I barreled onto the grass median coughing up smoke as if my esophagus was an exhaust pipe. The mud and rain soaked into my jeans as I crouched on all fours, dry-heaving and panting, and something about those opposites made it impossible to breathe. White faced and doe eyed, I looked at my car, the entire front crushed to the driver’s seat. Something about it reminded me of a pug.
That morning like every morning, I woke up at 6:00 and left at 7:15. I’d say goodbye to my parents and yell at my brother, Camden, to hurry up. I would arrive to school at 7:45 and park in the second row, right next to Chelsea. That morning, November 5th, I was three minutes late. Saying goodbye wasn’t worth risking my parking spot, so I yelled to Camden and ran out.
As I sat frozen on the curb, I looked out at the three totaled cars. A high school senior ran into a grandmother who ran into a vet – all of whom woke up with a schedule that didn’t include ambulance rides and hospital bills.
At 17 years old, I was in love. I was in love with my less-than-stellar friends, any boy who responded fast enough, girls with straight hair, tasting alcohol, wearing expensive things, and being the most perfect version of myself. I felt in extremes because why be happy if you could be radiant, and why be sad if you could be heartbroken? I wanted my life to be a movie where the girl gets the boy and the protagonist always wins. In a single moment, a second where I looked away from the road, I grew up. With sirens blaring, bruises everywhere, and burns across my neck, I finally understood what it meant to feel in extremes.
In the early morning of November 5th, rain drizzled and the world was dark blue. The sun had not yet risen, and the glossy puddles reflected the upward world. I drove down the moderately busy street, the same street I’d driven on for years – three turns, 21 miles, 23 stop lights, 30 minutes. Usually, I let Camden play the music, but this morning he was asleep. He wore only the bottom seatbelt strap and his chair leaned back more than usual. It was a quiet morning and the dribbling rain was my music. The most significant moments occur in the most monotonous of routines.
Suddenly, it was dark and loud. The world was black except for the sparks shooting in front of me. Camden started screaming, awakened by moving from 50 miles per hour to zero. He was no longer in the seat but under the dashboard. Dust and smoke occupied all breathable air in the car, and I gasped for something that didn’t taste like burnt rubber. The airbag sat in front of me, but it couldn’t have hit me because when something hits you in the face at 200 miles per hour, you feel it. I felt nothing.
Powerlessness overwhelmed me, and I screamed. I sat still, hands at ten and two, staring into the backseat of another car, screaming until I was sane again. Camden yelled at me, shook me, and hit me until my trance was broken.
“Rachyl!” He screamed. “We need to get out.”
I opened the door and fell onto the ground choking.
At 17 years old, I was lying to myself. The only feeling I knew was a naïve love that filled the empty spaces, holding the place for something of substance to grow. Self-consciousness dug the holes deeper and I filled them with fake friendships, 11:11 wishes, and crewneck sweatshirts. I held onto this naïve love because it was easy. Camden was only 14 years old, young enough to excuse his naivety, and I could have taken away his ability to feel something real all because my eyes wandered off the road. My mother’s world could have ended because not only would I have taken away the two things she valued most, but I would have also taken the third: a chance to say goodbye.
Sitting on the curb, I looked at my red Mazda and felt nothing for it. The car I relied on everyday had decided not to protect me anymore. While sitting only a few feet apart, there was an eerie distance between us, and I couldn’t help but see my car as a stranger. It took me to my first day of work and experienced my first kiss. The walls were lined with secrets and gossip from after school rant sessions. My perfume had soaked into the seats and whenever someone new got in, they always said it smelled like candy. It was my safe place. I’ve cried and screamed and banged on the steering wheel over exams and guidance counselors and not making varsity. I’ve fixed my mascara in the rear-view mirror after. It heard my first breakup, my favorite song, my prayers, and my tone-deaf singing voice. It was an extension of myself, and in a moment, it was nothing – only a piece of smoking metal that had betrayed me, and I couldn’t help but scoff at the sight of it.
As the cars drove by, I made eye contact with many of the classmates I was in love with, and who now saw me in a state of complete brokenness. No one stopped. They looked at me like they’d look at a neglected puppy – feeling horrible and wishing someone would adopt him, but not actually doing anything about it. My love was unreciprocated, unnoticed, unwanted. They stared with their foot stationed on the pedal, widemouthed, disturbed, and itching to tell everyone about it in homeroom. Keep your eyes on the road, I thought to myself. You might crash.
That was the last time I saw my red Mazda. My dad later told me we were taking it to my uncle’s to sell it for parts.
“But I thought it was totaled?” I asked.
“The front is wrecked,” he explained, “but everything else is fine. The damaged front didn’t affect the other parts of the car, and a lot of the pieces can still be used. They will build other cars.”
It intrigues me that even with something totaled, something beyond repair, there can still be good parts found between broken pieces. What if humans worked like that? Where good, working parts could still be found in us even if we believe we are broken – where parts of us are still perfect even in circumstances meant to destroy us. And if we accept this, we can share ourselves with other broken people, building something whole. Something new could be created from something destroyed, and that’s when I discovered what love really is. It’s not who I want to be or what I want to have. It’s the people whose brokenness fits perfectly with mine.
I love this Rachyl! I remember when you had that accident. What a great thought you got from that happening. Keep up the great work!