The minute I settle into my car, I notice the smell. “Not again,” I think to myself. It has been four months since the accident and close to three since I got my car back from the shop, but the smell simply refuses to leave. Most days, I can bear it with only a little difficulty, but not today. Today it’s raining. Just like it was the night of the accident.
“I can do this. I just have to make it home. Then I’ll be free of it again.”
I don’t know why I even bother trying to convince myself when I know that long after I get out of my car, the smell will still cling to me like a parasite. I begin to panic as the memories rush over me again. Headlights shining through the windshield as the wipers work frantically to keep the rain off. The smell of something burning, the airbags exploding as I scream. The lights of the ambulances and police cars; sirens mixing into what would become the soundtrack of my nightmares. The shock when the paramedics revealed that I was the only survivor.
If only things had gone differently. If only my plane hadn’t been behind schedule. If only Ben hadn’t insisted on driving because of the rain. If only the other driver hadn’t been out drinking. So many “if only"s, but naming them all won’t change the fact that if only I could go back and change things, my friend would still be alive.
It’s only been a few months, but already it seems as if everyone else is slowly moving on. I mean, it’s understandable; unless you were really close to the person who died, it doesn’t make any sense to continue mourning for the rest of your life. Even for those who were close to them. You can still miss them, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a rough life if you let yourself drown in sorrow until you join them yourself. Eventually, you’re able to move on past the crushing weight of grief until it’s just a dull throb. Always there, always present, but it’s become such a normal thing that you can almost ignore it simply because of your familiarity with it.
I guess that’s why so many people are confused by the amount of grief I still feel over the loss of Ben. We weren’t mere acquaintances, but we weren’t terribly close either. He was six years older than me and my brother David’s best friend, but that just made him a big brother to me. Someone who I was familiar with and who teased me like there was no tomorrow, but not someone who I hung out with unless he was with my brother. I hadn’t even seen him in almost six months when the accident happened.
And yet, while it’s been close to four months since he passed and everyone else seems to be recovering at a normal speed and moving on with their lives, I still feel the weight of his death hanging over me. No matter what I do, where I go, I can’t escape the memories of him. His teasing is in every hashtag I type and every time I talk about struggling with being an adult. Every time I enter a library, I remember his love of books. I can’t even look at pictures from my various adventures without thinking about the eagerness in his eyes when he asked to hear all about them. His open smile and disarming laugh; eyes closed, head thrown back, quick to appear for even the littlest thing.
But all of those things are no more. No more questions about college and professors, or about what books I’ve read, or how I spent my summer. Never again will he and David gang up on me, teasing me mercilessly. And perhaps worst of all, no more driving down the road, blissfully unaware of just how dangerous a stoplight can be.
Unable to take much more, I fumble with the sound system, setting up a playlist from my iPod. When the first song begins playing, I laugh darkly. Of all the songs in my library, of course this would be the first one to play today.
“I try to sleep by my eyes are open, I can’t think cause my heart is broken,” sings the radio. When I started listening to Mayday Parade, I never imagined the meaning this song would hold for me. Even before the accident, I felt strangely drawn to this song. Now it puts words to my vast array of emotions.
“Sleep well my friend, there will be another moment we’ll meet again. Just let it go. Sleep well, goodnight. You’re something to remember, I wish that you were here by my side.” With Everything Is An Illusion blasting through my car’s speakers, I finally pull myself together and start down the road towards home.
