hi, here is a short story i wrote. lmk ur thoughts :)
(don't mind the interrupting page numbers)
I Have Never Been in a Car Accident
It’s pretty much been raining since morning. I can smell the muddy puddles. I can hear the cars
driving through them, muting the sound of my stomach growling. I didn’t eat my lunch at school
today. I didn’t have much dinner last night either. There are always so many cars driving all the
time. Random people going to random places with their own lives going on. Their own
problems. How many people really even get into car accidents? If there are always all of those
cars driving all the time then you’d think that there would be more car accidents than there
already are. But I guess there sorta are a lot. I always see dashcam videos of people getting into
car accidents. But who the hell even has a dashcam in their car? There are definitely more people
who don’t have dash cams than people who do. I’ve seen hundreds and maybe even thousands
of videos of dashcam car accidents. Think about all the people who have gotten into awful car
accidents that don’t have dashcams. Once I saw a video of two guys on motorcycles in like the
middle of nowhere. They were both going fast. One of them, the guy in front, ended up swerving
off the side of the road, falling off the motorcycle, and skidding all across the rocks. He
completely wrecked the motorcycle. His friend ran over right away to help him. “Please tell me
you’re okay,” the friend says.
The man who crashed the motorcycle starts to cry immediately. He isn’t hurt.
“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” the friend says.
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“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I just did that man I’m so sorry” cries the man as tears run
down his face. The friend was the one who bought those two motorcycles. The man wasn’t hurt.
But he just kept crying. He didn’t get injured when he fell. He wasn’t in any pain. He just kept
crying. He kept crying because he felt guilty. Overwhelmed by the situation.
I’ve never been in a car accident. Or a motorcycle accident.
My summer going into 8th grade I saw a boy. A pretty boy. Not the kind of pretty where I
just liked his style, even though I did. He was the real kind of pretty. I liked how he never really
smiled and his deep brown eyes. I liked how his hair was kind of wavy, and how it rested on the
top of his face. He smelled good. Sorta like moss. Like earthy, fresh, go on a hike moss. He had
weird pubey hair above his lip, but I guess I liked it. It was cute. I think he was a little bit older
than me. Not too much though. He had to have been older than me because he could drive and I
was only fourteen. I wondered if he had ever gotten in any car accidents. We worked together. At
a summer camp. So I pretty much got to see him all day every day all summer. We didn’t really
talk much but when we did it felt like the most natural thing ever, as if we could talk for hours. I
mostly saw him at the pool since both of our groups had swim at the same time. I didn’t know
how he would feel about me liking him like that. I didn’t ever ask. I didn’t plan on asking. I also
didn’t really know how I felt about liking him like that. Maybe that's why I never told him. I still
think about him all the time. I don't feel the same way about him as I used to. Not at all. I just
always find myself thinking about the situation. I had liked so many people. Had so many
crushes. But it just felt sorta wrong to be having those feelings about this boy. Halfway through
July, I tried to talk to my friend Mikey about the feelings I was having. That there was a boy.
And I think I might have some sorta feelings for him.
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He sounded concerned when I tried to talk to him about it. “Feelings? What kinda
feelings?” he said. Mikey was a good friend. He was funny and good-looking, girls liked him,
and he always seemed to know just about everything. He had it all figured out. But he was not
the right person to come to about this. I wanted to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Even
though I had been dreaming of that boy for the past like month and a half.
“Like crush feelings maybe. The type of thing one would feel about a girl.” I replied.
“Crush feelings?! You're joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking.” said Mikey.
I didn’t know what to say. His response made me feel like someone was throwing one of those
heavy medicine balls right on my stomach. Like someone had ripped the cords from my head to
my heart. Why would I joke about something like that? What was I supposed to say?
I froze. We both stayed sorta silent for a while. How could I undo this?
I laughed. “Mikey, of course I’m joking. Why would I feel that way about a boy?” I said,
ashamed. My chest stung.
“Good. I don’t think I could deal with you being some sort of faggot.” Mikey said back.
The only thing worse than getting shot once is getting shot twice. I’d been shot twice.
People in my 7th grade class called each other fags all the time. I’d never really thought too
much of it. I’d been called it before. But that time it felt different. That time it felt like my body
was getting ripped apart. It's not like I was gay. I just wanted some sort of help. I was confused.
Mikey was a good friend. I really cared about his opinion a lot and I didn’t want him to think
badly of me. The conversation I had with Mikey made me feel awful about the feelings I was
having about that boy. I was confused. I was sad. I felt guilty. I felt overwhelmed.
I start to drift off the sidewalk into the road. It feels like one of the cars will almost hit
me, but they just splash dirty puddles on my jeans. It's dark out. This road is winding. I’m not
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surprised the cars can’t really see me. It’s foggy. I can feel their high beams hitting the back of
my head as they come around the corner. The cars are loud. I can barely hear the music playing
out of my back pocket. I Hate Myself. I’ve never been in a car accident or a motorcycle accident
but if it’s gonna happen I would hope it happens now.
Seven months ago my dad’s friend got into an accident. We heard the news while my dad
and I were eating breakfast. We stopped eating. I didn’t really want to eat anyway. He and my
dad used to be pretty close. They went to boarding school together in New Jersey. Some school
called Peddie. Grubba. I don’t think that Grubba was his birth name. That's just what everyone
called him. Grubba. Teachers called him Grubba. On the back of his football jersey it said
Grubba. The name he wrote down on his papers was Grubba. At least that’s what my dad told
me. They were friends in high school but I don’t think they stayed in touch. They spent a lot of
time together in boarding school. I’ve heard stories about Grubba before. He was a great athlete,
funny, good-looking, girls liked him, but my dad said he was a weird guy. He was big into
conspiracy theories. He would never wear his shoes. He swore that walking around barefoot
connected you to the earth's core and made you a better person or something like that. He tried to
be barefoot as often as possible. I’m sure most of his friends thought he was joking. My dad
thought he was joking. I would have thought so too. How could you never wear shoes?
I think my dad sorta forgot about him until he heard about the car accident that happened. Our
eggs had become cold. Grubba was on the highway. He pulled over and got out of his car. And
he jumped right in front of a truck. One of those eighteen-wheelers. Died on impact. It was not
an accident. When the police got there and they searched his car, they found that he had taken off
his socks and shoes and left them in the car before running into the road. He was barefoot. I
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could feel my dad’s head thinking loudly but all I could hear was quiet. Grubba’s car accident
was not an accident.
The rain is soaking through my clothes. The motorcyclist, the boy, Mikey, Grubba, and all of my
accidents are squeezing my head. Pressing down on me. I can barely see the cars through the
pouring rain.
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