Frigid Affair(2)
A train derailment.
Their bodies were too burned to be identified without forensic investigation, or the verification of personal effects. I was taken to the police station to meet with the morgue assistant to go through items they’d recovered, one being my mother’s wedding set. I remember flipping through rings, watches, necklaces, and cell phones, even some items that weren’t too damaged. The moment I saw that ring, the one my mother got from her mom, my stomach churned, and I had to rush to a wastebasket to vomit. I was offered counseling, but refused. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially about the incident. It was plastered in my mind. Every time I went in public and saw a woman, I’d think of my mom. If I saw a man in a suit I was reminded of my father. Don’t get me started on a kid. I couldn’t look at a child without losing it. Constant reminders are what made it worse. I simply couldn’t stop imagining them burning alive, yet my mind wouldn’t stop picturing it. I thought the worst, like it was all some act of terrorism. I started blogging about conspiracy theories, so much that I got a visit from the FBI. Not only did they scare the crap out of me, but they also explained how a train that size could erupt into flames.
Apparently, if a train is traveling at a certain speed and comes upon a disabled vehicle on the tracks, they only have a few seconds to slow down the cars before an inevitable impact that will ensure a derailment. The particular train my family had been on was going around a large curve. The crash sent the rear cars into a jackknife formation. They collided, driving right through the small truck, immediately causing the gas tank to burst. The dry conditions of the grasses around ignited the flames that eventually took the lives of anyone who would have initially survived the terrible crash.
By the time medical workers arrived it was too late to save anyone.
What remained of the train were mangled metal cars facing in every direction, some upside down, while others were too damaged to tell how they’d originally been. They looked like crushed cans. It was documented as one of the worst train wrecks Pennsylvania has ever experienced. Emergency crews were called from far and wide to help with the wreckage and recovery. They had to use giant machines to cut through the metal to extract the deceased.
The footage was featured on all the local and national news channels. The day it happened would be forever remembered in history, and most importantly, in my heart.
For my small town it was catastrophic, as many people used the train to travel to and from the city to work. It was their only means of transportation. Most didn’t have places to park once in New York. The truth was, there were too many people and not enough jobs where we lived. The only way to make a decent living was to travel out of town.
I felt bad for some people. Some weren’t as lucky as I’d been. Police were using dental records, belongings recovered, and even surveillance at the train station to determine who was in each car. They asked for the help from the public to identify the missing. The person who’d been responsible for driving the small truck on the tracks was a young woman a few years older than me. I overheard the morgue attendant talking about a suicide over the phone, followed by the victim’s name. Alice Weatherly. I’d never heard of her, yet known she’d killed my family, giving me every reason to hate her forever. I didn’t care about her problems, or why she’d been on those tracks. She’d never pay for her crimes. She’d never be able to stand trial for taking the lives of so many.
Following the commotion of the aftermath, I refused to watch the news footage, and I didn’t have to deal with the slew of television reporters beating down my door, not at first. I didn’t want the attention. I mean, it’s one thing to want to kill yourself, but to risk taking the lives of others was murder. What kind of decent person does that?
In the following days I went to stay with a friend, who helped me plan a funeral for three people, whose bodies may never fill the caskets. Sadly, they were recovered, what was left of them. I’d never been allowed to see. The body bags were taken straight to the mortuary, where I assumed they were prepared and put right in the closed caskets.
What hurt worse was how my brother had insisted on going with them that day. He whined and pitched a fit, telling them they didn’t spend enough time with him. Had he not gone, I wouldn’t have been left to pick of the pieces alone – the only living survivor.
The funeral. It was an unimaginable scene. People I didn’t even know showed up to support me, which only made it worse. Even the governor and his wife made an appearance. Spectators were taking pictures outside the funeral home, and news crews were waiting to get statements.
I didn’t have a wake. Neither one of my parents had brothers or sisters. My mom’s parents passed away when I was in my teens, and the other set had been gone before I was born. There were distant great aunts and uncles, but I didn’t know them. If they’d come to pay their respects, I didn’t stick around to reconnect.
The building was so full they had to open another area to house all the visitors. After the service ended, I was in the spotlight, each person coming up and telling me how sorry they were; once again reminding why I knew I needed a fresh start. I’d always be the girl who lost her whole family in the crash.
The images in my head made it impossible to go on with living a normal life. I tried to forget; to put it past me. It was evident the loss of my whole family was just too much for me to handle. I lost myself. I gave up. For a while I wanted to die. I wished I’d been on that train with them.