8,760 Hours.

CW: Self-harm, Murder

There are eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours in a year. It’s been five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes since I lost you. A single minute was all it took for you to be erased from an existence you brought me into. A second was all it took for everything to go wrong. Had we never left the house that day, would you still be here to tell me you love me? Had I never insisted we go to the store across the street; would I still be in your arms?

I watch the clock as my birthday comes seldom in mood, exactly a year since your death. I dread the day with every fiber in my being as Dad tries his best to imitate the smiling pancakes you used to make me every year. I watch the clock as the minutes tick up, and you never walk through the door.

“It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?” Dad's voice cut through my thoughts, his overly gentle eyes met mine, and we stared at each other. The look of grievance speaks louder than any words we could have exchanged.

“I ran across the street. That’s my fault…”

The fork hit the plate with a sharp clatter. “He didn't stop. Your mother- she would have chosen your life over hers any day.”

That was the issue I couldn’t say. She wouldn’t have had to choose a life if I had just waited. Had I not been so excited about a product that now seems so small against the gravity of the loss I've had to endure. The crippling sound of her body, her fragile, thin body, hitting the surface of the hood, as a car swerved through a red light. Music blaring and not a care in the world, not even as his tires dip into her skin. Not even as the blood dripped down her nose. He didn't look back, not even a passing glance.

“I want you to be still able to enjoy your eighteenth birthday.” Dad sighed, setting the plate in front of me. The misshapen smiling breakfast looked more like a frown, but he did his best. I let my plate sit in its disheveled state; my thoughts everywhere and yet seemingly stuck in a void of emptiness. I could see every memory, the scene replaying in my mind over and over and over. I just… can't hear me…I can’t hear the words I so desperately want to say. Maybe it's for the best. I see how sad Dad gets. He’s trying to be strong for me. I lost a mother, yet he lost his wife.

“I’m trying…” I let the words escape slowly; the urge to shout was brimming, but the reason would be more than unfair. He didn't mean anything by it; he wasn't telling me to get over the incident. He merely wanted me to be happy for the day. To survive twenty-four hours that would normally be meant just for me. Before my birthday became her death anniversary, two hours into the day, and the thoughts I've held back for so long have all come rushing to the front. Every misplaced blame seemed to be seeping through, so for my sake, I must claim the blame.

“I know you are.” His words echoed meaninglessly around me. It's too easy to blame the driver, but what about cause and effect? What about the girl damned to a fate tied to a twisted destiny? That made her run across the street without looking both ways. That made her mother shoot forward just in time to push the girl from the speeding car. How am I supposed to feel?

I leave my breakfast and my heartbroken father at the table, ignoring the harsh clinking of dishes being thrown into the sink. I couldn’t explain to him that this day would never be the same. He wasn’t there. I’m glad he wasn't he wouldn't have been able to handle something like that. I sigh, slipping my hands under my pillow, the blade my only escape, the feeling the only way I could express my overwhelming emotions.

Three hours into the day, into my day. Yet here I am covered in blood and tears and can’t escape the memory of the woman who loved me most. I hug my pillow, not caring about the staining mess my white sheets will face.

“Oh my God, Mom, they have the foundation!” I pointed across the street. The glorious display advertising a cream I've been searching for.

“What?” She laughed breathlessly as I dragged her through the outlet.

I let my legs move before my mind, shooting forward taking those crucial steps into the street. “Makeup! the foundation is literally sold out everywhere! Come on!”

“WAIT!”

Tears stream down my face at such a childish mistake. The crucial moment of peaked excitement and the lowest pit of sadness anyone can ever feel. The churning in my stomach became painful, my eyes clenched shut, forced to see the memory as the pain continued. A knock on my door startled me out of my state, as I sat up, shoving the blade back under my pillow, pulling up my blanket.

“Yes?”

“I…just realised I never actually…well- happy birthday Marina.” My dad's voice, so broken. Stripped of anything other than his own grief, as we stand on opposite sides of the wooden barrier. He could enter at any moment, but I hear his weight shift against my door. I stand slowly, placing my palm against the wood, my body crumbling, sliding down to the floor. I feel his back against the bottom. His wavering voice trembles as he catches his breath. "I love you so much.”

I lean my head against the wall, feeling the presence of his warmth separated by a barrier neither one of us knew how to break.

“It wasn’t your fault.” The words now held a stronger conviction than the last, as my eyes glanced to the dried blood starting to form on my wrist.

“I love you, Dad.” That was all I could manage; that was the only comfort I could give him. Eighteen hours left of the day; I guess it's something we have to handle together.