Young Writers Society

I got hit by a car last Friday.

It was one of those experiences that makes you feel like someone scribbled the

word “fuck” all over you. Fuckity fuckity fuck.

The actual getting hit part wasn’t really that exciting; you know, guy swerves

‘cause he’s pissed at some lady for not moving when the light turns green, and

slams into you…it sure as hell could have been a lot gorier. But that doesn’t

change the fact that you were hit by a car last Friday.

You know, it really makes you think, things like that. One second you’re planning

exactly what you’re going to eat at the movies, and the next, you’re thinking,

“Shit, I don’t have a fucking Will and Testament”. You feel the impact of the cool

blue metal as it slams against your skin, and two seconds of blissfulness wash

over you. Most of us use it in the only way that we know: screaming at the stupid

driver who hit into us. And then, it feels as though time has stopped. Without

any warning, your brain shuts off, the only thought running through your head

“I’ve got to get home and take a fucking shower…..I’ve got to get home and take

a fucking shower……..”. The guy jumps out of the car yelling at you, something

about how he had to swerve ‘cause the lady gave him the finger, and then asks if

you’re okay, by which time you’re so far gone that the only response you can thing

of is “I’m fine, I’ve got to get home and take a fucking shower….” And then, you

stupidly get back up and walk across the street, where the crossing lady for the

elementary school kids grabs your arm and forces you to a stop. “Did that guy

just hit you?” You blink stupidly at them and mutter, “I’m fine, I’ve got to get

home and take a fucking shower.” And they stare at you, and sit you down, and

call the police, while you sit on the sidewalk and stare right back at them. “I’m

fine, I’ve got to get home and take a fucking shower”. But it seems as though no

one cares about your hygiene problems. “Jesus Christ kid, are you sure you’re

okay? Where did you get hit?”…and you can’t understand why they are making

such a huge deal about it…..it wasn’t really anything, just a car….. The paramedics

are called, a dozen police show up. Apparently the guy that hit you disappeared,

do you remember the license plate? Car type? And all you can mumble is “No”

because you can’t honestly remember anything except that the guy was fat. The

police keep repeating, “We know you can’t drive, but do you have any idea how

fast he was going?” as if the idea of not having your drivers license yet entitles

you to be totally ignorant of the rules of the road. And yet, you shake your head

“no” and shrug, because you weren’t expecting the guy to hit into you and you

didn’t stick your head in to his car to check the speed odometer before he

slammed into you. A dozen people ask you your name, and shake your hand, and

ask you if you are okay. “I’m fine, can I go home now?” And they say, “Just a

little longer”, and take three different photos of you, one of your front, one of

your side, and one of your back, which makes feel like they are taking pictures of

your ass. And then, at last, they shake their heads in that I-can’t-believe-you-

survived way, and tell you that you can go home, as long as you promise to call

this number if you remember anything or your ribs really start to hurt. You unlock

the door to your house, and sit down on your bed, and pick up the phone. “Hi,

Vicky? I just got hit by a car….I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight…..Yeah,

I’m fine…..have a good time with Jesse and the others……Okay, I’ll see you on

Monday…bye”. And then you put the phone down on the hook and look out the

window, and realize that you could have been killed. Maybe if you had not

touched your brakes seconds before the guy turned, you would have had full front

on impact. And for a several seconds, you stare out the window and think of how

everything that you’ve ever wanted to do would have never been done, and you

never would have gone to college, and never have lived in London, and you never

would have become a film director. For one second, you realize that you could be

dead right now, at this moment, being wheeled off in some ambulance to the

morgue. The shock rolls over you. And then, you see the guy across the street

come out of his house and pick up the hose, exchanging nods with the old women

in the tracksuit, just like they have done every day of the last fifteen years that

you have lived here. And you realize that no one knows, no one cares. You are

going to go back to school on Monday, and you will be treated the way you have

always been treated. The world will go on eating, and sleeping, and it almost

amazes you. You aren’t self-absorbed; you weren’t expecting the world to stop,

and yet…….you were just hit by a car!….one milli-second later, and you would have

been killed!!!…..can’t you expect some sort of acknowledgment?!?! Your cat walks

in and lets out a glass-shattering yowl, and it just seems so funny to you that you

almost died, and yet he’s still hungry.

And you feel small.

For the first time, you really realize just how huge the world is. So many different

people, coming and going, you’re lucky that anyone stopped at all, stopped and

took the time to realize that they had, in fact, just hit a human being. Suddenly,

you know that on Monday, when your second period teacher asks how you’re

weekend went, you will reply with the customary, “Fine”, and you will pull out

your notebook, and write down the homework, and probably never mention that

you were hit by a car. And you know, that while playing “I’ve Never” with your

friends at Christmas, you will leave your finger sticking out when someone says

“I’ve never been hit by a car”, and you will not show any sign that you are lying,

and you will never, under any conditions, fold your finger in. You almost died, and

yet your life will go on, and you suddenly realize that you don’t honestly care if no

one ever finds out that you got hit by a car today. Time stops for nobody. And so,

you will get off your bed, and walk into the kitchen, and flip on the light to find

something to eat. And that night, as you are brushing your teeth, you will turn

around and a thought will strike you; you still haven’t taken that goddamn shower.

But instead, you will wander back into your room and sit down at your computer

and write what has happened to you, and perhaps you will publish it somewhere

labeled as “anonymous”. And then, when your time to die really does come, you

will smile in your last second, because a piece of you will always remain

somewhere on this earth. And you will be satisfied, because even though no one

else may ever know about it, you always will, and the thought will strengthen you

for whatever may come next.