Characterization

Spoiler! :

I wrote this for a creative writing class last year, and just found it on my computer...figured I'd see what people thought. The short story that followed was terrible, so we'll pretend this is the short story.

I’ll never forget the day my life was changed for ever. One minute, I was this kid with an annoying older sister and two parents I loved more than anything else. The next, my life was in pieces, with a sister for a mom and a mom who wouldn’t even leave her bedroom. It was seven years ago, on a seemingly deserted road about fifteen minutes from my house. I remember the low hum of the engine, masked by the old country music my dad loved so much. I remember the chill of the air as it clawed its way inside the vehicle, despite the fact it was too early in the fall for the temperatures to dive so low. Most of all, I remember the paling of my father’s face as the pick-up refused to listen to him any longer.

I was ten years old and sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s old beat up red pick-up truck. My mom had spent months trying to convince him to buy a new one, considering we could easily afford it; but Dad had said no, that he didn’t need a new truck when his ran just fine. My dad felt having money didn’t mean we need everything new. In fact, he particularly loved anything that was old and used. Though Mom constantly tried to convince him to get new things, dad refused. I loved my dad’s stubborn side, and Mom insisted he’d given it to me. I remember studying his face, trying to decide if he was serious when he said we weren’t going home.

“Dad,” I’d stated stubbornly, “I know you are lying to me! I just saw the sign back there.” His lips moved upward slightly as he shook his head. He turned to look at me, his hazel eyes a stubborn mirror of my own. He looked tired, but content as he always did after our once-a-month trips to the lake for some father-son time.

“Fine, G,” his raspy voice admitted at last, “you’re right. We are only fifteen minutes from home.” He tried to keep a stern face, but failed as his laugh rang through the truck. As he turned his eyes back to the road, his laugh came to a sudden stop. The color drained out of his face and I began to worry. My dad was the strongest person I knew, nothing scared him. I forced myself to look forward, and time froze as I saw what he had seen. While we were talking, a semi-truck had cut in front of us. He had then slammed on his breaks, and the scream of the tires against the road did nothing. My dad hit the breaks in vain, and our pick-up followed the semi move for move, completely out of Dad’s control. It felt like years, but in a few short moments everything went black.

When I woke up, everything felt wrong. The smell of the room was too strong, too sanitized, too much. My chest felt as if it was being ripped apart, and my head throbbed. As I opened my eyes, my sister came fluttering to my side. Her hands felt like ice as she gripped my hand and leaned down to kiss my forehead. Her green eyes were unlike my father’s and mine, but like my mother’s. Unlike my mother, however, they remained calm in chaos.

“Gabe, you’re awake! Thank goodness,” Gemma’s light voice whispered. “We were so scared!” Yet, I couldn’t see this we she was talking about. My mom was no where to be seen, and neither was my dad; and then it hit me. Where was my dad?

“Gem,” I tried, but my voice came out hoarse from lack of talking. I cleared my voice and tried again. “Where is dad?” My sister, the one who was never overly emotional and could stay calm in anything, bit her lip as her eyes grew sad.

“Gabriel, Dad didn’t survive the accident,” she managed to choke out as a tear escaped from her eye and slid slowly down her cheek. I focused on it as the words registered in my head. Dad was dead. My father, the man who could survive anything, had been killed in an accident I may have caused. My body felt numb as my chest continued to ache. If I hadn’t distracted my dad, he would have seen the truck cut in front of us and moved over preventing the accident. Instead, he was looking at me. I deserved the ache in my chest from where the glass of the shattered windshield had sliced through skin and muscle. I deserved that pain, but my dad didn’t deserve death. It hadn’t been his fault.

From that day on, my mother was a different woman. Instead of me waking up to her by my side that day in the hospital, whispering, “Gabriel, my angel,” to me, I woke up to my sister; a foreshadowing of the next four years. My sister assumed the position of mother, making sure I went to school, had enough lunch money, and had clean clothes. She made sure we had enough groceries, and that all bills were paid on time. When she moved out when I turned fourteen, I then assumed these responsibilities. It was as if my mother was only a presence in the house, not really there. I’d never forget the day of the accident, or the days that followed, but I made friends and tried to move on. Still, every night as I drift off to sleep, the hum of the engine, the soft singing of the country music, and the horrible screeching of the tires blend together to create the nightmares that keep me awake.