Dad's sitting behind the steering wheel, his glasses sliding down lethargically, while Mom camps out in the back and I listen to music through my earphones in the Passenger's seat. It's a very boring drive, really, with nothing but the wide two way road that seems to stretch on forever. There are no other cars passing by our Compact SUV with the exception of a few 18-wheelers delivering goods to Dallas. There're so infrequent, that the select few blind me with their bright headlights that glow yellow. It's like blinking and accidentally glancing at the Sun, except less natural and more artificial.

     In the next half hour Mom nods off into sleep, her seatbelt tugging on her abdomen as she leans against the window with a small, Tempurpedic cushion wedged in between the glass and her cheek. Dad tells me to play some music so he doesn't fall asleep while driving, and I scroll through a few of his favorite songs he had saved onto my phone, choosing one and taking out my earphone jack. Before clicking my phone to sleep, I check the battery and how much is left. About 15 percent.

---

     For some reason, I feel as if I'm being jostled in my dream. I try to push it aside, but suddenly the feeling is amplified and my eyes open in a split second. All I see is the swirling of green, brown, and navy outside the front glass, and all I hear is my mom screaming. It feels like everything is going in slow-motion as I unconsciously reach my hand back and feel Mom grip onto it with her trembling fingers. But just as it begins, it ends.

     We've landed at the bottom of some sort of hill, and I try to make out the situation we're in. We were lucky to have landed on a nearly flat plane, so that we wouldn't have too much struggle getting out and calling for help. I try opening the door on my side, but some dirt and vegetation had been shoved in between the cracks, the metal slightly caving in from the impact. I look behind me and check up on Mom, who is still sobbing uncontrollably, and ask, "Can you open the doors in the back?"

     It takes her a minute to respond, but she starts tugging at the handles, but shakes her head. I let out a sigh and say, "Dad, you?"

     There's no response and I panic. I start shaking him and he looks up with his glasses shattered and bent, a few cuts decorating the sides of his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Immediately, I let out a relieved breath to see nothing life-threatening, but then he mutters, "Baek. Baek."

     I notice the way his voice is breaking, and the color drains from my face. I'm almost scared as I wait for him to continue, and my face contorts into agony when he whimpers out, "Legs. My legs, Baek."

     That's when I see how cruelly the headboard has dug into his legs, the wheel trapping him in his place as he starts crying in pain. For a few seconds I stare at his flesh, the darkness making his blood look black and sinister, but I quickly collect myself and scamper around for my phone, looking under the seat, into the cup holders, and finally into the side compartment where I see Dad's phone. The screen is cracked and chipping away from the material underneath, but I take steady breaths as I dial 911 and wait for the operator.

     "911, what is your emergency?"

     "My parents and I...we, um, we've rolled over a small hill."

---

     The officers managed to gingerly carry Dad out to place him into an ambulance, while Mom and I got out of the car through the driver's door and climbed up the hill to be checked by a female Paramedic, Suzy, she says to call her, who seemed to be in her early 30's. She asks us to hold out our arms as she takes our blood pressure, and asks multiple, short questions. Soon enough, though, we're released and we're driven to the hospital where Dad was taken.

     We're ordered to wait in the surgical waiting room, and Mom waits in anticipation, her fingers and lips shaking in anxious worry. After several hours, however, a surgeon steps past the semi-opaque sliding doors and bows his head as Mom stands up hurriedly. He tells her the news and she nearly faints onto the floor, her face turning a ghostly white as she clings onto the bench leg with tears streaming down her face. It's really all too sudden. It's too much. 

     I fall onto the seat and rub my face once before sitting still with my hands cradling my head. 

---

     After giving us time to mourn, a police officer comes to pick us up so that we can retrieve our belongings from the wrecked car. I pull out the three small suitcases, some gift boxes that are tattered and ripped, my backpack, and a large shopping bag full of our shoes, nearly half of them belonging to Dad. I notice Mom glancing nervously at the trunk where I'm pulling out our stuff, and ask a female officer to her to a different location. The lady looks at me with sympathy and obliges, placing a hand on my shoulder and walking over to my mom.

     I remember that we had some stuff inside the front of the car, so I open the door and flinch at the dried blood that cakes the once smooth material, now crooked and disfigured. There's a metallic smell that ades the air, so I close my eyes and around the seats and compartments. My wrist brushes up against a thin, cold metal and I open my eyes to see my phone, slightly covered in Dad's blood, stuck in between the elbow rest and driver's seat. I try turning it on by clicking the wake button, but it fails to respond, so I hold down the switch for a couple seconds, being shocked that it had only run out of battery and wasn't damaged.

---

     It's nothing like the movies, really. The Psychotherapy room isn't completely white, and I'm not even told to lie on a table-like couch to talk out my problems and distresses. No, it's a much more comfortable environment that resembles a coffee shop, with the beige colored walls and comfortable seating.

     That's my first observation as I walk into the room and sit down on the plush armchair, looking at the therapist who sits in his chair with a smile that makes fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes appear. He extends his right hand and introduces himself, "Hi, I'm Jongdae."

     I shake his hand lightly and respond quietly, "Baekhyun."

     "Baekhyun, tell me a little bit about yourself."

     Before replying, I contemplate which set of information I should provide: A, casual and conversational, B, my hobbies, passions, and interests, or C, everything, including my family background.

     I choose within two blinks of my eyes and say, "I like singing, I guess. I can dance just a bit, but um, it was accidental, honestly. My friend, Sehun, convinced me to take a class with him."

     The therapist beams, "No way! I love singing, too! Which singer do you like the most?"

     His extremely positive reaction startles me for a second, and I'm shocked at myself for going as far as set B. I brush the thought and pretend to think before cocking my head and smiling, "Everybody's gotta have a bit of Sia in their life, right?"

     "Definitely. I'm a 27 year old soprano, and I'm pretty sure she can hit higher notes than me, even though she's nearly a decade older. That woman is impressive. Or rather, her vocal range, I suppose."

     The therapist lets out a hearty laugh and I grin as I listen to him ramble on about his experience as a band member in high school, and how he had auditioned for SM Entertainment, but refused to join after wanting to get a degree in Psychology. Then the subject somehow turns towards my reason for being here and I end up saying nothing but "I'm grieving". The therapist presses further, but I keep the information to a minimum and almost pity the man for doing his job and getting rejected as I get up to leave when the session is over.

     Almost.

     Because, honestly, I pity myself for being in that café​-like room more.

|||

24 June 2014. uneditied.