It was 24th of October, 1994. They thought I was dead. But I wasn’t. They thought that every breath will be my last breath every minute.

 

I was in the car with my step-mother; going to pick up my brother from school. Despite that it was snowing immensely, they still didn’t shut the school that day.

“You love that song, sing it with me!” my step-mother was jumping up and down in her seat, pretending she was happy. But I could feel her grief. She thought I didn’t know that her husband- my father- was on the verge of death, but I just neglected the depression that hid under her incrustation. Also, I neglected that my step-mother barely knew me. My favorite song was her favorite song, what she loved to do was what I loved to do. She was all wrong.

 

Then, the impact moment came. The lights of a coming truck blinded the eyesight of my step-mother, and we slid across the snow, hitting the truck. My head went straight through the glass window. My eyes stung as I saw my step-mother slam her chest into the wheel, no doubt her ribs were crushed; I could hear them snap.

 

I couldn’t open my eyelids. I couldn’t feel my legs. My head felt sticky because it was covered in blood. But my ears worked just fine. I could hear the voice of my shrieking, sick father, the saving sirens, and the crowds mumbling and whispering. But I couldn’t hear or feel my step-mother beside me.

 

They placed my body on a soft bed in what I guessed was an operating room.

“One, two, three…” then a cold circle-like object slammed my chest, electrifying me.

They didn’t understand; I refused to breathe.

They did it again.

And again.

 

When I couldn’t hold it anymore, I flew my eyes open and took a deep breath into my lungs, but the air felt like a blade cutting the flesh of my insides.

 

I heard my father cry about my dead step-mother; but I didn’t. I felt a bit guilty that I didn’t care that much, but it was a fact I couldn’t lie to myself about.

 

After a few months, I was out of the hospital – on a wheel chair – my friends always visited though. I was in full health once more and could finally go to school. My father kept saying of how blessed I am even though my legs are pretty useless now. But it didn’t bother me that I couldn’t run anymore. It didn’t bother me that I couldn’t play with my friends in the playground anymore, or that even I couldn’t go to the bathroom fully independent now. What bothered me was that I forgot; I forgot my childhood. My father said that the memory loss I had was minor; I still remembered my name, school, friends and family, he said those were the things that mattered. But they didn’t know how it feels to be sitting with my siblings, talking about things when we were young, and I’d sit blank-faced in the corner. They’d stare at me and say,

“Don’t you remember, Khloe?” I’d nod my head ‘no’ slightly, and try to smile.

But I couldn’t ignore the feeling tugging into my stomach. I couldn’t help the feeling of the desolation crawling onto my heart.

I forgot how it feels to be happy…

I forgot how it feels to breathe…

I forgot how it feels to feel alive…

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