Even with a cursory glance at my Google Drive, one is confronted by a sea of Untitled Documents. Few contain more than a page of writing; most end on an incomplete thought, a story or poem left unfinished. I abandon them with the foolish certainty that when I return, I will remember everything that has been left unsaid. However, most of the time, I am incorrect. The story below incorporates several fragments pulled at random from my Google Docs. None of these were meant to go together; all of them have been reconfigured and are surrounded by new ideas. Whatever they were “meant” to be is long forgotten, but their unification is an attempt to give them a new life. They are the lucky ones; their brethren have been left to rot in the annals of a data center. But perhaps it is not too late for them either.
The woman's horrible stillness reminded him of his great-aunt Margaret in her casket gazing up at him from among the lilies. For some reason, Aunt Margaret’s death had felt like his fault. He had thrown a handful of dirt into her grave. Perhaps she had still been alive when she was lowered down, but the loam was just half an inch too thick for her to burst out. Margaret had fallen down the stairs on her own accord, but this time around, he really would be the one to blame.
When the man had left his house that morning, he'd accidentally stepped on one of his wife’s flowers. The sight of the delicate petals torn and scattered across the ground made him feel like a hulking brute. He felt sorry with every subsequent step, sorry for the lawn and the bugs and bacteria that lurked within. If he didn't have neighbors, he would've tiptoed to his truck. Everything around him felt brittle, like the morning itself would snap in half if he had another misstep. This pervasive sense of wrongness lingered even when he started the car and even when he tried to brush it off as simply nerves or the symptom of another sleepless night. He should've taken it as a sign to turn around, to stop the car, to drive slower, to not fiddle with the radio knob, or to not take his eyes off the road for even a moment. But he hadn't.
When she finally opened her eyes, she wondered if the sky had always been that blue. It seemed mockingly cheery, like walking by a bakery, smelling cinnamon and sugar, with an empty wallet.
The woman was lying on the road, and though she had always had a special hatred for asphalt, she was in so much pain that she could not even feel the bite of the small rocks against her skin. When she finally opened her eyes, she wondered if the sky had always been that blue. It seemed mockingly cheery, like walking by a bakery, smelling cinnamon and sugar, with an empty wallet.
“Are you hurt?” The man's voice was rougher than the pavement.
“I’m fine. It’s only a broken rib or two. Maybe three.”
“Ma'am, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, you should be. I hope mowing down pedestrians isn't a hobby of yours.” She never knew what to say to “sorry.” It was such a useless word.
“Look, you want a coffee? A cigarette?” He said, extending an unraveling cigarette like an olive branch.
“It’s bent.”
“Still lights.” He lit it and took a drag. So much for generosity.
“Look, I have every right to be picky. This wasn’t the way I wanted to go out,” she said.
“You think you’re gonna die?” She did her best to shrug, but it looked more like a spasm than anything. He started pacing.
“Oh god. God. This is my punishment, isn’t it?” He was crying now. Shouldn't she be crying too? Shouldn't she do more than just lie there and wallow in her pain and in the ever-widening pool of blood?
To rise even an inch off the ground was a colossal effort, but she had worked her way onto her elbows, and there she would stay until her arms gave out.
“I don’t think you’re the one who's been punished here.” To rise even an inch off the ground was a colossal effort, but she had worked her way onto her elbows, and there she would stay until her arms gave out. He just shook his head, pacing and murmuring a prayer to himself.
“My father, who…who is in heaven… no, that's not it, is it?”
“Hey, hey, look, it’s alright.” She stumbled to her feet with a surprising amount of grace. “See? I’m fine. Just fine, like I said.” He saw her rise, and as if it was vital that one of them be up and the other down, he fell to a kneel. She was sure that they would go down in infamy as the strangest traffic jam the city had ever seen. The kid in the nearest car was looking at them, at the bleeding woman on her feet and the bearded man on his knees, blood and tears hitting the ground in unison.
He had been a good driver once, back when he first learned to drive. With his mother by his side, he stopped when he should, maintained his distance, glided smoothly across the asphalt when he turned while she smiled and nodded along. Yet he quickly learned that the other drivers around him did not follow the same rules, and he followed their lead without much hesitation. He was used to cars honking at him, and a few had while she was in the backseat, but this time, he knew it was because he was driving painfully slow.
Perhaps he should've driven with a little more urgency; after all, he was her ambulance. He had suggested that he should call a real one, but she had shaken her head viciously.
“You know they’d make me pay for it, right? Way too expensive,” she'd said, even while he watched her socks turn crimson.
He knew his backseat would be hell to clean.
He knew his backseat would be hell to clean. Such small worries kept him occupied and kept him from thinking too much about the woman in the back. How she had climbed into his truck without complaint, seemingly confident that the same heap of metal that had mangled her would now shepherd her safely to recovery.
“Most people would've left me there. Thanks for not doing that,” she said from the backseat. She did not look comfortable (and she was not) with her leg propped up. The man had wrapped up her knee with his shirt, but she could still see the blood like the plaid was seeping into her skin.
“Please don't thank me.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“And don't say sorry either, ma'am. You got nothing to apologize for.”
“Well, I'm sorry that I didn't look both ways. That was pretty stupid.” He sighed from the front seat.
“I should've been paying attention. Not your fault.”
“I was jaywalking. Should've known better. By the way, you were supposed to take a left on Maple.” He had passed the sign to the ER, despite its neon enthusiasm, and he groaned and muttered a string of anxious apologies. She had agreed to not call the police—saying it would just be too much work—and he was afraid that any mistake would make her change her mind. But she just chuckled softly as he turned around and inched up the road to the hospital.
“Don’t you think I should join you?” He asked when they stopped. The front doors had opened on their own like they had been waiting for her.
“Don’t worry about it. Looks like you have somewhere you gotta be.” She had assumed that was why he’d been constantly checking the time while they drove, and by the look on his face, she was right.
Before she could leave, he called out for her to wait. Scavenging around in the glove compartment, he found a napkin and scrawled his number on it before handing it to her, pretty sure the red stain in the corner was just ketchup. “I'll pay whatever you want. I'll pay for the whole thing if you'll let me.” He'd have to finally take his wife's advice and start couponing, but he'd pay. “And please just call me when you're done. I want to know how you are.”
He had never even gotten her name; he couldn't track her down if he wanted to.
“Sure, I'll give you a ring.” She gave him a little wave before shutting the door with as much confidence as she could manage. Through the window, he looked very small and sad, marred by the scratches on the glass. He watched her leave, swallowed by the sliding doors and disappearing into the lobby. The man doubted she would call him, for money or even for a quick hello. He had never even gotten her name; he couldn’t track her down if he wanted to. Part of him wanted to go after her and hand the receptionist his credit card in the name of fairness and justice and something greater than himself. But instead, he just drove away.
