My breath was visible in the cold afternoon. The stoplight ahead of me shone red through my tear filled eyes. I was disoriented. My limbs were heavy. My mind was blank. I couldn’t tell if I was dead or alive. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move or even speak. I racked my brain for answers, for an explanation. I was trying to piece together what had happened. All I could remember was that I was driving to pick up my niece, Petunia.

I was so excited. I hadn’t seen her in almost a month. I walked to my car, holding over me a red umbrella. The raindrops were particularly large. I got in my car and pulled the umbrella shut. I tossed it into the backseat and shut my car door.

As I started driving, I kept thinking about what I was going to do with Petunia. Maybe we’d go to the movies, or go get ice cream, or maybe just go back to my house and play with her dolls. When I was about halfway there, I got a text from my sister. I waited until I was at a red light before reading it. She said Petunia wasn’t feeling well and I wouldn’t be able to see her today. I was infuriated. I rarely got to see her and it  felt like she was growing up without me. I threw my cell phone into the passenger seat and rested my head on the steering wheel. I took a deep breath and told myself that tomorrow I could see P. Maybe I could bring her some soup or a teddy bear to make her feel better. I lifted my head from the steering wheel without checking the stoplight. I accelerated. That’s the last thing I could remember, the rest was a blur.

As you lay here now, in the street glistening with rain, you blink slowly. Your mouth is slightly agape. You’ve been staring at the stop light above you for maybe 4 minutes. Watching it change from green to yellow to red, green to yellow to red, green to yellow to red. Cars honk behind you. None of them are concerned or sympathetic towards your tragedy. They are more worried about their mere responsibilities, like returning to work after a lunch break, or dropping off a package at the post office.

The wreck was morbid. A semi truck was going down Washington Street at about 60 mph. You began to accelerate down Washington’s intersecting street when the semi t-boned your car on the driver side. Your car flipped twice, landing on its back. Your seatbelt was not on, so on the second flip, your were thrown from your car. You were laying in the road on your back. When the ambulance arrived, your body, by miracle, was in one piece. Your arms are at your side and your legs are relaxed and bent. On the outside, you look peaceful. However, on the inside, your mind is screaming.

Tears spill from your eyes, blending in with the rain drops that run down your face. A diluted pool of blood surrounds your head from the impact. Your hair is matted and tangled, sticking to your face and scalp. Cuts cover your body and pieces of glass decorate them. Your left arm is bending the wrong way and bone is protruding from your skin. The left side of your face has millions of glass snowflakes. Your small, four door car is about ten feet to your right. It is shattered. Totaled. Destroyed. Just like you.

The paramedics arrive and put you in the ambulance. You’re not alert enough to know what’s happening, but they look worried. They hook you up to an IV. One of them treats your head and removes the glass from your face while the other tries to remove the glass from the rest of your body. You hear tone of them ask the other for more gauze. You’re getting dizzy. Your face is pale. Your eyes are empty. Your breaths are shallow and quiet. Your heart pounds against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out. You’re losing too much blood. Your eyes roll back in your head and you lose consciousness.  

She was kind. She was truthful. She’d never hurt a fly. We lost her too young, too soon. We have shared so many memories, but still had so many left to create.

Amelia was born in 1991 to Cecilia and John Wright. Her older sister, Meg, was very proud to finally have a younger sibling. The girls grew up in a cozy brick house with a big backyard. They played board games on rainy afternoons and rode bikes on sunny mornings. The family was seen as perfect. They were expected to grow old and mature together. They were expected to keep in touch as time went on and carry on silly traditions.

One Friday morning in October, the girls were getting ready for school. Amelia was 11 and Meg was 15, turning 16 the next day. They were excited. Meg was having her friends over for a birthday party that night, and Amelia was excited to have a bunch of big kids at her house.

While Amelia and Meg were eating breakfast in the kitchen, their mom came down the stairs. Her eyes were puffy and her mouth was set into a harsh frown. When she looked at the girls, tears filled her eyes. Meg shared a glanced at her sister, worried and concerned. Amelia had no worry or concern whatsoever and continued eating her cereal.

For the next couple of weeks, Cecelia kept telling her daughters that John was out of town, on business. She told them he would be back soon. It was hard to lie to them, but easy to get them to believe it. They were gullible and young.

The funeral took place a few days after the accident. It was closed casket. No one wanted to remember her the way she left; tattered and mangled. No one saw it coming. They thought she had a lot left to achieve. The funeral was small. She didn’t know many. It was uncomfortable, stiff.

One of the strangest things about the funeral, besides the low attendance and the dry eyes, was that her father didn’t show. A seat was reserved for him. He was contacted the day before, but had hung up before hearing about the funeral details. He hadn’t been around for the last half years of her life, but he was expected to be at the funeral.

Her sister, Petunia’s mom, gave the eulogy. Petunia went up with her. She was dressed in a black and white dress with a purple flower in her hair. She had no idea what was going on. At two years old, how would she? No one told her. She wouldn’t get it. She smiled the whole time her mother spoke. It was unsettling to see a cheery face at an event such as this.

The hospital is a lonely place. The only person who comes to see you is the nurse, and that’s only because you pay them to. Your day is boring. It’s long. There’s nothing to do. No one calls. You’ve only been there for two days, but it feels like much longer.

You’re in for a car accident. You were driving a delivery to its destination when you hit a small four door car. The car was slowly accelerating past a red light. You saw it, but it was too late to do anything. You smashed into its driver side, killing the driver.

Yesterday, you got a call from one of your daughters. You hadn’t spoken to her in years.  You were excited when you saw her name and face appear on the screen of your phone. You thought maybe she was calling to see if you were okay after hearing about your accident. You answered on the second ring.

You greeted her with a smile on your face, but by the rhythm of her voice, you could tell she wasn’t doing the same. She said that your other daughter was in an accident, and was killed. Instantly, your heart dropped. Tears streaked down your face. Your body shook. Before she finished giving you the details of the funeral, you hung up. You couldn’t bear to hear the rest. You buried your face in your hands.

You had killed your own daughter.