Affinity (RDJ) - 1st person

Chapter 1 - A 'New Life'

It's funny how they say that time is a healer. Because really, it's not is it? Over time, stuff in the past just gets fuzzier. And further away. And harder to remember. But that doesn't mean you're healed. That doesn't mean there suddenly isn't a huge gaping hole in your life any more. It'll always be there. It just gets patched up by new experiences, new memories, and little snippets of happiness that take you by surprise every now and again. But the hole is still there. Still festering. Until you die and you become the hole in someone else's life. It's just how it works. The circle of life.

It's been 5 months since I lost my twin sister, Robyn, in a car accident, and it's not a hole she's left behind. It's like someone came along, sliced me open, and drained me of every drop of my being. Organs ripped out, muscles stripped, and heart crushed in the bony, unyielding fingers of death.

I'm empty. I'll never be full again. I'm not even sure if I want to be.

The accident never leaves my thoughts. I was in it too, as was my dad. Rex, my older brother, was the only one not involved. Lucky bastard. Dad was the most protected, being the driver, so he got away with a broken shoulder and a few scrapes. My left arm was trapped in the metal workings of the mangled door for a few hours so I'd had several reconstructive surgeries to fix it, each time wishing I'd just die there on the table. That's how I felt, anyway. Like dying would be a blessing.

Anyway, I didn't, and now I just have nerve damage in my arm, rendering it useless every few hours as it numbs and becomes near un-useable. Not a great feature for an aspiring surgeon, hence the pre-med brochures scattered across my desk and the ones for the surgical programmes long gone.

But, we press on.

My mom hasn't woken up since the accident. She's been in a deep coma since due to massive brain injuries from the impact. 'Traumatic', they call it. Each time they tried to wake her, it failed. I was hopeful at first, but after the 6 or 7th time I'd given up. When the discussion of a transfer arose, dad went with it. Seattle Grace Hospital apparently holds some of the country's best surgeons, so the doctors in Florida were keen for mom to transfer - her only hope apparently. As if there was any of that left.

So, here I am. All the way from Florida - the place where me and my sister grew up, went to school, learned to ride our bikes - to here: rainy, miserable Seattle.

I still haven't unpacked. I'm living out of boxes, unable to accept that this is my new life when my sister's was ripped away from her before it even started.

I glance over at the brochures, knowing that at some point soon I'd have to choose a college to attend. I'd already missed the first two weeks of first semester and my dad was worrying I'd fall behind. I made up my mind long ago that I was going, but not where. Not wanting to feel confined, I'd just let the choice come naturally. That's what I told myself anyway.

I think I'm set on the University of Washington. It's further away than a couple others but I don't think that would be a bad thing. Rex had agreed to drive me in some days and others, I'd just get the bus. I sigh as I envy at the smiles of the students on the cover of the brochure, hugging their textbooks to their chests with both arms and strolling animatedly past a huge, stone fronted building, greenery framing the idyllic photo. I frown at myself for being so petty. This is something I'll have to deal with every day, no matter where I go to school.

I pick at the cotton on my hoodie sleeve, watching it fray and come away from the cuff in a satisfying zig-zag. Deciding that I'm not up for it yet, I slide the brochure back into the top drawer of my desk where it will probably remain for another week at least.

Getting up from my single bed is an effort and I huff as I rise to my feet. I roll my left wrist around, flexing and relaxing my tingling fingers to try and get some feeling back into them as I head out to the living room where dad is sitting, idly watching an episode of Storage Wars. 'Hey sweetie,' he says, warmly enough but with a tinge of disinterest harbouring his tone. 'How's the hand?' he asks, not looking up. I just shrug. 'Fine,' I muster. There it was, that word - like a band aid sloppily stuck over a river of never ending shit.