7: Summer Shudder

Azy made her way leisurely along the winding roads of suburbia. Still reminiscing about the events of the concert she had just attended, she smiled and cranked the stereo just a bit louder. Nodding in time to the pulsating bass lingering on her already-ringing ears, she smiled as she easily navigated the precarious twists in the road. The streets were nearly empty, it was just about midnight. No one was there to get in her way.

Rewinding and replaying, her conscience lingered on a familiar face. The boy at the merch table—subconsciously nicknamed ‘Doors Kid’ on account of his trademark tee. There was something refreshing about him that she couldn’t quite place (besides, of course, the fact that he might have been the only other sober kid at the show). She wondered when he’d call, if he’d call. She thought she made a pretty good impression. At least I didn’t have a mental breakdown or something, she thought, laughing to herself. Doors Kid… but then she realized, he had never told her his real name. “It all happened so fast…” she reflected to herself. “I guess I’m left hanging until he calls.”

Though not exactly pleased with this state of affairs, she shook it off and continued the drive. She was almost home—a home she was sure would be completely empty when she arrived. She lived with her eccentric and unstable mother who always seemed to be either at a bar, going to a bar, or yelling about things in her way of getting to a bar. Alcoholism was common in her family, one of the main reasons Azy had vowed to live edge. “I wonder if Doors Kid is straightedge too?” she mumbled absentmindedly. She decided it would be a good topic of conversation when he called. If he called.

The CD that had been playing ended abruptly and a stiff silence met her ears. She was just about to switch to FM radio when a sudden noise startled her. A raucous, scraping crash rang out into the previously standstill night. It sounded close—Azy panicked, slamming on the breaks, tires squealing in protest. The clamour echoed in the air, lingering with a presence almost tangible. Azy sat completely still for a moment, barely breathing, listening for some sort of follow-up, hearing nothing but silence. She released the brake and crept forward towards an especially sharp curve in the road. She knew that waiting for her on the other side of the bend would be the scene of the crash. Barely reaching ten miles per hour, she gradually approached the turn, not daring to exhale. Finally rounding the corner hesitantly, she was aghast at the sight before her.

A mass of twisted metal lay in the left lane of the road. There were two cars, that was certain, but which was which was nearly impossible to decipher. There appeared to be a large pickup and a small sedan—the latter of which was now crushed like a tin can being recycled. Feeling faint, Azy steered her car to the side of the road, pulling over ten or fifteen feet behind the vehicles. Getting out her cell phone in a daze, she dialed three numbers.
“911? Yes… I… um… there’s a crash… two cars… at, well, a turn in the road… on… (she checked street signs)… Grove Street. Hurt? Well… honestly I don’t know… I just got here, it was only a second ago.” Her voice quivered uncertainly. The operator confirmed and she dropped the phone, never taking her eyes off the sight in front of her.

She finally decided, even though crashes made her nervous and blood made her squirm, that it would be the right thing to do to get out and see if she could help anyone. She silently turned off the car and crept out of its safety into the night. A streetlamp glowed ominously over the wreckage. Azy walked lightly around the smaller car, as if she would disturb something. She peered into what was the driver’s side window—and winced. He looked about her age; face a bloody mess in a busted airbag, a large, gushing scar stretching across his forehead. His head lolled on its side, twisted impossibly. Feeling sick to her stomach, Azy realized he must be dead. Killed instantly on impact. Just like the TV shows.

She crossed around to the passenger side to make sure there was no one else in the car—but there was. Peering through the window delicately she caught sight of another boy, his face nearly welded into the spot on the dashboard where an airbag should have deployed… but didn’t. He wasn’t breathing. Reaching into the open window, she gingerly turned his head to get a glimpse of his face, brushing back dark hair sticky with the boy’s own blood. His face was layered in it as well, sagging, and Azy realized with a jolt that his eyes were still open. Eyes wide with terror, green eyes, boring straight through her in death. Green eyes… but wait…
Azy knew those eyes.
And the face they belonged to.

“Oh God… oh God no…”
Her whispers of protest fell useless. Azy collapsed to the asphalt, eyed fixed on her own hands coated with blood, not hearing the sirens as an ambulance spewed red and blue light into the darkness.

“I never even knew his name...”