I sit upright on the hospital bed in the empty room. I felt as if I could just crawl up and die at that moment.
My father, who had rushed there as soon as he got the call, told me the news. He left me alone a few minutes earlier to give me time alone.
Dried tears lay crusty on my face, My arm was in a cast and my body was scattered with numerous cuts from the shattering glass, but I couldn't care less even if I was bleeding to death. The fact was that I was the only survivor and I wish I wasn't. I wish it was MY body laying in rooms nearby with no soul in it, not their's.
The car that had slid in front of us had three passengers: a six year-old girl, a ten year-old boy, and a widowed father at the age of thirty-five. A whole family was killed, and now they're all in Heaven with the mother that died five years ago.
And then there was my mother. My sweet, innocent mother that didn't deserve the smart remarks I paid her only seconds before the crash.
All these thoughts were jumbled up inside my brain. I felt light-headed and dizzy. My heart felt as if it would explode. In less than one day, my life, along with many others, had been shredded to pieces and thrown down the garbage disposal, like unwanted evidence of a horrible crime.
"Summer," a voice softly called after two muffled knocks. I looked at the face slid between the door and the frame. It was Scarlet, my best friend since birth.
"Come in," my voice managed to croak. She quietly slipped through the door and into the barren room. She took the seat that my father took earlier, before I knew.
There was a long pause before tears started to slide down her cheek. "Oh, Summer I'm so sorry." She paused and looked into my eyes. "She was like my mother, too." Her contagious crying spread to me and I started sobbing once again.
There was not much said that day. Everyone felt the same emotions about the tragedy. The accident. The crash. Days passed slowly. I went to the funeral and shed more tears. Every day after that was the same as the one before. School was just school. I went to learn and I left for the brief break I had before coming back the next day. My friends didn't have much to say to me anymore. I earned the social status as "The Emo Kid," for I never talked unless asked a question. I sat alone at lunch and moved quickly from class to class, taking my seat before anyone else. The weekends were spent studying or reading. I often went through the woods in my backyard and into the field where I spent many days as a child, running through the tall, uncut grass, climbing the big, lonely oak tree or swinging on the flat, wooden swing connected to it.
But now, I just sit on it, barely swaying back and forth, staring at the sparse cornstalks scattered across the dry pasture, whispering to my mother. I knew - just KNEW - that she could hear me, and I always felt as if she was talking back to me. I repeatedly apoligized for my unwanted behaivior on the terrible morning.
One day, as I was having my daily conversation with the deceased in the field, I felt a strange feeling. One that I have never felt before. I decided that maybe it was the heat - it was rather hot out for springtime - and started my walk back home. It was quieter than usual. The only sound that reached my ears was my feet hitting the dry pinestraw in the lonely woods. The usually muted sound was deafening.
I reached my house, running through the door, up the stairs, and into my father's office, where he spent most of his time now. My heart stopped as my eyes met the stiffened body sitting at his desk.

To be continued...