Resistance, Rebellion and Death

“Yesterday it was love. Today the great passions of unity and liberty disrupt the world. yesterday love led to individual death. Today collective passions make us run the risk of universal destruction. Today, just as yesterday, art wants to save from death a living image of our passions and our sufferings.” ― Albert Camus

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Monday, March 31, 2025

"I Have Never Been in a Car Accident" Short Story

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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