The Broken Road

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The hospital bed light above my wounded head is blinding.  My memory is fragile.  I cannot remember much. I can barely remember who these gentle people are that are sitting at my bedside in this bright room. I guess they recognize the confusion on my face, which leads them to explain the recent events.
“Mika, you where in an accident. A rather bad one.” My mother, I think, says as she is holding my hand with a firm grip. I try to respond, but all of the shock and questions get tangled up in my mouth like a knot.
“Who was with me?” I finally respond.
“Just you and Maurica.”
“I’m sorry, but who is Maurica?” At that moment a younger girl with short blonde hair walks out. She looks upset.
“Maurica is your little sister.” My father says with a worried look on his face.
I open my mouth to respond, but I close it almost instantly, too afraid to damage things anymore. I tilt my head away from my not-so-recognizable relatives, and fall back asleep.

Images flash in my mind- a girl in my passenger side seat who is dancing to the blaring music. I see another car slamming their brakes on in the middle of the road as they hit me from the side. I see glass. I see blood. I see nothing.

I wake with a gasp. Sitting straight up in my hospital bed. I didn’t wake anyone else, thankfully. I see my parents on a homemade mattress in the floor, and I see the girl that was in my passenger seat, Maurica. I throw the covers off of my weak legs, and make my way out of the bed. I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see who it is, and I see no one. I turn back around, shaking it off. I make my way to the tiny bathroom built into my room. There is a small mirror above the sink. I look into it. The girl I see is recognizable, but not familiar. She is myself.  I suddenly see another face step out beside mine in the mirror. As shock hits me, I turn quickly to look in reality at the image instead for the reflection. I see no one. Shook, I wash my face with the cold water, trying to make since of what just happened. After one last look at myself in the mirror, I turn and walk out. My mother had just woken up and she rushes me back into my bed. I want to know more. I want to know what happened. I want to know who I was, and who I had become.
“Mother, I-I… what happened that night? The night of the accident.”
“Okay. Um… you were… you were driving home a couple of days ago,” my mom says looking up at the ceiling, trying to hide the fact that the tears are about to start coming. “and it was raining. You hydroplaned into another car. They hit you from the side. Your car flipped several times. Your sister… your sister got thrown out of the car. She had broken ribs, a broken neck, internal bleeding. Ugh. She’s gone. Your sister is gone.” The worry, anger, sadness, regret, and longing in her voice sends me into panic. Who was that person that I saw? Who was that girl in the mirror? Who was the upset girl that left the room? I could be asking myself these questions. Who was that person that I saw in the mirror? Who was the upset girl that left the room to wash her face? The guilt, the anger, and the regret. Who was that girl?






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