Inversion [Camp NaNoWriMo July 2021]

day vii

d a y   v i i

I can still remember the crash, drunk as I was that night—the pounding headache, the blinding headlights coming straight towards us, the yelling, the swerving, the terror, the impact.

A week later, the scars of that night still haven't faded, won't fade for a long time. Maybe they won't ever fade. Because scars are meant to last, aren't they? They're there to serve as a reminder, when the memories grow dim.

I look down at myself, wishing that the scars were only physical. A few bruised ribs and a broken wrist, some cuts and a mild concussion. But the biggest scar isn't anything tangible. No. It's the emptiness in the air, the emptiness all around me. The pain, the absence, the unspoken words, the guilt, the anger, the death.

And that scar won't ever fade.

* * *

A week into summer vacation, it feels like the coldest of winters. Since being released from the hospital a few days ago, I haven't stepped outside once, despite the sunshine and the allure of the beautiful weather. My phone has been ringing nonstop, unanswered phone calls and video chats, ignored voicemails and text messages. With each day that passes, more and more friends and acquaintances seem to take the hint to leave me alone. Give me some space, as so many of them leave off with.

But space isn't what I need. Nor is time. I just want to go back in time, one week to be exact, and refuse to let my friends drag me to that stupid graduation party that ruined everything. To change that one decision that led to a whole series of other stupid choices: the party, the alcohol, the call to Jeremy.

While I'm at it, blaming everything and everyone around me, why don't I just blame science as well? Blame the weather for that thunderstorm that night? The downpour that hid the other car until it was too late to do anything but swerve and kill just one of us instead of the both of us? Why don't I blame the other driver, who hadn't noticed his car drifting into our lane, who had walked away even more unscathed than I had?

I'm being bitter, of course, shifting the blame to everything else so that I don't have to admit the truth—that Jeremy's death was no one's fault except my own. But I chose to go to that party, to get drunk, to make that call.

I know it. And Dad knows it too.

* * *

It's nighttime. My windows are open, curtains fluttering in the light breeze. Outside, I can hear the sounds of crickets chirping, interrupted by the occasional late-night car driving down the street. Summer nights have a distinctive smell—I can't say what, exactly—and, as I run my fingers over the worn body of my secondhand guitar, I can't help but let a soft smile curl at the corners of my lips.

It's not a happy smile, but it isn't sad or fake either. It's more just ... there. A reminder of what happiness once felt like, of what smiling once felt like. I can't see it, but I imagine that it looks wistful and nostalgic, thinking back to better times and reminiscing about the glory of the past.

The guitar strings are familiar under my calloused fingertips. I remember when I first began playing, how blisters would form on each finger, how each plucked note was painful. Not anymore. My skin has toughened. But only physically. If only my skin were as tough metaphorically. Maybe everything would hurt a lot less.