The Last Night at Pauline’s House
It was late at night. It was the last time I stayed the night at my friend’s, Pauline, house. Well, she didn’t live in a house. I think the official term is “mobile home.” Those homes don’t really move once they are placed. Until the homes were so run down that they needed to be demolished, that is. I grew up calling them trailers. I do not see a reason to stop, now. Anyways, I was using her computer to be on my Facebook. It wasn’t much, except that I have been grounded for a few months at the time and wasn’t supposed to be online. It was past 12am. Her parents were asleep, but we, being the 13-year-old teenagers, we were, stayed up late. I thought I was being sneaky using my friend’s internet and showing my Facebook icon as offline. I freaked out when suddenly my mom called her family’s home phone. I thought I was caught and they were picking me up. All I was told was, “Your dad and I are coming to get you.” I didn’t know what they meant. They wouldn’t answer no matter how many times I asked. I was scared my dog or cat died. I was correct, in a sense. The last time I talked to my sister was when she dropped me off at my friend’s house on June 20th. The next time I saw her it was June 21st, blood was coming out of her ears, and when I touched her arm, it was cold, stiff, and felt clammy. I just couldn’t process it. The situation was odd to me. I am the youngest out of three siblings. My brother is the oldest and my sister was only three years older than me. She wasn’t even 16 for a month. She was so young. I thought young people rarely died. The basement of the hospital didn’t seem real to me. I was in a daze. I borrowed my mom’s phone to call my best friend, Ann. She wouldn’t pick up. I eventually just sent her a text. I called another close friend with my mom’s phone. He answered, “Hello?” “Brandon,” my voice was weak, “my sister died.” “What?” He said. Later, he revealed that he thought Pauline and I were pulling a prank. “She’s dead!” I broke down crying. Brandon sat on the phone letting me cry and tried to comfort me. He told his mother and she said if I need anything or to stay the night, I can. The first time I cried over my sister dying was on the phone with one of my closest friends. The second time I cried over my sister, was at her funeral. I didn’t cry the whole time like her friends and my family did. I cried when they started throwing dirt over her coffin. I hated everyone trying to “comfort” me. I just wanted to go home. I thought it was so unfair. Not even a year before my sister died, I attempted suicide. I failed when I wanted to leave the world, but my sister, who had great grades, amazing athletic ability, a lot of people who adore her, and a bright future, was suddenly taken away from this plane of existence the last time I stayed the night at Pauline’s place. Her death was quick. She was driving home from her boyfriend’s. It was the west side of town on Mary St. She went into the ditch, overcorrected, flipped her second silver Mitsubishi Eclipse, snapped her neck almost immediately and flew out the back windshield, at least that is what the doctor said. Her phone had to be pried from her fingers. My sister rarely wore her seatbelt. I would tell her to put it on, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She liked to drive with one hand on the top of the steering wheel and her seat as far back and low as she can get it while still being able to see. It was a comical sight, seeing this small white girl blasting music in Spanish that she couldn’t understand and trying to be “cholo.” One thing that bothered me more than the seatbelt was the fact that my sister would text while driving. She almost went over the side of the road while driving me around several times. I do believe there is a good chance that she was texting when she flipped. My sister, Miranda Mercedez Dunsworth, was a reckless driver. She scared me when she drove. I would yell at her, complain, and get upset, but all she saw was a bratty little sister who doesn’t know anything. I lost my sister, because she wasn’t driving safe. I am older than my sister. She died at 16. I was 13. I turn 19 this year. Teenagers think they won’t be part of the statistic. They think that the bad things won’t happen to them. The unfortunate events do happen, and no one is completely immune. I drive almost every day and I see more people on their phones, taking turns bad, having their seat too low, and just not paying attention than I want to. I do not feel safe on the road when I see these people. There have been several times where I would’ve been in accidents, and it almost always was the other person’s fault. When driving, my life, and the other drivers’ lives are at risk, too. We were lucky that the road was empty when my sister had her accident.