Carissa

No Matter where I go or how much time has passed, I'm still the girl who didn't die.

   It's a really hard thing to escape, knowing that people think about it every time they see you. Being in a somewhat small town on the coastal edge of Florida doesn't help.

   Oh, how're you? You're the girl who survived that wreck, right?

   Of course, my family had a rough time that year, too. They were constantly questioned about it. Plus? I almost didn't survive. I was in the hospital for five months and the doctors had to put me back together, pretty much. But my parents don't carry around the guilt that I do. They don't still get asked about it, four years later. I'm the one who has to relive it. And honestly I just want it all to stop.

   I'm a freshman at the state college here in Pensacola. My parents wouldn't let me apply anywhere else because they wanted to keep me close. I mean, whatever, it's not my life or anything. I get it, they are worried about my recently acquired fragile state. I have a condition that causes sudden migraines and also random numbness in my hands and legs. It's not fun and my parents constantly worry that I'll fall down a flight of stairs or collapse somewhere. Yes, I still live at home with them too. My little brother Ky moved to Orlando for college last fall, so it's just us now.


    It's October, and while I enjoy college, I know I'm not getting the full experience. My friends mostly went away for college, leaving me in this town to fend for myself. Making friends in college would be hard enough, I assume, but I am almost two years older than most of the kids in my classes. Also, most everyone knows me as Carissa Thom, the girl who survived the horrific car wreck, four years ago.

                                                                                               *

   "Riss! Honey, you're going to miss the bus and I don't have time to drop you off today!" my mom calls from the hallway.

   This happens often. I just feel like sleeping today and my legs are sore. My back is sore. I grunt and toss myself out of bed anyway.

   "I'll be down in five !" I call back, because she'll wait outside my door otherwise.

   She's only forty-three, younger than most of the other moms with a twenty and eighteen year old. She's like the older version of me, with the same dark hair and eyes and the same pointed nose. I have more scars than her, though. A lot more.

   Dad's already gone to work and Mom has one foot out the door when I walk into the kitchen. She waves and blows me a kiss and yells have a good day! And then she's gone. My parents' lives had to go back to normal, but it took awhile. It was about a year after the accident before they stopped treating me like I was made of glass. Before they started going out with their friends, again. Before they stopped hovering and checking in on me a hundred times a day. My life never went back to normal. I went back to school for the second half of junior year, and then started senior year "as usual", but nothing was the same. I was still using a cane, most days. I couldn't do gym, or dance class. Everyone looked at me with pity, or horror. And then high school ended and everyone went on their merry ways.

   I have ten minutes before the bus comes at the end of our street, so I need to hustle. Coffee first, in a travel mug, then I eat a banana and slip on my shoes, grabbing my bag.
The bus is loud and full and I'm glad it's only a fifteen minute ride. There's so many smells and they all irritate me. Someone's definitely eating a burrito. I hold my breath the second half of the trip, and finally all the people pile off at the college, including myself. My legs feel a bit weak, but I try to ignore it. It's Monday and I need to have a good day.

    I've been in classes with the same people for six weeks now. Mostly are just out of high school. I'm taking a Physical Therapy Technician program. I know how important my PT was, so I want to give back. I want to help kids the same way Jordan helped me. These kids in my classes didn't go through a horrific accident in high school. They didn't almost die. But they picked these classes too. And I have to deal with that.

   I eat lunch from the sub place on campus, but sit outside on my break, alone. I mean, that's what I always do. It would be nice to have friends but it's not like I'm really putting myself out there.

   I have two best friends, Dana and Easton. They've been dating since ninth grade and went off to UCLA together, two years ago. They come back in the summer and for Christmas, so we still see each other. We talk all the time and video chat often.

   It's not their fault they weren't in that car, that night. They were at the party, but Easton got sick and they called his mom for a ride, an hour in. We were sixteen. I was in the middle of a game of beer pong and just assumed I'd catch a ride with someone heading back towards my neighbourhood, later on.

   Anyway, I talk to Dana and Easton daily in our group chat. Honestly, they may be what feels like a thousand miles away but I still have them in my life. And I am happy about that.
I check my phone a few minute before the end of my break period and there's a message from Dana, as usual.

   Luv ya Carissa. Hang in there. Try to make a new friend!

   How did she know if been thinking about this? Can she read my mind? Geez.

   I'm good. I don't need friends. I've got you. I send back.

   The rest of my day is a blur of ordinary. Professors, lectures, one test, one new lab partner. He's an eighteen year old with big dreams and a big mouth. He's loud. He didn't hesitate to ask if I'm the same  Carissa Thom who was in the wreck. He said he went to the same high school as the rest of the kids in the car.

   I shouldn't have been in that car.

   My dads home when I get home, because I decided to walk. It's not cold outside yet - I mean it's Florida - and I have no where to be. My part time job at the corner store is only Friday and Saturdays and it's just for something to do. College is my entire identity at this point.

   "Hey Carissa," my dad calls from his office.

   "Hey," I call out, dropping my bag on the kitchen floor.

   "How was your day?" He doesn't bother coming out of his office to talk so I cross the room and peek my head in.

   "Fine. You?"

   "Fine as well. I mean, good. Nothing special, which is good in my work," he answer, his eyes barely leaving his computer screen.

   He's in finance, though I don't know what he actually does at work.

   "Good," I finish, and then turn to go back to the kitchen.

   I could have told my dad that my legs were sore today. I could tell him that I dropped my pen in biology, twice, because my right hand was going numb. But I won't because he's the worrier. He'd have my mom call my do it or to do more tests. I'm sick of tears and bloodwork just to hear that it's likely not going to improve. I'm alive. My injuries are mostly healed. I just want to move on.