(no subject)
Marissa Way
Intro to Short Story
LIT 150
No Wings
I had one of those near-death experiences once. I flew. I flew right off the back of a moving motorcycle. A woman who witnessed it all said I looked like “some kind of angel.” I wouldn’t know. I mean, I felt it but I surely didn’t see it. Maybe she was just crazy.
Everything was incredibly bright as I moved above the dark pavement. My head was jerked back towards the sky. My heartbeat was pounding through every pore in my tiny body. My mouth hung wide open. My arms struggled to hold onto something but only found air. I didn’t have any wings.
I crashed onto the steaming asphalt. My knees hit first. They skidded against the street, my right knee followed by the left. My hands came down next and slid. The scattered rocks and debris punctured my 13-year-old hands. They immediately felt warm and wet. I stayed in this position for moments before realizing time was still moving around me. I was alive. How the fuck was I alive?
I lifted myself slowly off the ground and pulled the bottom of my right pant leg up. Blood and yellow pus dripped down to my soaked ankle sock and Reebok sneaker. I felt no burning or stinging. I guess the shock of the fall left me with the inability to feel pain. My eyes blinked rapidly, in an attempt to make this situation clearer. It didn’t work.
Cars in all four directions were stopped and this-once-busy interaction was now eerily quiet. It was officially a traffic jam and I was the cause of it. A few people ran from their vehicles in a panic, while others watched safely from behind their steering wheels. There were no smiles. Someone had come along and ripped them from their faces.
I looked up and watched the streetlight change from red to green. No cars moved. It quickly switched to yellow and then red again. No rumbling engines or break lights. I’ve never stood directly below a streetlight before. Fascinating.
“Oh-my-fucking-god, are you okay? Shit!” I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned around to see a woman in her mid-20’s. Her voice was shaky and she seemed out of breathe. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail exposing her scalp and black roots. She wore black sweat pants and a t-shirt from Bill’s Seaside Grill.
I looked at her face and smiled, “yeah, I think so.” My eyes squinted and my head seemed to tilt. Maybe I was dizzy.
“Jesus Christ, kid. Is that your dad?” Her mannequin-like hand pointed over to where I had not looked before. I followed her hand and saw a silver sedan, broken glass, our motorcycle, and blood. More blood than I had ever seen before. It stained the pavement and the silver car. My dad was covered in it and holding onto his arm. His face was tight, his eyes were half open, and his mouth was a gape. He was in pain.
Tears soaked my face and crawled onto my trembling lips. My lungs struggled to take a breath. My dad was dying in front of me. It was his blood that covered the street. My dad. Mine. Bleeding. Dying.
“A towel! Does someone have a towel in their car? He needs one!” A short man in a suit shouted at the crowd of cowards. A teenage boy ran to his Honda Civic and returned with a rainbow striped beach towel. The man and boy wrapped my dad’s arm like he was some sort of museum exhibit. My dad winced as they tied it to his torn skin. His blue-green eyes, the same ones I inherited, screamed at me.
I walked a few steps towards him but quickly fell to my bloody knees. The pavement burned my flesh. I let out a throaty yelp while leaning my head back. My streetlight was still there. Red. Green. Yellow. Red. Green. Maybe I was dying, too.
Everyone looks good in a room lit by a red light bulb. That much is true. Their face will look absolutely perfect, free of scars or lines. Their eyes will be vibrant and suddenly the most amazing you have ever seen. Their smile will be so white that it will seem to blind you.
The bathroom was compact and exactly what you would expect from any cheap apartment. The aroma of cinnamon candles and red currant & thyme incense saturated the small room. The floor was surprisingly cold beneath my bare feet.
I looked down at my purple-painted toes and noticed his tiny shoes. He wore black and white Nikes double-knotted and a pair of ripped jeans that seemed too tight for his not-so-skinny figure. He wasn’t fat, mind you, but he wasn’t skinny either. His shirt was a bit too tight, as well, and listed a band that I never heard of.
His face seemed so soft in the red light and I craved to feel it on my fingertips. I only wanted to feel it. Just for a moment. He beat me to it and abruptly placed his hand on my check. I could feel my stomach twist in discomfort. His fingers traced my chubby face and pushed my hair behind my ears. I quickly moved it back into my eyes and stepped towards the sink. My hip bones pressed up against the frozen porcelain. I twisted the cold water faucet and let it rush onto my dry hands. My eyes closed as I let the coolness fill my body.
His hands, I felt his hands. They floated like the cold all over my back. I stood silently and pretended nothing was happening. Chills tickled my nervous nerves. His palm grasped my right shoulder and rubbed it gently. Soon both of his hands were on my back and began moving up and down. They moved franticly as if they were searching for some hidden treasure. Once they reached my hips, his grip tightened. He was hurting me now. My skin felt like it was being pinched by giant lobster claws. My fingers were still engulfed by the sink water. I wasn’t in a bathroom; I was in my own red ocean.
The hands grabbed as much as they could. He was stealing my body. He was taking away my power with every squeeze. I lifted my hands from the water and attempted to move backwards. He was there. He was a giant barrier. Water dripped off my manicured finger tips and onto my naked feet. His grip only grew tighter in frustration with every step I tried to take. I had nowhere to go. I had no voice.
I turned around to face him. As I looked into his eyes, I felt my lungs instantly deflate. His eyebrows lay low over eyes that looked so angry. His mouth was closed and small. Why was he mad? I need to go. I have to get out.
His hands wrapped themselves around my thin neck. “You’re my angel,” he whispered into my ear as he squeezed both hands. I struggled and slammed my fists against his biceps.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop,” I screamed softly to his chest. My blue-green eyes stared deep into the red light bulb dangling above my head; hypnotizing.
“Stop, stop, stop,” my lips mouthed the words as I held my bandaged hands against my ears. My head shook back and forth while my legs twitched uncontrollably. Deep breaths, I reminded myself, take deep breaths.
The ER waiting room was quieter than usual. I guess today was a slow day. The chair I sat in was close to the window so I could watch the sun set. It creaked every time I changed leg positions, which seemed to be every two minutes. Cross one leg on top of the other, and switch. Cross one underneath the other, and switch. Kindergarten-style. Repeat, repeat. It was impossible to get comfortable in a place that smelled like death.
Safely from my seat, I watched sick children, elderly couples in wheelchairs, and overweight middle-aged loners enter through the sliding glass doors. The kids skipped, the grandparents wheeled, and the plump wobbled. They all had different reasons for coming; a sinus infection, diabetes, trouble breathing, chest pains, a car accident. They all had stories and I desperately wanted to know them. They were the celebrities and I needed the latest issue of People.
A small man walking with a wooden cane stepped inside the small waiting room. He moved with ease over the linoleum floor. His white dress shirt was tucked deep inside the tan khaki pants held up high with the help of black suspenders. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses so low on his nose that I thought they might just fall off. His face was aged and wrinkled, but radiated of happiness and accomplishment.
He sat down at a seat facing mine and near the window, of course. An even smaller woman suddenly entered the room, but she didn’t have a cane. Her back was hunched over which made her shoulders appear exceptionally broad. She wore a bright yellow dress that matched her yellow glasses which hung from a string around her neck. “Harold,” she squeaked, “Why did ya have to park the Buick so far away?” She didn’t wait for an answer; instead she strolled up to the receptionist desk to sign in. Harold rolled his eyes. I could tell that she wore the pants in this relationship.
I looked down at my hands. The gauze bandages prickled the skin that wasn’t broken. They prevented me from moving my fingers and from doing anything besides raising my hand. I desperately wanted to pull my long hair into a pony tail, but this was nearly impossible. I was constantly pushing my hair behind my ears and wishing it would stay there. The aroma of smoke and sweat filled my nostrils every time my dark brown locks would fall in front of my face. It wasn’t pleasant.
Harold’s wife settled down next to him and took a good look at my hands. Her eyes widened and her white eyebrows rose. “Oh dear, what happened to your hands?”
I knew someone would eventually ask and I came prepared. “Boiling water,” I lied. “Boiling water spilt on them.” My lips tried to smile.
She brought a hand up to her open mouth and gasped, “Well that sounds terrible! I’m so sorry sweetie, I hope they get better.”
She turned to her husband and began to gossip. I heard about Sheila’s husband’s open heart surgery, Lucy’s dog Fluffy’s encounter with the stray cat, and Martha not being able to keep her silly little mouth shut. Harold just nodded his head. She started to talk about the accident on Salem Turnpike. “I can’t believe his shoe was in the middle of the intersection,” she said with sorrow in her cracking voice.
“A shoe? Who’s shoe? There was a shoe?” Harold was confused.
“Yeah, sugar. The man who crashed his motorcycle into the car … I guess his shoe fell off and was left in the road. Poor guy bled all over the street and curb outside the Mobil station. He musta lost five gallons of blood right there.” She spoke as if she saw the accident happen.
“Aw man, that’s such a shame.” He looked down and shook his head in dismay.
“I know, I know. And his little daughter was on the back of the bike. She flew off before it hit the car. Debbie said she looked like some kind of angel, flying with her arms outstretched and all. Such a crazy thing to see.”
I bet, I thought to myself. I stood up slowly and shuffled over to the water fountain a mere ten feet away. My heart felt like it might escape from my chest. My hands were sweating underneath the bandages. She doesn’t know anything. How dare she talk about what she knows nothing about? How dare she talk about my dad? Using my elbow, I pushed down the button on the fountain and sipped some luke-warm water. I wiped my mouth with my arm. I took a deep breath and looked over at the chatty woman, “Ma’am,” I said loud enough for her to hear. My stomach felt like it was floating.
“Yes dear?” She smiled and looked back at me.
I shook my head, “Angels don’t exist.”
Intro to Short Story
LIT 150
No Wings
I had one of those near-death experiences once. I flew. I flew right off the back of a moving motorcycle. A woman who witnessed it all said I looked like “some kind of angel.” I wouldn’t know. I mean, I felt it but I surely didn’t see it. Maybe she was just crazy.
Everything was incredibly bright as I moved above the dark pavement. My head was jerked back towards the sky. My heartbeat was pounding through every pore in my tiny body. My mouth hung wide open. My arms struggled to hold onto something but only found air. I didn’t have any wings.
I crashed onto the steaming asphalt. My knees hit first. They skidded against the street, my right knee followed by the left. My hands came down next and slid. The scattered rocks and debris punctured my 13-year-old hands. They immediately felt warm and wet. I stayed in this position for moments before realizing time was still moving around me. I was alive. How the fuck was I alive?
I lifted myself slowly off the ground and pulled the bottom of my right pant leg up. Blood and yellow pus dripped down to my soaked ankle sock and Reebok sneaker. I felt no burning or stinging. I guess the shock of the fall left me with the inability to feel pain. My eyes blinked rapidly, in an attempt to make this situation clearer. It didn’t work.
Cars in all four directions were stopped and this-once-busy interaction was now eerily quiet. It was officially a traffic jam and I was the cause of it. A few people ran from their vehicles in a panic, while others watched safely from behind their steering wheels. There were no smiles. Someone had come along and ripped them from their faces.
I looked up and watched the streetlight change from red to green. No cars moved. It quickly switched to yellow and then red again. No rumbling engines or break lights. I’ve never stood directly below a streetlight before. Fascinating.
“Oh-my-fucking-god, are you okay? Shit!” I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned around to see a woman in her mid-20’s. Her voice was shaky and she seemed out of breathe. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail exposing her scalp and black roots. She wore black sweat pants and a t-shirt from Bill’s Seaside Grill.
I looked at her face and smiled, “yeah, I think so.” My eyes squinted and my head seemed to tilt. Maybe I was dizzy.
“Jesus Christ, kid. Is that your dad?” Her mannequin-like hand pointed over to where I had not looked before. I followed her hand and saw a silver sedan, broken glass, our motorcycle, and blood. More blood than I had ever seen before. It stained the pavement and the silver car. My dad was covered in it and holding onto his arm. His face was tight, his eyes were half open, and his mouth was a gape. He was in pain.
Tears soaked my face and crawled onto my trembling lips. My lungs struggled to take a breath. My dad was dying in front of me. It was his blood that covered the street. My dad. Mine. Bleeding. Dying.
“A towel! Does someone have a towel in their car? He needs one!” A short man in a suit shouted at the crowd of cowards. A teenage boy ran to his Honda Civic and returned with a rainbow striped beach towel. The man and boy wrapped my dad’s arm like he was some sort of museum exhibit. My dad winced as they tied it to his torn skin. His blue-green eyes, the same ones I inherited, screamed at me.
I walked a few steps towards him but quickly fell to my bloody knees. The pavement burned my flesh. I let out a throaty yelp while leaning my head back. My streetlight was still there. Red. Green. Yellow. Red. Green. Maybe I was dying, too.
Everyone looks good in a room lit by a red light bulb. That much is true. Their face will look absolutely perfect, free of scars or lines. Their eyes will be vibrant and suddenly the most amazing you have ever seen. Their smile will be so white that it will seem to blind you.
The bathroom was compact and exactly what you would expect from any cheap apartment. The aroma of cinnamon candles and red currant & thyme incense saturated the small room. The floor was surprisingly cold beneath my bare feet.
I looked down at my purple-painted toes and noticed his tiny shoes. He wore black and white Nikes double-knotted and a pair of ripped jeans that seemed too tight for his not-so-skinny figure. He wasn’t fat, mind you, but he wasn’t skinny either. His shirt was a bit too tight, as well, and listed a band that I never heard of.
His face seemed so soft in the red light and I craved to feel it on my fingertips. I only wanted to feel it. Just for a moment. He beat me to it and abruptly placed his hand on my check. I could feel my stomach twist in discomfort. His fingers traced my chubby face and pushed my hair behind my ears. I quickly moved it back into my eyes and stepped towards the sink. My hip bones pressed up against the frozen porcelain. I twisted the cold water faucet and let it rush onto my dry hands. My eyes closed as I let the coolness fill my body.
His hands, I felt his hands. They floated like the cold all over my back. I stood silently and pretended nothing was happening. Chills tickled my nervous nerves. His palm grasped my right shoulder and rubbed it gently. Soon both of his hands were on my back and began moving up and down. They moved franticly as if they were searching for some hidden treasure. Once they reached my hips, his grip tightened. He was hurting me now. My skin felt like it was being pinched by giant lobster claws. My fingers were still engulfed by the sink water. I wasn’t in a bathroom; I was in my own red ocean.
The hands grabbed as much as they could. He was stealing my body. He was taking away my power with every squeeze. I lifted my hands from the water and attempted to move backwards. He was there. He was a giant barrier. Water dripped off my manicured finger tips and onto my naked feet. His grip only grew tighter in frustration with every step I tried to take. I had nowhere to go. I had no voice.
I turned around to face him. As I looked into his eyes, I felt my lungs instantly deflate. His eyebrows lay low over eyes that looked so angry. His mouth was closed and small. Why was he mad? I need to go. I have to get out.
His hands wrapped themselves around my thin neck. “You’re my angel,” he whispered into my ear as he squeezed both hands. I struggled and slammed my fists against his biceps.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop,” I screamed softly to his chest. My blue-green eyes stared deep into the red light bulb dangling above my head; hypnotizing.
“Stop, stop, stop,” my lips mouthed the words as I held my bandaged hands against my ears. My head shook back and forth while my legs twitched uncontrollably. Deep breaths, I reminded myself, take deep breaths.
The ER waiting room was quieter than usual. I guess today was a slow day. The chair I sat in was close to the window so I could watch the sun set. It creaked every time I changed leg positions, which seemed to be every two minutes. Cross one leg on top of the other, and switch. Cross one underneath the other, and switch. Kindergarten-style. Repeat, repeat. It was impossible to get comfortable in a place that smelled like death.
Safely from my seat, I watched sick children, elderly couples in wheelchairs, and overweight middle-aged loners enter through the sliding glass doors. The kids skipped, the grandparents wheeled, and the plump wobbled. They all had different reasons for coming; a sinus infection, diabetes, trouble breathing, chest pains, a car accident. They all had stories and I desperately wanted to know them. They were the celebrities and I needed the latest issue of People.
A small man walking with a wooden cane stepped inside the small waiting room. He moved with ease over the linoleum floor. His white dress shirt was tucked deep inside the tan khaki pants held up high with the help of black suspenders. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses so low on his nose that I thought they might just fall off. His face was aged and wrinkled, but radiated of happiness and accomplishment.
He sat down at a seat facing mine and near the window, of course. An even smaller woman suddenly entered the room, but she didn’t have a cane. Her back was hunched over which made her shoulders appear exceptionally broad. She wore a bright yellow dress that matched her yellow glasses which hung from a string around her neck. “Harold,” she squeaked, “Why did ya have to park the Buick so far away?” She didn’t wait for an answer; instead she strolled up to the receptionist desk to sign in. Harold rolled his eyes. I could tell that she wore the pants in this relationship.
I looked down at my hands. The gauze bandages prickled the skin that wasn’t broken. They prevented me from moving my fingers and from doing anything besides raising my hand. I desperately wanted to pull my long hair into a pony tail, but this was nearly impossible. I was constantly pushing my hair behind my ears and wishing it would stay there. The aroma of smoke and sweat filled my nostrils every time my dark brown locks would fall in front of my face. It wasn’t pleasant.
Harold’s wife settled down next to him and took a good look at my hands. Her eyes widened and her white eyebrows rose. “Oh dear, what happened to your hands?”
I knew someone would eventually ask and I came prepared. “Boiling water,” I lied. “Boiling water spilt on them.” My lips tried to smile.
She brought a hand up to her open mouth and gasped, “Well that sounds terrible! I’m so sorry sweetie, I hope they get better.”
She turned to her husband and began to gossip. I heard about Sheila’s husband’s open heart surgery, Lucy’s dog Fluffy’s encounter with the stray cat, and Martha not being able to keep her silly little mouth shut. Harold just nodded his head. She started to talk about the accident on Salem Turnpike. “I can’t believe his shoe was in the middle of the intersection,” she said with sorrow in her cracking voice.
“A shoe? Who’s shoe? There was a shoe?” Harold was confused.
“Yeah, sugar. The man who crashed his motorcycle into the car … I guess his shoe fell off and was left in the road. Poor guy bled all over the street and curb outside the Mobil station. He musta lost five gallons of blood right there.” She spoke as if she saw the accident happen.
“Aw man, that’s such a shame.” He looked down and shook his head in dismay.
“I know, I know. And his little daughter was on the back of the bike. She flew off before it hit the car. Debbie said she looked like some kind of angel, flying with her arms outstretched and all. Such a crazy thing to see.”
I bet, I thought to myself. I stood up slowly and shuffled over to the water fountain a mere ten feet away. My heart felt like it might escape from my chest. My hands were sweating underneath the bandages. She doesn’t know anything. How dare she talk about what she knows nothing about? How dare she talk about my dad? Using my elbow, I pushed down the button on the fountain and sipped some luke-warm water. I wiped my mouth with my arm. I took a deep breath and looked over at the chatty woman, “Ma’am,” I said loud enough for her to hear. My stomach felt like it was floating.
“Yes dear?” She smiled and looked back at me.
I shook my head, “Angels don’t exist.”