Young Writers Society

It's really short, but okay.

“Screech!” The ear-splitting sound of mutilated metal and shattering glass reverberated throughout the estate, causing anyone within a few miles of the road to turn instinctively towards the source of the din. I whipped around, startled.

Nothing could have prepared me for the scene that appeared before my eyes. Scrap metal carpeted the length of the road, dotted here and there with shards of glass. Right in the centre of all this mess was the remains of a lime- green car and a beige run-down lorry, both blighted by the crash.

The Caucasian male, who was the lorry driver, was trapped in his vehicle; face partially obscured by an inflated airbag. He was not injured, and was already trying to come out of the lorry with the assistance of a few people. The lorry, being heavier, had got through the accident with barely a few dents and a couple of smashed headlights, but the car was not that lucky. Almost half of the car was destroyed, but miraculously, the driver was unscathed. A young woman in her forties, she was trying to come out of her car, albeit without success.

By this time, the lorry driver was out of the vehicle and on the curb, a dazed expression on his face. It was then that it struck me that I should have called an ambulance. I fished out my phone, clammy fingers rapidly pressing the three numbers that would bring help. It turned out to be unnecessary, however, as the moment I put the phone to my ears, the blaring note of a siren filled the air, and I put the phone down. An ambulance entered the scene, followed by a police car. The female driver was also out now, but there was a vast difference in behaviour.

She was screaming and abusing the Caucasian man, hysterically pointing an accusing finger at the driver as he silently protested. Finally, the policemen had had enough. They coaxed the woman until all she did was glare at the driver angrily.
The man’s face was ashen. Realising that something was wrong, the paramedics took him in a stretcher to the ambulance. The lady was brought in for questioning.

Soon enough, the crowd dispersed and everyone went about their businesses, and I continued on towards my house. By the time I had reached home, the incident had yet to settle comfortably in my mind, and relentlessly played itself over and over. I was truly unable to think of anything else.

The next day, on my way home again, my stomach lurched as I saw a cobalt-blue sign on the footpath -‘Witnesses needed’- with a graphic image of two cars at the bottom, followed by a telephone number. Not wanting to get involved, I walked on, as if I had never noticed the sign at all.