Chokecherry (Chapter 2/?)
Not many people have been on the inside of a fatal car crash, and lived to tell about it.
The first thing I felt was the power of that first car hitting. My whole body collided with the inside of the blue Yugo, my head jerking out the window, and pulling back as the seatbelt perseveringly kept me in place.
I was wearing a tank top that day, and in remembrance, I have two diagonal scars. They run parallel to each other, down my chest, and around the right side of my neck. I have a habit of tracing them when I’m nervous.
The second thing I felt was the truck behind us hitting. It happened so fast that I hadn’t even realized that the first car had hit yet. This time there wasn’t nearly as much power, because the pick-up had us skewered on its hood.
The eight-wheeler, essentially, just drove over the trunk, and backseats. There was just this sick, loud crunch, a monstrous angel’s gasp that sends everything black. I was still listening, though, searching the airwaves for Bruce’s voice. All I could hear was Sal’s screaming.
I had never heard anyone in my life sound so tortured and imperative. Agony and guilt rushed through me with each decibel.
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. So I listened, because his screams told me that we were both still alive, something Tange’s silence didn’t.
***
I have never seen Sal naked. I thought about it before, in the embarrassing way that teenagers do. But I’ve never seen him.
After the crash, I started having recurring dreams about being with him. It was in a plain white room, which held a bed with silky, red sheets. I would enter, and he would be lying there, perfectly unscarred. I had all my cuts, though, snaking about my skin. And as soon as I touched him, it spread, like a disease, my bruises infecting him.
I always woke up screaming.
The weird thing about this dream is that I saw Sal mirroring my scars. In truth, Sal had it a lot worse than me. He would have been blessed to be as hurt as me.
In the crash, I only broke an arm. I had to get a lot of stitches, though. A few along the cuts the seatbelt created, and some in my face. The glass from the windshield caused the most damage, and that damage was only skin deep.
Sal’s whole left side had been crippled by that truck running into the side of his tiny car. He was put in a wheel chair for life. His left side is completely paralyzed. On top of that, he had the scars on his face, and arms from broken glass.
It’s a shame, because Sal used to look like the sweetest thing ever. But the scars made people judge him. Rumors went around that he’d been drinking before the crash. People looked at him differently, and he changed. Sal wasn’t the same person for the first few months. He wasn’t a person.
I realized this as soon as I saw him for the first time after the accident.
Time wasn’t exactly tangible while I was in the hospital. They never turn the lights off there, and there weren’t many windows either. The window they did have were covered with sterile, white, metal vertical blinds.
It was after I had woken up the first time, and after they’d done most of the stitches. I was supposed to be going home soon, too, right after they put the cast on my arm. This added a kind of necessity to my mission.
I’d been asking for Sal for days, but the doctors, and nurses always had some sort of excuse. I knew that had to mean he was really bad. Whenever I asked my parents how he was, they’d look at the ground, and change the subject. I was afraid that they wouldn’t let me visit him once I went home. I wanted to say goodbye if this was goodbye.
When I woke up, my father was asleep in the Lay-Z-Boy chair in the corner of the room, with a Bible in his arms. He and my mother had been taking shifts visiting me. I used my left hand to get up as quietly as I could. The hospital sheets were itchy, and stiff, and they rustled whenever you moved, making it virtually impossible to as much as switch positions without someone fretting for your life.
My feet touched the cold linoleum floor, and I stood up making my way to the door, silently slipping out. I looked up and down the hall way. It was empty. I bit my lip nervously. I didn’t know which room Sal was staying in.
Just then a nurse started down the corridor, her shoes click-clacking.
“Sweetie, what are you doing up?” It was Nurse Walters, a young nurse, who wore deep burgundy lipstick. She was curvy, with lovely ruddy cheeks, and a wholesome, melodious voice. Nurse Walters had attended to me a few times. She was always kind. She was the type of person who was always pleased to see people, no matter who it was.
Worry lines my face, as I pitch into a plea. “I know I’m not supposed to be up, but I really want to sees Sal.”
She sighed empathetically. “Honey, he’s resting.”
“I know.” I assured her. “I just want to see him.”
Nurse Walters crossed her arms over her chest skeptically.
“Please,” I begged. Even I was aware of how small and desperate my voice sounded in the strangely menacing hallway.
“Fine,” she agreed, leading me to his room. She told me not to wake him as she exited, leaving me alone.
I tilted my head observing Sal. He looked awkward, but lay peacefully. Both left arm and leg were raised in the air with some sort of medical contraption. His hair was limp, and dark, his cheeks sallow, and speckled with healing abrasions.
His right arm was placed over the sheets. I looked at it. There was a net of cuts on his forearms. His forearms used to be my favourite part of his body. There were muscular, and always a shade darker than the rest of his body. He had broad wrists, and rough, hard hands. Hands made for making.
Compulsively, I reached out, stroking him gently. Immediately he awoke, and stared at me.
I didn’t know what to say, so I told him the first thing I could think of. “I love you.”
He looks me up and down critically. The one syllable falls like a cinder block. “Don’t.”
Chapter 3 (2,154 words)
The first thing I felt was the power of that first car hitting. My whole body collided with the inside of the blue Yugo, my head jerking out the window, and pulling back as the seatbelt perseveringly kept me in place.
I was wearing a tank top that day, and in remembrance, I have two diagonal scars. They run parallel to each other, down my chest, and around the right side of my neck. I have a habit of tracing them when I’m nervous.
The second thing I felt was the truck behind us hitting. It happened so fast that I hadn’t even realized that the first car had hit yet. This time there wasn’t nearly as much power, because the pick-up had us skewered on its hood.
The eight-wheeler, essentially, just drove over the trunk, and backseats. There was just this sick, loud crunch, a monstrous angel’s gasp that sends everything black. I was still listening, though, searching the airwaves for Bruce’s voice. All I could hear was Sal’s screaming.
I had never heard anyone in my life sound so tortured and imperative. Agony and guilt rushed through me with each decibel.
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. So I listened, because his screams told me that we were both still alive, something Tange’s silence didn’t.
***
I have never seen Sal naked. I thought about it before, in the embarrassing way that teenagers do. But I’ve never seen him.
After the crash, I started having recurring dreams about being with him. It was in a plain white room, which held a bed with silky, red sheets. I would enter, and he would be lying there, perfectly unscarred. I had all my cuts, though, snaking about my skin. And as soon as I touched him, it spread, like a disease, my bruises infecting him.
I always woke up screaming.
The weird thing about this dream is that I saw Sal mirroring my scars. In truth, Sal had it a lot worse than me. He would have been blessed to be as hurt as me.
In the crash, I only broke an arm. I had to get a lot of stitches, though. A few along the cuts the seatbelt created, and some in my face. The glass from the windshield caused the most damage, and that damage was only skin deep.
Sal’s whole left side had been crippled by that truck running into the side of his tiny car. He was put in a wheel chair for life. His left side is completely paralyzed. On top of that, he had the scars on his face, and arms from broken glass.
It’s a shame, because Sal used to look like the sweetest thing ever. But the scars made people judge him. Rumors went around that he’d been drinking before the crash. People looked at him differently, and he changed. Sal wasn’t the same person for the first few months. He wasn’t a person.
I realized this as soon as I saw him for the first time after the accident.
Time wasn’t exactly tangible while I was in the hospital. They never turn the lights off there, and there weren’t many windows either. The window they did have were covered with sterile, white, metal vertical blinds.
It was after I had woken up the first time, and after they’d done most of the stitches. I was supposed to be going home soon, too, right after they put the cast on my arm. This added a kind of necessity to my mission.
I’d been asking for Sal for days, but the doctors, and nurses always had some sort of excuse. I knew that had to mean he was really bad. Whenever I asked my parents how he was, they’d look at the ground, and change the subject. I was afraid that they wouldn’t let me visit him once I went home. I wanted to say goodbye if this was goodbye.
When I woke up, my father was asleep in the Lay-Z-Boy chair in the corner of the room, with a Bible in his arms. He and my mother had been taking shifts visiting me. I used my left hand to get up as quietly as I could. The hospital sheets were itchy, and stiff, and they rustled whenever you moved, making it virtually impossible to as much as switch positions without someone fretting for your life.
My feet touched the cold linoleum floor, and I stood up making my way to the door, silently slipping out. I looked up and down the hall way. It was empty. I bit my lip nervously. I didn’t know which room Sal was staying in.
Just then a nurse started down the corridor, her shoes click-clacking.
“Sweetie, what are you doing up?” It was Nurse Walters, a young nurse, who wore deep burgundy lipstick. She was curvy, with lovely ruddy cheeks, and a wholesome, melodious voice. Nurse Walters had attended to me a few times. She was always kind. She was the type of person who was always pleased to see people, no matter who it was.
Worry lines my face, as I pitch into a plea. “I know I’m not supposed to be up, but I really want to sees Sal.”
She sighed empathetically. “Honey, he’s resting.”
“I know.” I assured her. “I just want to see him.”
Nurse Walters crossed her arms over her chest skeptically.
“Please,” I begged. Even I was aware of how small and desperate my voice sounded in the strangely menacing hallway.
“Fine,” she agreed, leading me to his room. She told me not to wake him as she exited, leaving me alone.
I tilted my head observing Sal. He looked awkward, but lay peacefully. Both left arm and leg were raised in the air with some sort of medical contraption. His hair was limp, and dark, his cheeks sallow, and speckled with healing abrasions.
His right arm was placed over the sheets. I looked at it. There was a net of cuts on his forearms. His forearms used to be my favourite part of his body. There were muscular, and always a shade darker than the rest of his body. He had broad wrists, and rough, hard hands. Hands made for making.
Compulsively, I reached out, stroking him gently. Immediately he awoke, and stared at me.
I didn’t know what to say, so I told him the first thing I could think of. “I love you.”
He looks me up and down critically. The one syllable falls like a cinder block. “Don’t.”
Chapter 3 (2,154 words)