» Haha, English homework.
Why would anybody read this? It's HOMEWORK. Well, fuck you! I'm posting it anyways! D:«
Title: Slow Heart Beating
Rating: PG
Summary: English narrative essay assignment: "Write something significant that happened in your life THAT ISN'T TOO PERSONAL THAT YOU CAN'T SHARE WITH OTHERS." So, uh, since it's not, here we are. In short, PERSONAL ANGST.
Word Count: 1,065
Author's Note: Fuck you, Disclaimer. For once I don't have to obligatory use you BECAUSE THIS REALLY HAPPENED! At least, I think it did. I bullshitted most of it since I was only 7 at the time and both my parents are big "IDK" boxes when I asked them about most of it, too. SO WHATEVER.
Monday, August 4th, 1997-a standard, calm day by any means with only the slightest of breezes to disturb the otherwise peaceful countryside. The sky was an immaculate pale cornflower blue and dappled with white and azure clouds at irregular intervals. Acres upon acres of forest-green corn and emerald soy beans stretch out from all sides of the crisscrossing asphalt roads, flowing outwards across the fields in orderly, divided rows as far as the eye could see. The wild grasses at the side of the row rustled every time a car passed on the highway, creating a lulling, organic tune.
And then metal crashed against metal, piercing and killing the serenity of the landscape in one fell swoop, the atrocious sounds of exploding glass and skidding tires elongated for two, three, maybe even four whole seconds before it ceased. It was all over in the same amount of time a human’s heart beats once, yet in this instance all of the coursing blood had turned cold, all breaths choked back and held.
The driver of the imposing semi-truck, shaken but unhurt, instantaneously unbuckles himself from his seat, flings the door open, and leaps to the cold pavement below. No hesitation touched him as he ran to the side of the road to move a girl’s face-down body out of a puddle of water that could possibly drown her, not yet aware of the other one, easily eighteen years old, just a few feet away in the ditch.
Why had they turned left when their blinker had said right?
Seven years old at the time, I was watching a television show, an uneventful show that I had probably seen before because I don’t remember being that interested in it. Maybe it was because of this or simply because it was him, but my father’s voice at once caught my attention after he hung up the phone. I remember his moist eyes and affected tone vividly as he spoke to me:
“Your sister’s in the hospital.”
Whatever he said after that is lost in the rush of action that followed-rushed footsteps to grab the car keys, to call my brother who was at his friend’s house, and then somebody to look after me. The next thing I knew I was at my uncle’s house and playing with my cousin who’s only a year older than me. I don’t know for sure how long it was that I was with them in a state of surreal normalness and redundancy, but I clearly remember asking numerous times, “When will I be able to go see my sister?” My voice always had an aura of worry but not fear, more like that of vexation than comprehension. I would swallow that naiveté soon enough.
The next scene that comes to me is holding my father’s younger brother’s hand as we walked through the hospital’s expansive, car-stuffed parking lot after spending a day or two living with him and his family. The towering compound that was Immanuel St. Joseph’s didn’t scare me then, not like it does today, and I eagerly ventured inside and onto the elevator. However, even back then I hated elevators; and oddly, that filled me with more dread than the idea of seeing my older and only sister right then.
I knew exactly where to go. Once we were off the elevator and into the hallway, I could see my mother standing in a room’s doorway a few feet away and past a stray gurney. Unguided, I moved to her side expectantly, anxious by the tear stains on her sweet face but settled when her hands fell upon my shoulders. When I turned to look into the room, I stood frozen at the sight of my sleeping sister in the hospital bed. I wasn’t afraid; I just didn’t know what I was supposed to do.
“It’s okay,” my mother whispered-or something equally generic as that, I can’t really recall exactly. Nevertheless, that was all she had to say because I took the cue to move to the lone chair on the left side of my sibling’s bed, sat upon it, and took her hand in my own because that’s what people do when they see a battered loved one sleep like she was sleeping.
The array of flowers spread out on the window sills and all other flat surfaces belittled the serious milieu of the room in my mind. Because of this my nose was faintly filled with beatific scents while my mouth dried. I didn’t look at her face; I stared intently at her hand. I memorized all the fine details-all the little scabs there, the lightly visible veins on the back of her hand, and the dirt under her fingernails-
That hit me. Uncountable, fleck-like scabs. Dirt-embalmed scabs.
It’d been days since the accident; I hadn’t been there with her for one moment of it. I felt completely and utterly detached from everything. I realize now that I had always felt that way since the moment my dad had told me what had happened. I never once felt scared by the thought of her being anything else but okay because I presumed everybody would take care of her and she’d be alright. And she was okay. She was stabilized and breathing on her own, wasn’t hemorrhaging or paralyzed or comatose. Banged up and bruised, but she was fine.
My hands didn’t shake as I clasped them both firmly over my sister’s motionless one still in my grasp. I didn’t cry, and if I did, it was only because my mom was or had. A punctured left lung, a profound gash in her right thigh, multiple stitches that must have hurt like hell, and thousands of little lacerations from the rocks and pebbles that had flacked her skin as she had hit the gravel after viciously being thrown through and out of the back window of her ’89 Chevy Beretta-and I didn’t even tremble once. I didn’t even say anything to comfort her. I didn’t feel anything. I just kept asking myself, Why won’t you grasp my hand back?
Sitting there in all my childlike awkwardness and stoicism, I waited. I knew in a few hours she’d wake up, squeeze my hand, smile, and tell me everything was just as fine as I knew it to be. She would reaffirm my blind presumptions.
Note to self: HOW DO I TAG THIS? DX New tag. Sweet.
Title: Slow Heart Beating
Rating: PG
Summary: English narrative essay assignment: "Write something significant that happened in your life THAT ISN'T TOO PERSONAL THAT YOU CAN'T SHARE WITH OTHERS." So, uh, since it's not, here we are. In short, PERSONAL ANGST.
Word Count: 1,065
Author's Note: Fuck you, Disclaimer. For once I don't have to obligatory use you BECAUSE THIS REALLY HAPPENED! At least, I think it did. I bullshitted most of it since I was only 7 at the time and both my parents are big "IDK" boxes when I asked them about most of it, too. SO WHATEVER.
Monday, August 4th, 1997-a standard, calm day by any means with only the slightest of breezes to disturb the otherwise peaceful countryside. The sky was an immaculate pale cornflower blue and dappled with white and azure clouds at irregular intervals. Acres upon acres of forest-green corn and emerald soy beans stretch out from all sides of the crisscrossing asphalt roads, flowing outwards across the fields in orderly, divided rows as far as the eye could see. The wild grasses at the side of the row rustled every time a car passed on the highway, creating a lulling, organic tune.
And then metal crashed against metal, piercing and killing the serenity of the landscape in one fell swoop, the atrocious sounds of exploding glass and skidding tires elongated for two, three, maybe even four whole seconds before it ceased. It was all over in the same amount of time a human’s heart beats once, yet in this instance all of the coursing blood had turned cold, all breaths choked back and held.
The driver of the imposing semi-truck, shaken but unhurt, instantaneously unbuckles himself from his seat, flings the door open, and leaps to the cold pavement below. No hesitation touched him as he ran to the side of the road to move a girl’s face-down body out of a puddle of water that could possibly drown her, not yet aware of the other one, easily eighteen years old, just a few feet away in the ditch.
Why had they turned left when their blinker had said right?
Seven years old at the time, I was watching a television show, an uneventful show that I had probably seen before because I don’t remember being that interested in it. Maybe it was because of this or simply because it was him, but my father’s voice at once caught my attention after he hung up the phone. I remember his moist eyes and affected tone vividly as he spoke to me:
“Your sister’s in the hospital.”
Whatever he said after that is lost in the rush of action that followed-rushed footsteps to grab the car keys, to call my brother who was at his friend’s house, and then somebody to look after me. The next thing I knew I was at my uncle’s house and playing with my cousin who’s only a year older than me. I don’t know for sure how long it was that I was with them in a state of surreal normalness and redundancy, but I clearly remember asking numerous times, “When will I be able to go see my sister?” My voice always had an aura of worry but not fear, more like that of vexation than comprehension. I would swallow that naiveté soon enough.
The next scene that comes to me is holding my father’s younger brother’s hand as we walked through the hospital’s expansive, car-stuffed parking lot after spending a day or two living with him and his family. The towering compound that was Immanuel St. Joseph’s didn’t scare me then, not like it does today, and I eagerly ventured inside and onto the elevator. However, even back then I hated elevators; and oddly, that filled me with more dread than the idea of seeing my older and only sister right then.
I knew exactly where to go. Once we were off the elevator and into the hallway, I could see my mother standing in a room’s doorway a few feet away and past a stray gurney. Unguided, I moved to her side expectantly, anxious by the tear stains on her sweet face but settled when her hands fell upon my shoulders. When I turned to look into the room, I stood frozen at the sight of my sleeping sister in the hospital bed. I wasn’t afraid; I just didn’t know what I was supposed to do.
“It’s okay,” my mother whispered-or something equally generic as that, I can’t really recall exactly. Nevertheless, that was all she had to say because I took the cue to move to the lone chair on the left side of my sibling’s bed, sat upon it, and took her hand in my own because that’s what people do when they see a battered loved one sleep like she was sleeping.
The array of flowers spread out on the window sills and all other flat surfaces belittled the serious milieu of the room in my mind. Because of this my nose was faintly filled with beatific scents while my mouth dried. I didn’t look at her face; I stared intently at her hand. I memorized all the fine details-all the little scabs there, the lightly visible veins on the back of her hand, and the dirt under her fingernails-
That hit me. Uncountable, fleck-like scabs. Dirt-embalmed scabs.
It’d been days since the accident; I hadn’t been there with her for one moment of it. I felt completely and utterly detached from everything. I realize now that I had always felt that way since the moment my dad had told me what had happened. I never once felt scared by the thought of her being anything else but okay because I presumed everybody would take care of her and she’d be alright. And she was okay. She was stabilized and breathing on her own, wasn’t hemorrhaging or paralyzed or comatose. Banged up and bruised, but she was fine.
My hands didn’t shake as I clasped them both firmly over my sister’s motionless one still in my grasp. I didn’t cry, and if I did, it was only because my mom was or had. A punctured left lung, a profound gash in her right thigh, multiple stitches that must have hurt like hell, and thousands of little lacerations from the rocks and pebbles that had flacked her skin as she had hit the gravel after viciously being thrown through and out of the back window of her ’89 Chevy Beretta-and I didn’t even tremble once. I didn’t even say anything to comfort her. I didn’t feel anything. I just kept asking myself, Why won’t you grasp my hand back?
Sitting there in all my childlike awkwardness and stoicism, I waited. I knew in a few hours she’d wake up, squeeze my hand, smile, and tell me everything was just as fine as I knew it to be. She would reaffirm my blind presumptions.
Note to self: HOW DO I TAG THIS? DX New tag. Sweet.