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The Haunting of New York Stoplight

A split second.

By Samaria BeckerPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 5 min read
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The Haunting of New York Stoplight
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Blink and your entire life changes.

The light was green. The light was green. The light was green. The light was green. The light was green.

The light was green.

It was.

I know it.

I know it.

"Take me back to that day," Dr. Corinne says.

I'm scarcely able to hear her because I am already there.

I am still sitting in the driver’s seat of my Honda Civic.

My soul haunts that intersection.

I never left.

I will never leave.

I find that it isn't the accident itself that terrorizes me so ardently. It is not the last smile that John ever gave me—and his is a smile that I am sure stretched the soft lines of his gentle face even as he died.

It’s the small, insignificant things that torment me the most. It’s the minute details that plague my heart, that take up permanent residence in my mind, that taunt me during the day and leave me screaming at night.

It is the steady, pitter-patter of raindrops pounding furiously against the soaked pavement.

Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop.

It is the sound of tires gliding over puddles at forty-five miles an hour.

Splish. Splash. Splish. Splash. Splish. Splash.

It is the harsh, strident sound of a car horn. The person in the SUV behind me didn't check their blind spot before merging into the next lane over.

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

It is the erratic, pulsating beat of my heart as it pounds with a shocking ferocity. It bangs viciously against my chest cavity, threatening escape.

Beat beat beat. Beat beat beat. Beat beat beat.

I can tolerate sleeping in the bed that we shared. I can feel his absence on the left side and outstretch my fingers and feel the empty space, and still, I fall asleep.

But not when it rains.

Because it's the pitter-patter of the rain against my bedroom window that leaves me waking in a panic. So, I turn on all the lights and blast the television as loud as it will go so that it is the harsh, bright light and the white noise that causes me not to be able to fall back asleep and not the—

Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop.

Because I can cope with not being able to fall asleep at night, but I cannot bear the sound of the rain.

These are the things that invade my mind with their jagged blades, cutting profusely, until I am nothing but bones and flesh, lying curled into a ball on the floor of my bathroom as a green light hovers in the distance.

That’s the one image I can't drown out, no matter my efforts. No matter how loud I turn the volume on the television, or how tightly I close my eyes, or how desperately I plead, or how loud I cry, I can never expunge the image of that green light.

It is louder than the rain.

It is harsher than the angry car horns.

It is fiercer than the pounding of my heart in my chest.

It is more frightening than the deafening, ear-splitting crash.

It is more painful than the memory of John's smile.

It is more devastating than reaching for him on the other side of the bed and remembering that he isn't there.

"What do you think is so special about that green light?" Dr. Corinne asks.

We approach the stoplight, I tell her. I stop at the red. I ask John what he thinks about having dinner with my parents the following night. I look over at him because I'm waiting for his answer.

He grabs my right hand. He kisses my knuckles. He says he'll agree to the dinner, but he'd rather not tell me what he thinks about it because he quite enjoys being married to me and would prefer not to get divorced.

I laugh and roll my eyes because his response is so quintessentially him that I cannot help it. He smiles because his body has been trained to do so whenever I laugh. He always said it was like Pavlov's theory of conditioning. My laugh is the stimulus, his smile is the inherent response.

I turn back to the light now and I see that it's green. I floor the accelerator because I have no idea how long the light has been green because I was staring at John and I don't want the people behind me to become angry. This is New York City after all.

Crash.

It’s instant.

John never stood a chance, the doctors said. I was lucky to be alive, they said. Is that what you say to someone whose husband just died?

Blink. He’s gone.

The light was green. The light was green. The light was green. The light was green. The light was green.

The light was green.

It was.

I know it.

I know it.

Because that damned green light is the only thing I see anymore.

When I close my eyes.

When I open them again.

When I fall asleep.

When I wake up.

In the faces of other people.

When the rain cries relentlessly against my window, I see the green light.

Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop.

When the cars scream angrily at each other, I see the green light.

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

When my heart aches so terribly within me that I clutch my fingers to my chest and I scratch and I claw and I beg my body to let me pull the damned thing out, the green light, forever my persistent shadow, looms over me.

Beat beat beat. Beat beat beat. Beat beat beat.

When I think about John, I don't see that smile that I loved so dearly—the last expression I saw him make before—

Crash.

And ruthless as ever, the green light shines on.

"Why do you think that is?" Dr. Corinne asks.

I laugh because I thought that answer was obvious.

If I'd looked both ways before crossing that intersection, if I'd looked at that green light for more than half a split second, then the rain wouldn’t keep me up at night.

I wouldn’t flinch at the incessant sound of car horns belting out New York City’s theme song.

John could smile in response to my laugh. He could occupy his space on the left side of the bed and the passenger seat of my old car given that he never liked to drive because he’d moved to New York City to be with me and had never felt comfortable with the amount of traffic.

But I didn't offer a second thought to that green light. Because green means go…doesn’t it?

But the person was going way too fast and yet…

So was I.

This is New York after all…

You never, never just take off at a light and yet…

Blink. Crash.

I'd spared merely the briefest glance at that green light.

And now I'll see it forever.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Samaria Becker

Hi! :)

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