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The Light Was Green

Trigger warning: somewhat graphic descriptions of death by car accident, mentions of PTSD; Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and not based on real events

By J. LozadaPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 6 min read
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The Light Was Green
Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash

The light was green. The newly installed red light camera caught the whole incident in one photo, one moment in time, forever frozen in that frame, forever etched into my memory. I used to think those cameras were stupid, just another way to take money from people for being one second behind the light. Now I wonder how many times one of those cameras has proven someone else’s innocence.

It was late on a Thursday night, a little after 11. It was raining, a steady beat on my windshield, my wipers keeping in time with the rhythm. I’d driven this street hundreds of times before, knew it like the back of my hand. After that night, I’d never look at it the same. Now I avoided it when I could, but if I had to drive past the spot, I felt like my memory was betraying me because in person it looked nothing like how I remembered it. The red tulips on the corner of the intersection were yellow daffodils in my mind, the fire hydrant was on the wrong side of the street, and the trees were bigger, shading most of the road beneath them. Little things that added up to create a distorted version of what I saw when I closed my eyes at night, remembering the sound of the glass shattering on impact, the loud crack as the airbag hit my sternum, breaking a few ribs, and the thud when he hit the ground. I tried to swerve out of the way, but that just made things worse. The angle she hit me at made him fly from the backseat through the windshield, out onto the street where he was paralyzed and would bleed out in my arms before the ambulance could arrive.

I’d never wanted to be an Uber driver. I disliked people and did what I could to avoid interacting with them. Then my landlord raised my rent by $500, so I decided to try it out to offset the increase. It wasn’t all that bad. Driving around the Grand Strand I got to see some really nice places; rich people's houses, ocean-front homes, private communities. Most people didn’t want to talk in the car, so it was easy. I never planned to get into an accident with a passenger, but then we never really plan for all the things that could go wrong in life.

The first time I saw the photo I was almost sick. I could smell the rusty, tinny scent of blood again, the burnt chemical smell from the airbags, gasoline fumes from my leaking tank, the indescribable scent of death. I’d scrubbed myself for over an hour when I finally got home from the hospital, but it was useless. Death had sat on my skin for over eight hours at that point, seeping into my blood, intertwining itself with my DNA, becoming a part of me. Nothing I did would get rid of it. Nothing would erase the memory of his eyes, wide open, terrified, in pain, the way his body convulsed, blood pouring from his mouth, the gurgling sounds, the whimpers, the tears, the smell of his insides falling out of him onto the wet street beneath us, his last words, “help me,” coming out in broken, wet syllables. I knew what the photo was of, but I didn’t realize what I’d actually be seeing, that I would have to relive the moment again when I saw the grainy black and white image of a dark SUV hitting a small car, an ejected passenger in midair.

He was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s boyfriend. He was someone to a lot of people, and now he was gone, having died in my arms. But it wasn’t my fault. My light was green. It was raining. Her light was red. Her SUV was black. She didn’t have her headlights on. I didn’t see her coming until I heard the horn. What else could I have done? She got out of her car and screamed at me as I held him. Typical rich, Pawley’s Island, white, entitled, blonde bitch, the kind who was raised thinking the world revolves around them and that they are owed respect, that they don’t have to earn it. That they can cause an accident that kills someone and still blame it on me. It turned out she was also a somebody. A powerful somebody who knew powerful people in powerful positions. Daughter of a retired millionaire who funded local politicians’ campaigns. Local judges. Local sheriffs. Her father had one hand in all the most important peoples’ pockets, willing to give as long as they did what he wanted, willing to take if they didn’t. I remember the pearls she was wearing, swinging wildly on her neck as she ranted and gesticulated at me, the diamonds on her fingers glinting in the headlights, rainbows spraying everywhere from the water droplets falling on them from the sky, the red soles of her shoes. It was then, as she was telling me that I’d pay for this, that I’d go to hell for killing this man, that I knew I was fucked.

That photo changed everything. My court date was less than a week away when my lawyer called, a no-name public defender who was greener than a blade of grass. He asked me to come to his office as soon as I could. Within an hour I held the photo in my hands, shaking, metallic taste in my mouth, heart-pounding, PTSD triggered. I sat down and put my head between my legs, my breath coming in short, quick bursts. I let the panic wash over me, unable to remember the coping techniques my therapist had taught me. The tears came, hot and salty down my cheeks. Then the realization hit me. This was it. This was my proof of innocence. My tears came anew.

I’ll never forget the look on her face when my lawyer presented the photo to the court. She knew it was over. No matter how many people her father had paid off, this photo was proof of what had happened, proof that she had hit me, proof that I was innocent, that I hadn’t taken a man’s life. That photo would always exist, one moment in time, forever frozen in that frame, forever etched into my memory. I was innocent, she was guilty.

Though I may have won the case, I still lost. Watching someone die changes you. Everything about you is tainted with the knowledge that you were the last person to see them alive, that you were the last person they saw, that their last moments were terrifying and painful, that they trusted you to keep them safe and you couldn’t. Then there’s the look on their parents’ faces, knowing they’ve outlived their child, the way they look at you, thinking you’ve killed their son. You internalize their hate and it becomes your own. It takes a long time to see the good things in life again, that the world isn’t all bad, that there are silver linings. My silver lining was exposing a corrupt family and their illegal doings, sending them all to jail where they’d most likely live out the rest of their lives. It doesn’t erase all of the pain, but it helps because I did it all for him, the man who I held until his last breath.

Short Story
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About the Creator

J. Lozada

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