning on her left arm, eyes wide, staring at me.
“I had a nightmare.” I whisper, answering the question brewing behind her hazel eyes.
“Talking about it is supposed to help it go away, yeah.” She whispers back, her child like voice crystal clear like always.
“Yeah…” I trail off, looking up at the invisible designs in the ceiling.
“Well,” she murmurs, “I’m here if you need someone to listen, yeah.” She then rolls onto her back, causing the ancient mattress to groan beneath her. My bright blue eyes fall onto her unmoving body.
“Thank you.” I start, setting the birthday box and sketchbook on the ground as I curl up under my heavy quilt. “It was one week after my birthday,” I say, rolling from my back to my side, once again facing Maria who is already propped back up on her elbow, watching me intently; waiting and listening.
All of the words, thoughts, and memories just pour out. Word vomit. I hate word vomit. I have a tendency to say things I never mean to say once I get rolling; a bad habit I really need to break.
made by wannabewriter @ the Quizilla! Forums
Carnage. Twisted metal. Darkness. Nan. The images flash in front of me, moving too fast for me to properly see them, but slowly enough for me to comprehend. The sirens go silent; the blue and red lights still flash. The scene feels like it moves in slow motion as the fire fighters pull Nanyamka out of the driver’s seat of an unfamiliar forest-green Jeep, the wind rustling through the leaves in the surrounding trees.
He checks her pulse, placing ungloved fingers on her chocolate-brown neck. The man looks up, his eyes sad, as he shakes his head. For merely a second, my sight blurs, my head spins, and the world stops. Just as quickly as the defining silence came, it went.
My body catapults to a sitting position, the action leaving my mind spinning and my lungs gasping. I look around the dark dorm room, my sight falling unto the empty bed to my right. I sigh, looking down at my moonlight washed ACDC t-shirt that is now drenched in clammy sweat.
As I pull my thick hair up into a messy bun, I drag myself out of my twin-sized bed and groggily struggle to the small bathroom where the mirror is. The face that stares back at me is foreign. It’s the face I looked at every day of last year. Silent tears are still rolling down my face, left behind by the nightmare, leaving wet stains in their wake. The haggard looking skin and the frowning worry crease have returned.
How long will this last. I mull over as I turn the faucet to cold and wait.
I splash the ice-cold water onto my face, letting it trickle off and into the snow-white sink. When I heave myself away from the marble counter to grab a towel, I glance at my reflection once more. Purple-blue bags are under my eyes. Ghost tears haunt my eyes and cheeks. The worry crease has softened-almost disappeared-but is still visible to the well trained eye.
-
After Nan’s death, my mother insisted that I go to see a psychologist. I. Detest. Psychologists. Why would I want to go to some person’s office that I don’t even know, tell them my life story, and then sit back quietly as they analyze and diagnose my every word, action, and facial expression? That’s just stupid. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge. That’s when I turned to my dad.
He has always seemed like the most sensible and realistic one, but he agreed. We moved to Manhattan, New York in an attempt to take my mind off of my best friend’s death.
It didn’t work. At all. If the move did anything, it made life harder for me. I had one month of summer break left, I was now in a different neighborhood, as well as a new city and state, and I was starting the five step process of recovery.
-
It is now 2:45 in the morning and by now; I’ve lost about an hour and a half of sleep. I yawn, stretching my hands above my head until I hear the familiar cracking sound of my spine. As I lean back against the headboard of my bed, I grab my sketch book. My pale fingers run over the protective cover of the crisp, clean, white paper that lay beneath it.
I reach for the small, rectangular bin sitting on the night stand that’s between Maria’s and my bed. Even in the pale light of the moon, I can see the mahogany wood with my gold initials, J.B., scrawled across the top. Sketching has always been my escape. No one knew that better than Nan . I open the top of the box to be greeted by more golden scrawl on the inside.
“May this box help keep your supplies, and mind, organized.
Nan ”
Tears swell up in my eyes, refusing to go away, but still not willing to fall, as I read and re-read the last message she wrote me. Her birthday presents were always my favorite, but this last one was, by far, the best. As I pull back the cover on the sketch book, and reach into the wooden box for a charcoal pencil, the yawn beside me breaks my building concentration. I turn to face Maria, who is leaning on her left arm, eyes wide, staring at me.
“I had a nightmare.” I whisper, answering the question brewing behind her hazel eyes.
“Talking about it is supposed to help it go away, yeah.” She whispers back, her child like voice crystal clear like always.
“Yeah…” I trail off, looking up at the invisible designs in the ceiling.
“Well,” she murmurs, “I’m here if you need someone to listen, yeah.” She then rolls onto her back, causing the ancient mattress to groan beneath her. My bright blue eyes fall onto her unmoving body.
“Thank you.” I start, setting the birthday box and sketchbook on the ground as I curl up under my heavy quilt. “It was one week after my birthday,” I say, rolling from my back to my side, once again facing Maria who is already propped back up on her elbow, watching me intently; waiting and listening.
All of the words, thoughts, and memories just pour out. Word vomit. I hate word vomit. I have a tendency to say things I never mean to say once I get rolling; a bad habit I really need to break.
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The official first chapter! =]I hope you enjoyed it. Please comment.