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I’m the one that can’t do anything right.
It should’ve been me.
The day of the crash, I sat in the hospital room with bandages on my arms. No broken bones or major injuries, but I was covered in bruises and cuts. I held my legs close to my chest as tears poured down my face. No one was giving me clear answers about Ethan.
Mom’s voice filled the hallway, and I remember wanting nothing more than for her to wrap me up in her arms and tell me everything would be okay.
“Take me to see my kids right now!”
“Ma’am,” the doctor said, right next to my door. “One of them was seriously injured and in surgery—”
“Is this the room?”
“Yes, but—”
“Ethan?” she said, as she barged through the door.
I met her eyes, only to see the devastation on her face when she realized I was the one who was okay. That I wasn’t my brother. She wanted me to be the one in that operating room.
My stomach lurches, and I gag, covering my mouth.
I stand, swaying as I walk toward the door. I wobble down the hallway to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. Gripping the side of the bowl with shaky hands, I throw up.
It should’ve been me.
I rest my head on the cold bathroom floor, clutching my sides as my stomach continues to cramp, trying to force more out of me.
My mouth trembles as I fail to keep it shut. My sobs are silent.
I can’t do this anymore. Thinking about him hurts too much. I want to run away—to find somewhere I don’t have to feel guilty about being alive. Somewhere I can close my eyes and not be haunted by memories.
College.
College is my way out.
If I can make it through the next few months, I’ll have my ticket out of this nightmare.
I take in a deep breath and focus on the tile on the walls until my vision begins to clear.
Think about something else. Think about your art.
It’s my escape. It’s the one thing I’ve loved, ever since I was little. When I had a bad day, I’d paint and all of my problems would melt away.
I pull myself up off the floor and lean against the vanity. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeves and scrub my teeth with mint toothpaste.
Then, I leave and head back to my bedroom. I sit in front of my easel and the blank canvas that stares back at me.
My head is still pounding, but my tears have slowed, and I can see properly again.
I take out my brushes and paint.
I close my eyes, letting my mind roam. Vivid colors and textures have always been something that have filled my thoughts. Inspiration has never been something I had to wait for. I had a surplus.
This time, my mind is black and void. All I see is his face.
My eyes fly open, and I choke, hitting my chest with a fist as my blank canvas mocks me.
While there’s nothing to paint in my mind, there’s plenty on my phone. I cringe at the thought but search the web anyway. I need to think about something else, even if I have to force it.
