That night was a blur. Like when you spill water on a crayon drawing. All the colours fade together, they intermix, leaving you with a brown puddle. You can't individually distinguish them anymore.

That's what it felt like. That night. My memory could only grasp onto one event. The crash. The rest of it had slowly trickled away from me like those colours slowly dripping down the page.

The sky. I remember looking at the deep sunset arising in the sky; the waxy yellows and oranges of light armwrestling the murky muddy darkness. Eventually, the latter overcame the prior.

I remember walking into a party. I don't remember whose party it was or why I was even there. All I remember was that the music was loud and sending vibrations down my spine and the feeling of nausea I felt when I entered.

There was a girl with me- Nicole. I remember hearing the clatter of her six inch stilettos against the floor tiles. After crawling and squeezing through bodies, we slumped down with a few other jock-cheerleader couples, made conversation, had a few beers. I had looked down at the frothy liquid brimming in the red cup I'd been handed.

Keep it to a minimum, I thought to myself. I had a scheduled meeting with Philadelphia State College regarding a basketball scholarship the next day. Internally, I had promised myself that I would hold myself together; not get intoxicated. Turns out, I'm not very good at keeping promises.

So, like all the other times, the alcohol corrupted me.

It was like a drug. Addictive. More-ish. This is the last one, I kept coaxing myself, waddling around like a drunken oaf trying to refill my empty cup. I probably had about ten 'last ones.' I think Jared told me to stop; stop drinking. If only I could...

Eventually, the party had died down. I had lost Nicole earlier in the busy haze of party-goers, and most people were either knocked-out in a dark corner of the room or upstairs. You have to believe me, I tried to hitch a ride. But, it was dark, my head throbbed and burned as if it had caught on a wildfire and I had lost my phone to the dirty dark floor. As I waddled around, searching for the phone one last time by groping around on the floor, I saw Jared.

"Need a ride, Bradley?" He asked, and I noticed even his voice being a little slurred.

I nodded and I was surprised my drunken self was able to identify what he was saying.

"I'll be right back. One second." He said, turning towards the kitchen. He had left his car keys on the table beside him in his rush.

Then, I possibly made the stupidest, most irrational decision of my life. If I could turn back time, I would have never come to the party, never got drunk, but especially never ever picked up Jared's car keys.

I eyed them, fingering them in my hands. Home was so close, I thought I'd be fine.

When I held the steering wheel, my hand shook. It shook like hell. Like I was having convulsions. It was the worst decision I could have ever made. But I did it. I ignited the car and I took off.

I overtook other cars and clearly went over and above the speed limit. I swerved violently and honked as if I was playing in an orchestra. I was almost there. One last street. One final turn. One more minute before it happened.

I turned. Too hard. Too fast. And someone was coming the other way. Before either of us could break, the cars were colliding head on. I was wallowing in self-pity to even spare a thought to the other driver.

As my quivering sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel, time froze like a winter puddle. I was going to die. I had a second left. My eyes began to flicker shut. Then, like I had expected, darkness embraced me.

Until, I woke up. In a hospital. Connected to a heart monitor that confirmed I was alive with it's rapid beeps.

God had mercilessly snatched everything from out under my feet. One night. That's all it took to lose everything. Basketball. Popularity. Friends. God had taken everything except my life.

From that moment, I stopped caring. But, what I didn't know, was that in the next ward down, lay a girl. A girl who was fighting for her life because of my reckless actions. That girl was Isla. Isla Woodley.

***

"So, Bradley, how are you coping with it all?" Dr Chris asks.

He is a short fellow with bushy ginger hair jumping up every time his body moves an inch. He has freckles dotted along the bridge of his nose and glasses (which cover almost half his face) slowly drooping down the end of his nose.

"Good." I half-heartedly reply. "Can I go now?" I impatiently make a leap for my crutches.

"Wait." Dr Chris sits me down again and looks me in the eye. "Aren't you curious about Isla?"

"I'm not too keen to know how I ruined her life. Had enough of ruined lives lately." I reply, bitterness laced through my voice.

Dr Chris places his hand on my shoulder, meanwhile I make a very futile attempt to brush it away in contempt.

"I think it's your duty to find out how you ruined her life." He says acutely, pushing his glasses back up his very large nose.

Wow, isn't counselling meant to make you feel better? But, Dr Chris is right. From what I know about the scrawny man so far, he's usually right.

"Fine." I sigh. "I'll see this girl."

Dr Chris claps excitedly, his ginger hair flapping about.

"I'm proud of you, Bradley." He stares at me momentarily and then nods.

"Are we done, Christopher?" He hates it when I call him that.

"One more thing." Dr Chris swivels around on his chair and grabs a leaflet amongst the sea of mess on his desk. "I'm going to recommend you for a trauma support group." I roll my eyes at his comment.

"Support group? Really?" I say snidely, my distaste for the idea evident.

"Trust me on this." Dr Chris gives me a small wink. "Take care, Brad." He says.

Damn it. I hate it when people call me Brad. He's probably getting back at me for the whole 'Christopher' stunt.

I amble out of the room, my arms strung through my crutches and I head to where my mother is parked in our small car. She honks at me as if the car is invisible. Jumping into the backseat quickly to avoid more attention, I sigh- it's over for another week at least.

"How was it, sweetie?" Mom asks.

"Good." Is my one word answer.

"Did you talk about the crash?"

I wince at the comment.

"No, we talked about our favourite bands." I reply dryly.

"Okay, Bradley. I've got work." Mom pulls into our driveway, parking so our car sticks out into the neighbor's land. "There's lasagne in the fridge and we will continue this conversation later."

As she pulls out of the driveway, I look back up to the sky clouds. Red. Speckled with clouds of grey. The sky looks burned. Almost like me.

For that moment, I am alone. Except the sky is with me. We are burned and frayed together.