Unspoken Words



She was soaked, unconscious and cold as ice. When I shook her there was no reaction. It had only been ten minutes, but the life in her eyes had already faded. By the time the ambulance arrived there was no point. Everything was over, half of me gone.


With cobalt lips she had whispered her last words to me, “It’s not your fault.” But it was.


If we were never in that car her gentle hands would still be holding mine, warm arms gripping me tight. The one person I loved more than life itself was gone because of my own desire to be reckless. Staring into those lifeless brown eyes, there was nothing I wanted more than to see them light up one last time. Hands shaking, they began to drag me from her faint body.


The dull scream of sirens in my ears numbed any sense of reality I had left. They searched me over, rubbing alcohol on wounds that had no feeling, and trying to question me simultaneously. I was falling though; out of place and out of time.


Two months later I saw an IV being taken from my arm. A woman's voice uttered, “My name is Dr. Mairs. Can you tell me your name?” I wanted to answer but couldn’t, it felt as if someone had sewn my lips together.


”You’ve been in a coma for the past two months. We’ve finished your blood work and contacted you’re family. They’ll be here shortly.” I smiled reluctantly and turned, pointing towards the clipboard in her hand. She placed it in my palm after a moment of hesitation.


With an unsteady hand I managed to write, “Were you able to revive her?”


Dr. Mairs sighed, “Your driver? No, she was pronounced deceased upon arrival in the ER.” She watched as a tear slid down my cheek. I knew the night of the accident that I would never see her lips curl into that delicate smile again, but somehow fooling myself seemed better than facing reality.


Pen in hand, I took the clipboard once more. As she read it aloud the words seemed to play over and over, “I won't speak again.” She paused, and then asked, “Were you and your passenger close?”


At that instant my tears began to flow painstakingly. “She was my world.” I scrawled out, “I would give anything just to hear her voice.”


As all doctors dealing with a grieving patient do, Dr. Mairs recited the inevitable; “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your family should be arriving soon, until then get some rest. You need to build your strength back up.”


Dr. Mairs left, and I planned to do the same. A few of my things had been recovered from the accident and were lying on my bedside table. I picked up my bag-it was somewhat torn, yet still intact. A ragged Bob Marley sweatshirt, a few pens and my wallet were all I found within it. I began to search the wallet frantically. Under a mass of expired coupons I scrounged up about $75 cash, and found the key to my storage unit in Manhattan. To forget my past, to have no beating heart, to simply lose myself. Those were the only thoughts running through my head. So I put on the sweatshirt, and ran.


Walking the empty lots of Long Island, I had no recollection of where I was, and I couldn’t come to terms with who I was. My heart was torn in two, my mind lost in the noise of the city, and my entity? It had become nothing more than a pair of sunken eyes set in an apathetic body. I began to walk briskly; paranoia set in just as dusk arrived. A bus stop was the only reason I halted. The two minutes it took for the Rover to arrive seemed to last years. I placed a bill in the collection box, took my seat, and slipped into a trance.


A cool breath was running down my neck and the husky voice of the bus driver muttered, “This is the last stop, Manhattan, New York. Hop off.” I nodded and grabbed my things. My unit was on Albany Street in the lower section of Manhattan. It was only two blocks from where I had been dropped off and about a 10 minute walk. Time stood still during those ten minutes though, and I found myself staring at the steel door to the unit around 11 at night. I unlocked it, and flipped the light switch. It was dim and eerie, yet I felt comfortable behind the safety of the damp walls. I combed through the stacked boxes and found my old Fender. The finish was scratched, but it would work. Nestled in a stack of tarp, a sudden stupor came over me and I blacked out.


Sunlight poured in from the single broken window and fell upon my frail figure. I grabbed the neck of the Fender, opened the door, and stepped onto the cracked sidewalk. The first song I had learned as a child was ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon, so I began to play. A boy around the age of 14, only a few years younger than myself, stopped and pointed to the wooden pallet lying next to me. His lips were quaint and pale, eyes with blackened circles, but he had a spirit about him that warmed me.


He sat awkwardly on the pallet, bony knees protruding through his mangled jeans. Then he spoke in a raspy tone, “I’m Grayson, you can call me Gray. What’s your name?” I pointed to the sketchbook he held. He flipped to a new page and handed a pen over.


I wrote, “My name’s not important, but if you want to know why I’m here I’ll tell you.”


“Are we trying to make a deal?” he joked. For the first time in a while a smirk spread across my sullen face.


I took the pen and etched, “For each day you visit me, I’ll play you a new song and tell you another part of my story.” inside the sheet of rough paper.


“I’ll accept that...under one condition. At the end of your story, will you tell me your name?” I nodded yes, and he handed me a notebook from his backpack. While he drew on the sketch pad, I began to occupy the book.


“Three years ago I fell into that blind puppy love you’re probably in now. She took me by the hand and showed me that letting go wasn’t an option. We would sprawl out on the ground with dry summer grass scratching at us as we talked. One day it would be about how I had run away the night before, the next about the way the leaves were turning crimson. I could pour my heart out, knowing that she would let it drain but fill it back up with her soft words. Watching as the breeze would blow wisps of hair upon her face; it was the most beautiful thing I had seen. Time came and went though, and I realized that I couldn’t last much longer”, Gray had read aloud. He raised one of his thin eyebrows, exposing a scar atop his left eye. He asked, “If you loved her, why couldn’t you last?”


I scribbled, “Come back and I’ll explain.”


Gray made an appearance about a week after our last encounter. He sat upon the splintered pallet just as he had before, and I played for him.


“You’re playing ‘Yesterday’, aren’t you?” he questioned. I smiled gingerly and finished strumming. He took the notebook from his bag and slipped it into my lap. He began to sketch, and so I took up my story from where I had left off.


“My home life wasn’t that of your average kid. My father was an alcoholic, but my mom stayed at home even though his rampages had become violent. Ian, my older brother, used to take me to a friend’s house until my dad was sober enough to remember who we were. His episodes grew more frequent, and that's why I couldn't last much longer." Gray's eyes grew somber as he continued to read, "So while we were talking one day I told her that I wanted to leave my home for good this time. She looked me over and said, 'You're not leaving without me'. We came up with a trail of houses to stay at, and decided that Long Island was where we would end up. That was three months, and an entire lifetime, ago." he cleared his throat as he ended the paragraph.


"What happened? Why isn't she with you now?" he asked, looking for an answer longingly.


I replied the same as I had before, "If you come back, I'll finish my story."


"But I might not have a ride for a few days. Can you please just tell me what happened?"


"NOT NOW." I retaliated in sloppy capital letters, trying to persuade him to return in order for me to finish my story.


Gray's cold hand skimmed my wrist as he reached for the notebook. He placed the two pads in his backpack, grinned and stood. He walked off, sort of half-staggering along the way. The way he understood reminded me that I was telling him my past for a reason, in hopes of convincing myself that this had all occurred in good faith.


I hadn't seen Gray's ashen face in a few days, but when I saw him turning the corner into my alley I became suddenly on edge. My nerves were taking over what little control I had left of my body. When Gray sat though, his constant smile sedated me.


"Are you ready?" his gruff voice broke off in a kid like fashion. I picked up my guitar limply, and played note after note until I wound up staring at his bag waiting for the notebook to surface. He seemed to realize this and laughed, "Alright, alright. Here." Notebook in my arms and sketch pad in his, we both began to illustrate.


"On the night we were making our final trip into Long Island we had just come from a friend’s party, and she was under the influence. She wouldn't leave unless I let her drive, but from the moment she took the wheel I knew we were bound to wreck. The tires were slick along the pavement-slipping every which way. Her hands would glide back and forth on the steering wheel without reason. She took one turn too sharp though, and we hit a guard rail full force. I had my seat belt on but she didn't. I could feel myself reaching for her as she went through the windshield. It ruptured first, and then fell to pieces. The car door had been pushed in, locking itself into place. So I took off after her on top of the car's hood. The glass from the windshield stuck into me as I slid along it, but that's not where my pain came from. When I hit the ground I saw her face-bloody, and lifeless. There was no turning back now. I couldn't reverse time and push her into the passenger seat, she was gone. It was all my fault." when he concluded he glanced up at me. His usual smile had dissipated, those deep set eyes looking right through me. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully, "Is losing her the reason why you won't talk?"


He automatically stuck a pen in my hand and I wrote simply, "Yes."


"Then I don't want to know you're name, I want to know the girl's name. The one who passed away, and took your reason to speak with her." his tone had become firm.


I looked over at his sketch and saw myself with blood stained tears streaming down my cheeks. On the last page of the notebook I scratched out, "Amanda, her name was Amanda."