SHATTERED
by
Sandra Madera
Edited by Susan Blevins
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PUBLISHED BY
SandraMadera.com
Shattered
Copyright © 2011 by Sandra Madera
Ebook Edition License Notes
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The impact was enough to throw my body up against the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of my lungs with a single blunt force. The sound of my ribs cracking echoed through my ears like the sound of branches breaking in a silent forest. Opening my mouth to scream, both in pain and panic, my voice was silenced by my own fear, blocking my airway like an obstruction.
Without warning, there was a turning and a sound of metal being crushed like a tin can under a great weight. Within an instant, my world spun around as if I was in a blender, cracking all the glass windows. Then the splintered windshield shattered. Small pieces of glass rained on me like drops of water suspended in air. Each shard was as sharp as a dagger, stabbing me all over my body.
My head and shoulder hit the roof of the car as it slammed into the asphalt. Whimpering, I fought to regain control of my body, but when the car turned a final time, my forehead crashed into the steering wheel. The force was so great my head ricocheted off, causing the back of my head to hit the car seat. With my body beaten and broken, I could not move to shelter myself from the blows.
When the car came to a complete stop, it was on its side. The hideous shrieking of metal rubbing on asphalt evaporated into the air, and I was left in utter silence. Struggling to breathe, I managed to cry out for help before I lost consciousness and drifted off into nothingness... .
“Miranda, open the door!”
Stirring from my sleep, I sat up in bed, immediately feeling a tickle down my cheek. Bringing my hand to my face, I ran my fingers over it, finding moisture. I had been crying in my sleep again. There was no doubt I had another nightmare. I remembered every detail. It was the same every night since I heard the news a week ago... .
Standing and walking briskly towards my bedroom door, I unlatched it and turned the knob, leaving it open for my father to enter as I ran back under the covers.
He entered cautiously as if not knowing what to expect. When his tense shoulders relaxed into a slump, he came towards me, giving me a warm and comforting hug. “I heard you crying again,” he said softly. “It sounded like you were almost screaming this time.”
Michael Moralez was a handsome man. Having eyes as blue as topaz and hair as black as coal made him popular with the ladies. He had broad shoulders and a muscular build which gave him the appearance of being a man’s man. Standing at about six foot three inches, he was quite tall and usually towered over people, giving them a sense of awe.
My father was well-known throughout our small town as a high school football hero. Going onto college, he had won both state and national championships with his team. Everyone expected him to go pro, but a knee injury caused him to be benched the last season of college. Graduating with honors, he returned home and started up several businesses which made him both rich and respected.
“I was asleep,” I said, feeling the need to explain.
Pulling away slightly and taking a seat on the bed beside me, he patted my head. “It is alright. It is good to let your feelings out,” he said, his voice gentle but strained.
I shook my head in disagreement. “I hate crying.”
“Maybe that is why you cry in your sleep. It has to come out some way. God knows that I haven’t seen you cry since your mom died, and you were only seven at the time.”
Momentarily remembering my mother’s death from cancer, I nodded sadly, trying hard to plug the dam that had been unconsciously released. I hated losing control over my emotions. It was the one thing in life I could control, and I would be damned if I lost my grip in front of others, giving them a reason to feel sorry for me. I didn’t want their pity. “I promised myself I would never cry again after that,” I confirmed, glancing at the doorway as if expecting my stepmother to burst through the door. “Did I wake Sharee?”
Sharee Benning was her father’s wife. They had married a year before after dating for a little over six months. Sharee was a pretty blond with an upbeat attitude and a smile to match. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine; however, being fifteen years his junior, she was content with having no other ambition than being her father’s trophy wife.
He shook his head. “No, you know she can sleep through anything,” he responded with a sigh, appearing depressed as he ran his fingers through his tussled hair. “Maybe you should talk to someone. I can ask Dr. Jakes... .”
I scoffed at my father’s suggestion. “Dr. Jakes is a pediatrician.”
“Yeah, but I am sure he could recommend someone,” he said, his blue eyes deep with concern. “You are all I have left, Miranda.”
“Daddy, I will be fine,” I told him, trying my best to convince him. “I just need to get past tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was the funeral.
It was supposed to be the day that would grant me the resolution I craved. They say when a loved one dies that the healing stage of grief begins after the person is laid to rest. However, that always seemed like nonsense to me. That person that meant so much to you is gone as if they disappeared from your life. You will never be able to pick up a phone and hear their voice. Or hug them and tell them how much they meant to you. They were gone as if they never existed, and life would just continue on. Sure, people know about the tragedy, but they avoid talking about it as if not speaking their name would make the burden somehow bearable.
That is not the case, especially not for a twin. I will look in the mirror and see my sister’s face for the rest of my life. Others will see her in me as well and avoid me in an attempt to cover up their own feelings of remorse.
Nastasia was the one people wanted to be around. She was the popular one. She was the outgoing sister. I was just another nerd that liked photography and crosswords. Initially, people would feel sorry for me, but then my presence would be met with resentment, especially after they found out it was my car she was driving. The accident may have well been my fault. I dream of the accident because of my own inward feelings of guilt. I should have done more. I should have had it inspected. I shouldn’t have let her borrow it. It was my fault.
Averting his eyes, my father nodded as if hearing my secret thoughts which surprised me. Starting to breathe heavily, he placed his hand over his mouth in an apparent attempt to hold in his pain. “I just wished I would have told her how much I loved her,” he whimpered.
Wrapping him in an embrace, I realized it was the first time since my mother died that my father showed this kind of vulnerability. “You did.”
“But I should have said it more,” he said, allowing his tears to fall freely. “I love you both so much.”
“I know,” I whispered in his ear. “We both knew.”