I can't really tell you what happened after those moments. All I know is that I became catatonic, according to Bert.
Of course, that was before he grabbed my phone from my pocket and called 911, not the morgue. I'm not sure why he suggested the morgue, if he didn't know the number. Then the ambulance had collected all three of us, Bert abandoning his bus since there was no one on it.
It was 2 days before I spoke again. I'm not sure why I couldn't. Maybe it was that when I tried, I thought of how the boy would never speak again. Or how he'd never kiss someone, or fall in love, or have kids, or grow old.
Harold James McConnley. Son of Brenda and Greg McConnley. Died on October 30th, 2014, at roughly 5:50pm. He was a sophomore in high school, a year below mine. He broke his neck when he got hit. They explained to me that was why his head was at such a weird angle, before I re-positioned it. He also broke 4 ribs, his arm and punctured both his lungs.
I went to his funeral. My mom dropped me off in front of his church, after I asked her to, and she left me by myself. She was never one to coddle me, though she hugged me tight when I finally said my first words after the accident. It was like I was re-born in those two days, going from boisterous, loud, and sassy, to just quiet.
I was quiet as the pastor talked about all of Harold's accomplishments.I was quiet while surrounded by sobbing people, most sporting the same shade of red hair as Harold. I was quiet when I walked up to the closed casket, rubbing my hand along the smooth wood. I was loud when I got home and curled in a ball and cried over this boy I never knew.
My Doctor said I have PTSD and depression, suspicions my mother had herself, before forcing me out of bed and to the doctor's to be professionally diagnosed.
"I don't want to go," I had murmured as my mom had quickly brushed and braided my long brown hair, like I was a child again. She just hummed in response, tying the elastic as she finished the braid. She rests her hands on my shoulders for a few seconds, and I can feel her warm breath fanning across my neck. Then she walks away to grab her purse, without any word between either of us.
The problem with me becoming quiet was that my mom was quiet, too. Before, I had talked enough for the both of us. Now I don't speak unless it way necessary. It led to a lot of dull, silent moments. I dreaded these moments, since they allowed to me think, and my line of thinking wasn't always rainbows and sunshine.
I remembered what the doctor had said as soon as she saw me
"Are you OK, honey?" she had asked, worry lacing her words. I had just nodded, and she harumphed at that.
"Sure. Let's go into my office," and I had followed her. I was scared. I wasn't sure if I wanted to blindly put my faith in this random woman, but I figured anything was better than my current situation.
I remember walking into her office. It was a calming shade of blue and had a lot of plants. I had especially liked the cactus on her desk, seemingly out of place in the middle of her daisies and spider plants. She looked at me dead in the eyes, her warm, baby-blues almost penetrating right into my soul. Then she said three sentences that convinced me she would be able to help.
"I know you're not okay. Don't even try saying "I'm fine." Or you can see someone else."
