Screams, terrified screams fill my ears. My eyes shut tight, frightened of what I might see.
“Rose!” I hear my mother shriek.
My eyes shoot wide open to find the horrifying scene before me. The familiar red jeep my mother always drove flipped on its side in a field not far from the road.
“Mommy?” I gasp as I struggle to get my 5-year-old feet to step forward. The brisk March air whips at my face as the faint smell of blood hits my nose.
I tiptoe forward past the police officers; my mother is face up a few feet from the car, her blood matted hair covering some of her face.
“Mom?” My feet shuffle forward and stop as I collapse on the damp ground in front of her.
My tiny hands tangle in her hair, shaking her but it is no use she won’t wake up; blood drips onto my hands from the gashes on her head.
“Rose!” she screams, her mouth not moving.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears as I inch my face closer to hers.
“Rose!” Her eyes shoot open; bloodshot, her mouth still motionless.
I fall back screaming, tears rolling down my cheeks.