His rib cage collapsed.
He was paralyzed, unable to move his legs indefinitely.
He wouldn't have been able to continue. He wouldn't have been the same.
My father's tears were hitting the same spot on the top of my head as I hugged his waist that afternoon. Our friends had come to pick us up at the hospital, and we had to walk away. It had only taken a few hours to erase an entire life. One petty phone call that I was annoyed to answer. One annoying ringing that exploded with meaning. I didn't get it. What were we supposed to do now? They sent us home. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents were all waiting in the driveway when we got back. Now what?
An apathetic news story played through on the television as our whole family listened in dead silence.
"Teen Pop Star Zachary Hanson, 18, died early this morning after having been hit by a car crossing main street yesterday evening. The Hanson family is now at home, in Tulsa."
Hopelessness fell over us like a blanket. Another box of tissues, a second sleepless night.
"You can sleep in the guestroom with Nana," said my Mom to one of our younger cousins. "Isaac and Taylor each have a cot for someone to sleep on." Everyone doubled up that night. Every room in the house catered to people. Except Zac's. The house was not quiet. Sniffling and sobbing was heard throughout, and my sisters were up chatting in the room right next to me. It was a quiet, dull chatter that occasionally fell into long sobbing silence. My cousins had managed to sleep, one beside me in my bed, and the other in the futon on the floor. I was staring at the ceiling for three hours listening to the murmuring until I gave in to being awake.
Isaac had less cousins in his room, and I was not surprised to find that he couldn't sleep a wink, either, having tore and tangled his sheets in an obvious restless attempt to try.
"You're up, too?" He said, when I opened the door quietly.
"Do you mind if I sleep with you tonight?" I asked, my voice sounding as childish as my request.
He nudged over. "Come on in. If it makes you feel better, maybe it'll help me."
I crawled under his sheets and hugged him and both of us began to cry again. We didn't quite believe it, yet. But our imaginations allowed the unbearable truths in where they shouldn't be. That night, my mother and father were holding each other the same way. To lose a child, to lose a younger brother, to lose an older brother. It was all a different piece of each of us. Something, like sight, that didn't seem possible to lose. I imagined then, that if I had ever gone blind, maybe I would visualize my house as it always was for days and days. Walking around as if I could see everything in vivid color, thrown into a confused frenzy when a piece of furniture was altered or dismantled. In the quiet of our house that night, we all cried because we were confused. Shell shocked.
"God, I just want to sleep." He said. "We haven't slept for two days. I just want to sleep." It was almost more painful than the truth we couldn't get our minds around, the inability to just shut it all off for a few hours. Staring at the ceiling. And it was starting to get light.
"If I count to three, we'll both close our eyes. And maybe we won't wake up in the dark."
"Okay. I'll count too."
One. Two. Three.