The damage to my ribs wasn’t a direct injury from the crash but something far more heartbreaking. My bruises and breaks were a match to the damage on Carly’s arm and shoulder.Sheis the only reason I stayed in the car. She pushed me back before she crashed through the glass instead of trying to stop herself.
How can I ever forgive myself for being the reason she’s gone?
The truth? I can’t.
Everyone around me tells me how lucky I am that I didn’t lose my eye completely. They say how lucky I am to have survived the wreck altogether.
Luckyis an interesting word choice to describe my situation. I don’t feel lucky that every breath I take should also be happening for Carly. I don’t feel lucky that I can’t sleep at night and that every time I close my eyes, twisted and haunting versions of my loving sister torment me until I scream myself awake.
I certainly don’t feel lucky to be standing in a receiving line at her funeral with a hundred people pretending to understand for a millisecond that they know what I’m feeling and going through.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the thousandth person dressed in all black murmurs to me after offering me a hug that feels as warm as the tundra.
I don’t get truly warm anymore, not since before I felt the freezing cold water in the river. It’s like my bones never left, and I’m doomed to shiver for all of eternity.
My parents thank whoever’s before me, and they move on with the same pitiful look in their eyes as everyone who came before them.
I wish everyone would stop feeling so goddamn sorry for me. It’s my fault we crashed in the first place. It’s my fault that she’s gone.
My body moves through the motions of hugs and soft smiles while my mind drifts into the depths of my subconscious, back to the day of the accident.
We were driving home from school, and Carly let me get behind the wheel to practice since my driving test was coming up. Carly gave me step-by-step directions, taking us through a scenic route home, the long way that brought us around the edge of town.
I got too comfortable, too relaxed and reckless. We were jamming out to music, singing and dancing, justliving. For a split second, I checked my phone to change the song, and then the world stopped.
I must’ve drifted into the other lane because when I looked up, we were seconds from colliding with an oncoming car. I swerved hard—too hard—and lost control of the vehicle. The next thing I knew, we were rolling down the hill toward the other road, crashing through the barrier, and plunging into the water.
Carly Rose Donnelley, a pure ray of sunshine, walked around with her heart in her hands, offering it to anyone in need. She made the world a better place every single day.
If I hadn’t grabbed my phone … if I hadn’t wanted to change the goddamnstupidsong, Carly would be here. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to bring her back or switch positions with her. She deserves to be here more than I do.
I can never listen to “Payphone” by Maroon 5 again. I can still hear it blasting through the speakers like it was, even while I sank into the water. It came on the radio the other day when I was running errands with my mom and it sent me straight into a panic attack. Thankfully, my mom helped me calm down, but I’m worried these attacks are part of my new normal.
I don’t want to be here without her. I don’t knowhowto be here without her. She’s been my rock since the day I was born. She was my protector, even if I towered over her the last couple of years. I can’t live in a world where she doesn’t exist because my world doesn’t exist without her.
That joyful, bubbly laugh—I’ll never hear it again. Her intoxicating smile—I’ll never see it. Her too-tight hugs—I’ll never feel them.
It’s not fair. It’s notfuckingfair.
My distant mind and present body collide, and suddenly, everything becomes too much. Too much to feel, to hear, to see.I’m surrounded by endless waves of mourning people who share their sorrows as if they have any idea what it truly feels to miss a part of your soul the way I do.
In a small town, everyone feels they know one another, but they don’t get to lay some claim on loving or knowing her. She’smysister. She wasmyresponsibility to get home safe.
Guilt claws at my chest, and I desperately wish it would actually cut through completely, ending this spiraling misery. Just get it the fuck over with. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like this.
I need to get out of here. I need to get away from the pageantry of her last goodbye. I just want to go back to when we would watch movies in her room late at night after our parents were sound asleep. To when we’d sneakily make snacks at midnight, play games in her room, laughing for hours on end.
But now our house is silent because she took all the light and laughter with her.
When there’s noise now, it’s just anger lashing from one of my parents to the other. That’s the only way they speak to each other now and even to me. They haven’t said they blame me for her death, not audibly, but I know they think it. I can see it in their eyes. The hatred that lurks behind their smiles.
I don’t blame them; I hate myself too … I blame myself too.
Without a word, I step out of line, immediately hearing my mom shout my name with anger and disappointment. “Jensen!”
I’ve kept everything buried inside—the anger, the grief, the heartbreak—and something finally snaps inside of me.
I spin around, tears pouring down my face as I scream back at her from the top of my lungs, my voice cracking, “No!”
