The start of a new story

I don't know what I'm doing, I get these little snippets of stories but that's it.. very frustrating to say the least!! But here is the latest snippet of another.. not sure that i'm going to go much further with this one either..

The sound of crumpling metal stays with you; the copper smell of blood, well that stays with you even longer and then there’s the screams that pierce your every waking thought and shatter your dreams at night.  It doesn’t just affect the person in the car; it stains your whole life, your whole being and everyone around you.  Parents stop speaking to each other, siblings are forgotten, lawns no longer mowed, or in some cases scalped to bare dirt in anguish.  And once that funeral is done and dusted, what’s left? Nothing but a dusty untouched room behind a locked door and a school photo on a mantel piece; people say you’ve got to pick up the pieces and carry on, but where are the pieces to pick up? They get buried with the person you loved, the person you know you will never see again, the person, whose laugh and stories you hung on, you will never hear again. People say time heals, it gets easier, but it’s been two years and still the screams of my mother wakes me in the middle night, still my father’s hands remained clenched into fists by his side, still the whiskey jar gets empty more regularly than it used to and still I’m forgotten. However, to fully understand how we got to this point, I should take you back to where it began.

It was 1959, I was sixteen years old, and the only daughter to Robert or better known as Bob to his friends and May Worlick; along with my brother Robbie we were happy.  The Summers were long, hot and lazy.  We live in Portland, Victoria.  A small beach town at the bottom of nowhere; a place that time seems to have forgotten, except the holiday makers that is.  Life was simple. We the only thing we had to worry about was getting to church on time on a Sunday and not getting too sunburnt during our long Summer days in the sun.

Robbie was three years older than me, he had just got a car, he bought off Minky Williams with his money that he been saving from the endless amount of odd jobs he was doing.  He was what girls thought were so cute, with his slicked back brown hair, kept in check with the combe he always had stored in his shirt pocket, his levis rolled at the bottom, his converse shoes clean and neat, and eyes a chocolate brown. He never had a shortage of dates, but once he got that FJ Holden, the girls grew in numbers. That car was the pride of his life. It was a dark blue, and he had so many plans, he wanted to put a bigger motor, he wanted to paint flames on the sides.  But the truth was that it was a rust bucket. But Robbie loved that car, more than he loved life himself.  Our mum always worried about him driving too fast and every time he left she would send a little prayer up to God that he would be safe.