Pieces of a Mending Heart by Kristina M. Rovison Page B

would race down the steps of the school and jump into my open arms on most days. Others, she would simply grab my hand and swing our arms as we walked.
    Skylar was my best friend, my baby sister, and my whole world. I would sit through hours of tea-parties, hair and makeup days where she would put a whole tube of gel in my long hair, making it stick up in all directions. I would walk her to the park where we would fly kites and chase each other with water balloons. I would take her to the pet store where we would play with the dogs and cats that weren’t being adopted, even though we could never take them home because our mother was very allergic.
    My mother was also clinically depressed, smiling when necessary and encourag ing us to leave the house often, but leaving me to raise my sister alone. She never wanted us to see her break, but I was old enough to see the signs. One day, I had to physically pour every drop of alcohol we had in the house down the drain. While Skylar and I were at school, she would be home, drinking, and we thought she was working.
    My mother was laid off from her job at a foreclosure company, forcing her to take a “temporary leave” with very little pay. With the money she did have, she began to spend frivolously, leaving next to nothing for bare necessities. She became much less “mom” and much more “mother.” Our grandfather did everything possible to keep her from falling apart, but the day I came home from a camping trip and found her sprawled on the couch, naked, next to a random shady-looking guy and a whiskey bottle, I had had enough.
    I grabbed whatever clothes I could fit into my backpack, and one-hundred dollars from the emergency fund- which was selfish of me- and ran out of the house, car keys in hand. I had my license for barely a month, but I was so lost in a fit of rage I didn’t care. Slamming the car door, I saw nothing but red flames of anger pulsing behind my eyes and the wide, open highway that stretched in front of me.
    In the oblivion I slipped into, it was easy not to notice Skylar climb into the back seat. In the corner of my mind, I felt her tiny fingers wrap around my shoulder, but I threw them off, fighting the tears that threatened to trickle down my cheeks. I had had enough of our mother, and in my despair, I was accelerating towards eighty miles an hour.
    Barely five minutes into my drive is when it happened; a Ford truck lost control and spun in my direction. Frozen, I stared as the hundred-thousand pound piece of metal continued flying towards the side of my vehicle . My foot couldn’t find the gas pedal, and I found myself coming back into my body. Anger completely faded, I noticed Sky in the car for the first time. She was looking at me, eyes wide, not seeing Death barreling towards us.
    The last thing I heard was her scream before everything went black. One week later, I woke from the coma in the hospital, feeling scared and alone. No one was visiting me, but there was a lone card on the desk next to me. It wasn’t signed, so I couldn’t tell who had left it here. The doctors told me that I was lucky to be alive; that the car had been so destroyed that the “jaws of life” were used to get me out.
    Then I remembered Skylar. Frantic, I started to interrupt Doctor Colson’s spiel on how lucky I was and how his quick thinking saved my life. My head was thumping, and he urged me to lie back down, but I refused. The doctor was too pleased with himself to feign sympathy for my condition, so he left the room in haste, sending in a young nurse that had a tattoo on the side of her neck. I remember thinking about how wrong the ink looked on the kind woman, but her next words shattered everyth ing insignificant in my brain.
    I killed my sister . Baby Skylar, so young, so full of life, was lying dead in the ground because of me. Hell, I wasn’t even at her funeral! That explains why my mother isn’t here; she probably never wants to see me again. I remember