April 18, 2003
Crash Test Dummy
How very foolish I must have looked, in a billowy blouse and blue tennis shoes, clutching a cell phone and crying.
The front end of the car was smashed, the air bags deployed, the cab filled with acridic grey smoke. I could smell it in my hair, in my clothes. I can still smell it now.
The cop was an asshole. No, officer, her car stopped mine. I didn't see the necessity of putting it into park when I couldn't see.
They don't give citations in Kentucky, though I am certain that had there been one given it would have been to me, regardless of blame. I was the only person to actually hit anyone else, despite the four cars that were involved. Kentucky 237, you are my bane.
I didn't have time for anger, standing in the middle of the street and bawling and unable to reach anyone. I wanted to call Mike first, but filial piety forced my hand to dial my father's number, to no avail.
Sometime later, as I watched the towman sweep the pieces of my car from the street and deposit them in the trunk, I felt an emptiness opening up inside me. Where do my priorities lie? My mother lecturing me for missing class this morning (seemingly having forgotten about the accident), my neck aching furiously in response (not having at all forgotten), Mike, laying in bed asleep with all of last night's comforts lingering yet on his lips, my father, on his way to pick me up to go to the med center and used car lots.
I am in a constant flurry over dependence. It just got worse.
In the eyes of the law, I am at fault.
I feel like I have been kicked in the face.
astera at 11:00 a.m.